The Phantom of the Opera: Behind the Genius
Chap 4
Entry sixty.
I don't want to get out of bed. For one thing, it's too cold. And for another, my one true love is probably making out with nancy-boy and laughing and having snow-fights with nancy-boy and encouraging little sparrows to eat the bread out of his big furry claws (wait, that was Beauty and the Beast) and worst of all, SINGING DUETS with nancy-boy instead of with me.
Maybe I should get a haircut. Then she'd love me.
Entry sixty-one.
What am I saying? A haircut? Why don't I just get a perm and a pedicure, while I'm at it? Phantoms don't care about the state of their hair! I am a cold, ruthless killer who just wants to be loved! I care not for fopping about with blonde hair!
Though I'd die before I stepped above ground without a cape.
Shudder.
Entry sixty-two.
Maybe I'll make an effigy of Raoul. And punjab it.
No. First I'll put it in a dress.
THEN I'll punjab it. Muahaha.
Entry sixty-three.
Go away, Nadir. I'm not coming out today.
You'd think he'd die without me - whoa. Maybe Nadir is in love with me.
Entry sixty-four.
NO! First I'll put it in a dress, then I'll shave its head, and THEN I'll punjab it.
Muahahahaha!
…Oh, that was a good laugh.
Entry sixty-five.
"But Erik! It's chaos up there! There hasn't been a petrified shriek in weeks! And the managers are openly mocking you! …Phillipe de Chagny has purchased your box for the entire season!"
He can have it. I don't want to watch their stupid operas with their stupid prima donnas anyway.
Plus, I think I left a cheese loaf in there during the last showing of Faust. It's gotta be pretty fragrant by now.
"…I brought éclairs!"
Stop trying to seduce me and go away! I'm in love with a WOMAN, Nadir! I could never love YOU! Why can't you just accept that?
Entry sixty-six.
Anyway, a haircut wouldn't do much to detract from my HORRIBLE DEFORMITY, would it now?
I'm still sexy.
Sob.
Entry sixty-seven.
I hope I didn't offend Nadir.
And I hope he left the éclairs outside my door.
Wait, I'd have to get out of bed to get to them. Fine, I don't need éclairs. I'll just grow emaciated and bitter! I don't need anyone, or anything!
Entry sixty-eight.
I need to go to the bathroom.
I don't think I thought this strategy through properly.
Entry sixty-nine.
Heh. Sixty nine.
Would anyone actually recognise the Raoul effigy in a dress and without its hair? His hair is kind of his defining characteristic. They might just think I murdered a really butch dancer.
Entry seventy.
It's just a jump to the left! And then a step to the riiiiiight! Put your hands on your hips! And –
No, it's not working. I'm going to have to get up and visit the Little Opera Ghost's Room.
Entry seventy-one.
Why don't I own a pair of slippers? Stone floors are bloody cold and…
…What's this? Something taped to my door! I've got mail! I've got mail! No one has ever written me back before.
Well, apart from envelopes full of cash left in Box Five, but that hardly counts. They don't even slip in a friendly bonjour.
I hope it's fanmail.
Entry seventy-two.
Hey, what if I put it in a dress, and chopped off its hair, and THEN stuck a sign on it that said "I am Raoul de Chagny and my favourite hobby is pressing wildflowers in my pink dream journal!"?
I am a genius. A genius!
Genius.
A person of extraordinary intellect and talent.
A tutelary deity or guardian spirit of a person or place.
Erik The Sex.
Entry seventy-three.
Oh, it's a flyer about the annual Bal Masque. I guess I'd better get a costume organised. A better one than last year.
Going in a horse suit with Nadir was a bad idea to begin with. He kept walking into my fabulous posterior every time I stopped moving. And whinging about how his back hurt. And how hot it was stuck as a horse's rear end.
No, you're not hot in there.
I am hot, period.
Now shut up and trot, ponyman!
…Good times.
Entry seventy-four.
That'd have to be a pretty big sign, though. Or else small writing. And if it was too small no one would be able to read how Monsieur le Viscomte is as girly as the day is long until they got up really close.
Oh, to hell with it. I'll just channel my rage into something constructive, like finishing my Don Juan. Raoul can wait.
Entry seventy-five.
I hope this wasn't Nadir's way of asking me out on a date. Especially when I just reiterated my mad, passionate love for Mlle Daae. Obviously, she'll be my date for the evening.
She doesn't know it yet, but that's a mere technicality.
Now. Costume plans.
Entry seventy-six.
Nadir? Nadir! – Where in the world can you be hiding, I need you to do some shopping!
Mon dieu! I do get sick of schlepping up and down seven levels of cellars just to find that man, and say boo to the occasional ballerina. I can't even find the bloody horse anywhere. I hope Nadir's been feeding it.
Maybe it fell in the lake. That'd save us all some trouble.
I probably would have heard the splash, though… Unless Carotta was singing…
Entry seventy-seven.
…I'm a phantom, you want me Christine, as I shake my little tush on the catwalk… On the catwalk!
Rreow. Step aside corps de ballet, Sex On Legs comin' through…
Entry seventy-eight.
"Out of bed finally, are we?"
There you are! You've been flirting with Meg again, I suppose! For god's sake, man, she's less than half your age!
"Oh, and Mlle Daae is - "
My soulmate, yes, I know. Quit wasting time with idle chatter! Look, I need you to go buy me five metres of blood red velvet fabric. Look! Look at these designs – I call it, "The Red Death Stalking Abroad." Isn't it magnificent, Nadir?
"I don't think it's really necessary to give your costume a title."
Stupid Persian, thinks he knows everything.
Do it, or I'll lock you inside my coffin again.