A/N: There was some question as to whether I would kill off the Persian. It was pointed out that Nadir rarely-if-ever shows up in my stories, which is perfectly true, for the following reason: usually I forget about his existence. Now, I like Nadir— and I like the Persian even better— but I'm just too unfamiliar with writing him to come up with a good death for him (I had the same problem with Carlotta, another character who rarely shows up in my stories. However, Carlotta was just begging to be killed off.) So, if you don't like Nadir/The Persian, just assume that he met a terrible fate and it was too unimportant to be noticed. And if you do like him, just assume that he escaped because he was far too intelligent to be around accident-prone CLE Erik. Or, if you're like me, you can just assume that in this particular incarnation, CLE Erik doesn't have a Nadir. Its all in the assumption, m'dears.

Chapter Six: Death of Andre and Firmin

Really, the amount of bodies piling up in my bedroom was verging on an annoyance. As I readied myself for bed I found it well-nigh impossible to move without treading on someone's hand or tripping over a wayward leg or fold of cloth. I even had to shift Meg Giry in order to reach my dresser. And then there was the issue of changing in front of all of them. I mean, yes, they were dead, so it wasn't like they were ogling my pale body as I went through my routine— but really, its just the principle of the thing, I find.

Having completed my toilette, and then flushed it, I repaired to the den to read some nice, relaxing fanfiction before bedtime.

Yes, yes, it was rather early, and yes, I suppose I have something of a reputation for being a creature of nocturne— if that's the way the phrase is supposed to be— it seems a bit awkward, but who am I to argue with my own poetic inclinations? Anyway the truth is, I didn't get my coffee this morning, and if I don't get my coffee, I'm flat out on the floor by nine thirty. And as the minute hand was now telling me that it was a quarter after, I knew if I wanted to read Soto no Hito, I'd better get cracking.

And after I got cracking, I turned on the computer.

Don't laugh at me, my eccentricities are not funny.

And anyway, I'm insane, and laughing at crazy people just isn't very nice.

Of course, on my way to Soto no Hito, I got sidetracked by the latest offering of that twit, Random Battlecry. The woman has irked me on a number of occasions, and I find myself very near to simply phoning her up and screaming obscenities at her. Or, at least, worrying her with some heavy breathing.

In fact—

Ha! Stupid girl has her phone number on her website.

I dial.

The phone rings.

Someone picks up.

"Hello?" A man's voice. Most likely her father.

"Yes, is Random there please?"

"May I ask who's calling?"

"No you may not."

"Fair enough." Well, whatever I have against the young woman, at least her father is sensible. There was some fumbling noises on the other end of the phone, and a female voice said, "Yeah?"

I panted.

"Huh— huh— huh— huh—"

There was a bit of a pause.

Then she said, "Erik?"

I stared blankly at the phone, and then said, "— no. Of course not."

"It is too you, Erik!"

"What? Who is this Erik you speak of?"

"I know its you."

"How would you know?"

"For one thing, its just the sort of thing you would do, and for another— I'm the one who's writing this."

I stared blankly at the phone again, but oddly enough, it didn't seem to help.

"No you're not!"

"Yes I am, I'm sitting here in my room typing out everything that's going on," she said, almost convincingly.

"I— I don't believe you! You're nothing but a halfway-house reject who writes God-awful fanfiction! You must be crazy, lady!"

"Regardless of my sanity or lack thereof, I am writing this. Hate to break it to you—"

I snorted.

"— yeah. Hate to break it to you, darlin', but you're a fictional character yourself. None of what happens to you is real."

I stared at the phone some more. Then some more. Then a little more staring, a little slow shaking of my head, a little poking at the phone, some slight hyperventilating, total disbelief showing in my face, underneath the mask, that is, some learning to dance the Macarena, some taking a course in elemental photography, some crowning myself Emperor of Siam, some tearing down the Great Wall of Anihc, a little gnab gib, re-writing popular fiction until its fit for human consumption, then giving some humans consumption, then going through their pockets for loose change, then sticking an entire Snickers in my mouth, two, in fact, then counting ants, and finally I had had it with the random actions and said, in a dangerous voice, "Just you sit tight, missy. I'm a'comin' after you."

I know you're expecting me to accidentally kill Andre and Firmin in this chapter, and I do so hate to disappoint me, so on my way storming out of the Opera House, I shoved them down the stairs.