Disclaimer: I don't own POTO, nor any of the characters I'm being so mean to.
Chapter Three
In which Madame Giry reveals the true meaning of Christmas, and Erik becomes the third wheel, as usual.
Madame Giry finished her glass of brandy. Monsieurs Firman and Andre sent her a case of the stuff every Christmas, bless their wretched little hearts. "Regardez, Meg! I shall now do a lively Christmas dance!"
"No, No, Mother! Don't……"
Madame Giry bobbled around on the tips of her toes, and toppled into the Christmas tree.
"Hoopla! Prenez garde, Monsieur Arbre De Noël !"
Meg gazed disgustedly at the pair of legs protruding from the remains of their Christmas tree. "That's it, Mother! I'm going over to Christine and Raoul's. At least they have a nice normal Christmas Eve!".
"That's nice, Dear", came a muffled voice from the tree. "Before you go would you mind getting me another brandy?
Meg slipped on her cloak, and turned at the doorway. "You've had quite enough brandy already, Mother! Just look at this mess! Why don't you go to bed and sleep it off?"
A shoe came sailing through the air, and bounced violently off of Meg's head. Meg yelped "Ouch!", and dashed out of the door, slamming it behind her."
"Go ahead, Enfant Stupide! Go to your idiot friends! Have a good time while your poor mother dies of thirst!" Shrieked Madame Giry, struggling to get to her feet.
As she tumbled over for the third time, the ceiling suddenly caught her attention. "Zut Allors! I have forgotten the mistletoe!" She up righted herself, poured a brandy, and staggered off to get the stepladder. Every inch of the ceiling must be covered. She couldn't miss a spot! No one was crazy enough to visit Madame Giry on Christmas Eve, but she knew that someone would, sooner or later.
Gathering . mistletoe, hammer and nails, she climbed the ladder. This would be easy she thought, as she took a couple of swings with the hammer, lost her balance and fell. Well, maybe not, she thought. She poured herself another brandy to steady herself, and Allez Oop! Up the ladder she went again, singing a jolly song that made no sense at all.
Meanwhile, Erik and his unwanted companion had entered the opera house and were standing outside of Madame Giry's rooms. They were greeted by sounds of a rhythmic thumping and incoherent singing, punctuated by loud crashes.
"What in the world is going on in there?" The Evil Santa Demon wondered aloud.
"Madame Giry must be hanging mistletoe again", said Erik, as he opened the door. "She loves mistletoe. Remember, Monsieur, keep your hand at the level of your eye."
"Why?"
"You'll find out soon enough……aughhhhh!" Erik crumpled to the floor as something quite large and heavy landed on top of him.
"Merde!" yelled Madame Giry, as she pounded on Erik's head in frustration. "The stupid step ladder will not hold still! Now I must go and get another brandy! Stupid, stupid ladder!"
She was half-way to the kitchen before she noticed her guests. "Erik!" she screeched, "You have finally come to visit me! How long has it been since you were here on Christmas Eve?"
"Not long enough," grumbled Erik, as he got to his feet and cautiously put a hand at the level of his eye.
"Oh, but you are standing under mistletoe, Erik! You know what that means!"
"That I get to kill you?" Erik guessed hopefully.
"No, Silly Boy! It means I get to kiss….hey, put your hand down so I can kiss you1"
"No!" Erik lurched back crashing into the Creature, as Madame Giry attempted to rip his hand off. "Ow-w! Ow-w! Stop that! You're breaking my wrist!"
Madame Giry remembered that she had a carving knife in the kitchen. That would take care of Erik's hand, and she could get another brandy while she was at it. Before she could act on the idea, though, she noticed Erik's companion.
"Ooh La La!" she gushed, "And who is this tall dark handsome gentleman?"
The Creature looked around in confusion. Perhaps there was someone else here that he couldn't see. After all, he'd been called tall and dark many times, but the words handsome and gentleman had never come up in reference to him. She was looking straight at him, however….he breathed deeply and took a chance.
"I am Darth Vader, Madame. I am Dark Lord of the North Pole".
"O-o-o-h, an aristocrat! I knew it!" She bubbled. "Welcome Lord Vader!"
"You may call me Darth, Madame." The Creature glared at Erik. "You may call me Lord Vader."
Erik glared back and told the Creature all of the names he was prepared to call him. They all involved very colorful profanity, and none of them included the words Lord or Vader. They fell into a heated discussion over this, and never noticed as Madame Giry climbed up the step ladder and leaned over toward the Creature. She managed to plant a loud messy kiss on his helmet before pitching forward and landing in on her head.
Vader was charmed. Many people had fallen at his feet, but no one had ever kissed him first.
"What an enchanting woman," he whispered to Erik.
Erik's stomach suddenly felt very queasy.
Madame Giry rose to her feet, and clapped her hands. "Come, sit down by the tree, and I will bring us some refreshment! " She wobbled out of the room, leaving the two men to find seats in front ofa pile of pine needles, broken branches and smashed ornaments.
"So, um, how did you come to be my Santa?" Erik asked bitterly.
"Well, after my previous employah uh….um….retired, and my son destroyed the Death Stah again, I found it prudent to seek other employment. Emprah Claus was looking for Elves, but I did not meet the height requiahment. I almost left, but he suddenly remembered that he had a special client who requiahed a Santah of my particular ah….talents. His words were exactly: 'I need some one to fix that Phantom bastard's wagon'. Emprah Claus seems to dislike you, you know."
Erik sat trying to think of why Monsieur Claus would be so upset with him, but nothing came to mind. He'd been good all year…well, at least he hadn't been as bad as he could have been. Maybe…his thoughts were interrupted by Madame Giry who had reentered the room, dragging the case of brandy behind her.
She plopped down next to Vader, and produced two straws. "Here, Monsieur Darth, we will share a bottle."
"And I suppose I will not be offered any?" Erik enquired indignantly.
"Shut up Erik", yelled Madame Giry... "You'll have to excuse his manners", she explained with a loud belch to Vader, "What else would you expect from someone who lives in a lair?"
Three bottles later, and not a drop for him, Erik grew impatient. "Aren't we supposed to be asking directions to Christine's house?"
"Christine's house?" Squealed Madame Giry, "Are we going to Christine's?"
"Lord Vader and I are going to Christine's house, Madame. You are not invited".
"Oh," wailed Madame Giry, "But my dear, darling daughter is there! Would you be so cruel as to separate a mother and her stupid tramp of a child on Christmas Eve? Monsieur, you are heartless!" She collapsed onto Vader's lap alternately sobbing, hiccupping and belching.
"There, There" soothed Vader helplessly as he patted her shoulder. "Really, Erik, we must take her along. Can't you see her poor heart is breaking?"
Erik observed viciously that he couldn't see anything of the kind. He could see she wasdisgustingly drunk, and in no condition to go anywhere.
"Oh, do you see how mean he is to me?" whined Madame Giry. "And I saved him from the wolves, too!"
"They were gypsies, you idiot.", snapped Erik.
"Do you see how he talks to me, Darth?" moaned Madame Giry, "After I let him wear my ballet outfit, and make-up, and everything?"
Vader turned and stared at Erik.
"You never….I never…." sputtered Erik, "She's drunk! She doesn't know what she's talking about!"
"You will not make this woman suffah any longah," commanded Vader. "She is coming with us".
"No! I will not allow it!" hissed Erik.
"You want Madame Giry to accompany us".
"No, I……Yes. I want Madame Giry to accompany us".
"You are begging her to come."
"…begging her to come."
"Hurry up, now, let's go!"
"Hurry up, now, let's go!"
Erik heard a door open, and looked up to see Vader and Madame Giry disappearing down the opera house corridor, arm and arm.
"Erik" called Vader, "Bring the brandy along, like a nice fellow, will you?"
"Merde!", Spat Erik.