A/N: I got stuck on my other phics and lost the new chapter of "Terms of Endearment." Chaos promptly ensued, as is its wont, and here it is, compressed into written form. Sorry for the in-jokes, a lot of you will get them anyway, and if you don't you may need to read some of my other phics. And review them. Of course.

The True Saga of Crazy As A Loon Erik

Life is good when you live five basements underneath an Opera House with the rats and wear a mask and never ever see people.

Most people wouldn't agree with this sentiment, but then, most people haven't ever been in that situation.

I have. And I say its fun.

I created my own little world down there in the labyrinth— it was more than just a lair, it was tunnels and hidden passages and tunnels and other lairs and more tunnels and— two bathrooms. The issue of indoor plumbing is one that arose in recent years, and immediately I heard about the monumental new invention called a "potty" I knew I had to have one.

I instructed my minion, Jose, to get me one.

He looked at me blankly.

I said it again.

He still looked at me blankly.

"What is wrong with you, man? Don't you understand what I'm saying?"

"Oh, I understand, Master," he said. " But my name isn't Jose."

"Isn't it?"

"No."

"Oh. Why not?"

"Well, mostly," he ventured, "because I am French."

There was a bit of a pause while I allowed this to filter through my thought processes.

"Well then, Hernando," I said, "would you be so kind as to go out and get me one of these porcelain "thrones" that I have seen advertised in the newspaper?"

Another blank look.

"You get a newspaper?" he inquired.

"Yes, yes, of course. Delivered right to my doorstep. Newspaper boys are so accommodating about these things," I said, hoping Hernando wouldn't notice the pile of punjabbed newspaper boys that was hidden in the corner under a sheet with a large sign on it that said, "Punjabbed Newspaper Boys." That may have been a bit of a give-away.

Poor Hernando has the intelligence of one half a shrimp sandwich, and apart from casting a glance at the pile he didn't appear to notice anything amiss. Meekly he bowed at me— I bowed back, so low I nearly lost my balance, and then I did lose my balance, falling back against the wall and catching my head with a sharp crack against it, though he didn't seem to notice, just went on out of the lair as if I'd done nothing out of the ordinary, though he might have behaved this way because I often lose my balance when I bend over.

At any rate he was soon gone, leaving behind him a room empty except for me, and a vague smell of fish, which, when I threw away the fish, quickly dissipated. I sat down to await the arrival of Christine Daae, the young woman who had been forcing herself on me for the past several months.

I see nothing incorrect in a man having a mistress, but seeing as how I wasn't actually married, that relegated Christine to the position of girlfriend, and that was just wrong. I made up my midn to tell her that it was all over between us.

She arrived, her blond hair twinkling in the candlelight, her eyes blue, her dress brown, her skin white, her lips red, her shoes black, her stockings tan, her teeth white-ish, her fingernails dirty, her tongue red, her nostrils flared, her ears large, her neck unwashed, her scarf nonexistent, her gaze direct, her ankles neatly-turned, her voice inaudible, her bum small, her torso clothed, her toenails painted, her tonsils taken out, her hairpins glinting, her foot tapping, her arms folded, her face irritated—

"Erik, aren't you going to say anything? I've been standing here for the past twenty minutes and all you've done is stare. And why does it smell like fish in here?"

— her voice annoyed, her pores cleansed, her wisdom teeth coming in, her hips swaying—

"Erik?"

— her throat—

"What's that?" I asked, lurching forward, startled out of my delicious reverie by the sight of the ring that she wore around her neck. She looked down at it.

"This? It's a— look, Erik." She took a deep breath. "I've come to tell you that it's all over between us. Raoul and I are engaged."

"All over?" I repeated helplessly, forgetting that not half an hour ago I had been planning on telling her the same thing. "No more moonlight revels?"

"No."

"No more meetings on the roof?"

"No."

"No more bareback ridings, sometimes on a horse?"

"No."

"No more roses in your hair as I held your underwear?"

"No."

"No more picnics in the park in the dark in the stark with a snark?"

"What?"

"No more trips to Disneyland with your parents?"

"What? Erik— we never did that."

"I know," I said morosely, "but I had been hoping sometime we could."

"Well, it would have been impossible anyway. My parents are dead— and Disneyland hasn't been invented yet."

I sighed. "Twisted every way, then?"

"Erik, I do wish you wouldn't quote that horrible musical. It has no bearing on reality."

"Christine, are you really as weak-willed as everyone says you are?"

"What? No. Of course not. I don't think. That is— at least—"

"Christine, what do you think would happen if all the versions of me that ever were suddenly descended on the lair and another, real man named Erik killed the fop?"

"Erik—" She ventured close and put her hand on my forehead. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Christine, what about if I put on a pink pinstriped suit and chased Raoul around the lair with a turkey?"

She dropped her hand and scoffed at me. "Now you're just being silly."

"No, I'm not, Christine— those are all dreams I've had— my brushes with alternate reality," I said, my eyes going dreamy and far away. At least I think they were, though of course, me being who I am, I couldn't be sure, on account of not being able to see into my own eyes, though if that were possible it would be interesting, and also save money on mirrors.

"I dreamed once that I got sucked through a worm hole and twelve hundred different Other Women were trying to seduce me— I dreamed once that I wrote a book called "Behind the Mask: Reflections and Musings of a Disfigured Musical Genius— " I dreamed once that I painted the gondola pink— I dreamed once that I had a certain relationship with the fop. I dreamed once—"

"Erik!" she said, for the seventh time. "I have said all I came to say, and now I will return to the world above, to the fop— curse it, now you've got me calling him that as well. I will return to the fop— Raoul, I mean! I will return to Raoul and leave you here with your oh-so-dramatic madness." With that she left, tripping over the stairs as she went and banging her head rather badly on the floor. After a few small moans she lay still.

I watched her. She was gone.

There was no need to worry. She always came back.

No matter how many times the story was told, she always came back.

Life in the underground lair was good. I had my whole world down there, complete with thoughts and dreams.

Sighing to myself, I went to my computer to work on my phan-fiction.