Disclaimer: I don't own Erik or Raoul, and I sure as hell don't own Christine, because if I did she most certainly would not still have all her limbs intact. There would be bloodshed, I assure you. I do own Schartlefritzen, though. I have a summer home there, and Hugh Panaro is my poolboy. It's quite nice.
Author's Note: This was, word for word, the story I wrote for my Creative Writing final exam. I had too much coffee that day, and was running a sugar rush, too. I wasn't quite sane. Then again, I'm never quite sane. But you know what I mean.
The
Stalker of the Pastry
by Shadowlord
There once was a young man named Raoul. Raoul was a happy boy, satisfied to sing poorly to lovestruck young maidens, most of whom turned deaf by the end of the summer. But it was Paris, and it was spring, the season of love, and so the maidens continued to lovingly ruin their ears by listening to Raoul's shrill soprano voice sing ballads of devotion.
But there was only one that Raoul truly wished to sing for. Only one that he would gladly abandon his little coterie of feminine followers for. And it was not the one a casual observer might expect.
Christine "Cheese" Danish was a young girl from the land of Schartlefritzen, the orphan of a famous (and obviously dead) musician. Now, Christine, or Cheese, as her friends of questionable moral virtue called her for some unexplained reason, was a tad delusional. More than a tad, really; Mademoiselle Cheese Danish suffered from full-blown dementia most every day. So obviously, her chances of being a better lady than her friends of questionable moral virtue, marrying a rich husband, and dying quietly in her sleep surrounded by her many children and grandchildren were fairly low.
Fortunately for Cheese, she had Erik. Erik was Ms. Danish's stalker. Erik was, unlike all other participants in this slightly psychotic story, a reasonably intelligent man. A genius, really. And no, we don't know why he preferred spending his time stalking a girl named after a pastry. But rest assured, our best and most caffeine-driven scientists are working night and day to find the answer.
Now. Erik the Stalker was rather unpopular at Cheese's…"place of business". H had the tendency to appear just in time to beat the living daylights out of anyone who dared come near her. This made for very poor relations with Christine's colleagues, apart from her slave driver, Madame Gee-whiz, who had long had a crush on Erik the Stalker. It also made for a very poor Cheese. But that's okay. Erik the Stalker bought Cheese Danish everything her cheesy little heart might desire. And yet she still did not love him. Instead, her cream-filled heart belonged to our dear friend Raoul.
But Raoul, now, Raoul had a secret. Raoul was in love with that secret someone you didn't think he'd be in love with, remember? And you're not going to find out who yet. So there.
Erik the Stalker was fed up with Cheese, though. No matter how much strawberry topping he bought her, she still preferred that foppity fop Raoul to his stalkerishness. So he decided. No more would he tolerate this fop. No more would he stand by and watch as Cheese Danish ran to Raoul's arms. No. Tonight, at the premier opening of Cheese's line of quaint French bakeries, he would strike. Tonight, Raoul and Cheese would feel the wrath of the Stalker of the Pastry.
It was a simple enough procedure. He appeared by Cheese's side as always; being her stalker, he was of course a familiar sight. And just as Cheese was about to cut the…no, not the cheese, the giant red ribbon marking the entrance to the first of her bakeries, he struck, putting his genius plan into action. This plan consisted of…well…really, there was no plan. Erik the Stalker simply leapt upon the stage, swept Cheese Danish up into his arms, and carried her off, as Raoul chased behind, screaming at the top of his weak foppy lungs, "Erik! Erik, please don't leave me! Come back, Erik, my love!"
Ah, what was this? Erik the Stalker froze in his flight, cheesy young maiden still flailing in his grasp. He spun around, staring at Raoul in abject horror. "You…you…" Words failed the stalker as Raoul stared up at him with adoration in his big blue eyes. "Erik…I love you. I've always loved you, since the day I first saw you trailing behind Cheese Danish. We belong with each other, Erik, stalker and fop. Please, tell me you'll forget this pastry nonsense and run away with me to the magical land of Schartlefritzen, where we can be happy together for the rest of our cheeseless lives."
Erik the Stalker's voice suddenly returned. "You fop!" he shrieked, stumbling out of the arms of Raoul, who was now trying to embrace him around Cheese. "You're a fop! Fops are…I don't know! But they're bad!"
Raoul's arms fell limply to his sides. "But…But…" He sobbed. "We're soulmates! Ask the Author person! She said we were soulmates!"
Erik the Stalker's voice took on the tone of a reprimanding parent scolding a young child. "Uh uh, Raoul. You said we were soulmates. She just wrote it. Don't go blaming the creation of over-sugared coffee on someone usually mostly sane."
Raoul turned and fled, only later to be discovered sopping wet on the banks of the Seine, where he reluctantly admitted that perhaps the genius stalker was right to refuse the advances of someone that could not even drown himself in the Seine correctly.
And the moral of this story, my masochistic readers? For you must be masochistic, you've read this far. But it's almost over, just another sentence or two, and then you're free to regain your sanity and…wait. What was I saying? Ah yes. The moral. The moral of this story is simple and plain and one everyone should know.
Leave Erik alone or Shadowlord will throw you in the Seine.
A/N: So it's not Shakespeare. I just felt bad that I had a brand spankin' new account with no stories on it. Oh, and this is a ONE-SHOT. One. Singular. Uno. Eins…thinks Okay, I'm out of languages. HOWEVER. Various friends are forcing me to write a longer, more planned sequel. So when that comes out, blame them.