Chapter V
Tall, Pushy Sycophants
Here we are, the long (and I do mean long) awaited Chapter Five. I do apologize for the delay and I apologize even more for using the age-old excuse of "I had a lot of skool work." It's true, though. Being a junior in hi skool is "teh suxxorz," you know. In any case, do not for once think that I will give up on this fic, because I simply can't do that. Seriously, the thought of unfinished projects eat away at my brain and there isn't much of my brain left after writing all of those horrendous IZ fics in midl skool. (shudders) I am terribly sorry I burdened all of you with them, by the way, and am trying to make amends through Silvie. She is a blatant reincarnation of myself…when I was an uncertain, somewhat overly confident, almost completely brainless, thirteen-year-old airhead. Oh, and a cheerleader. Of course…Silvie isn't a cheerleader. In France, they're called pompom girls since there is no actual word in France for "cheerleader." Besides, this takes place in the 1870s; not only was there a war going on in France at the time (but don't tell that to Sir Andy and Joel! Their heads just might explode, though that's not exactly a bad thing), but cheerleaders don't exist in the country period. Yet another reason why I plan on moving there. :D
Now, I know way back when I posted Chapter Four I said that the following installment would contain "Notes," "Prima Donna," and Il Muto. Well…I lied. While I do have all three songs rewritten, it is simply taking too long to put them all into one big chapter. Besides, once this chapter got to be fifteen pages long and I wasn't even halfway done with it, I knew that things were getting out of hand. So, I chopped it in two, giving "Prima Donna" and Il Muto a chapter all to themselves. It might be annoying at first, but wouldn't you rather have this than an even longer wait? I thought not. u.u
Note: As usual, every sentence that is written in italics is meant to be sung. I am only bringing this to your attention now because not all of the song lyrics will be centered in this chapter since much of "Notes/Prima Donna" is, for the most part, set up like a conversation between several people and will be written as such. Just so everyone is aware and goes about reading this chapter without confusion. Or…much confusion, at least. :)
♪ ♪ ♪
Paris, 1919
"Lemme see th' monkey."
"No, Abby," Dibier snapped, his wizened hands clutching the Scary Monkey Music Box tightly. "Knowing you, you'll break it, and this thing cost me thirty francs!"
"Euro," the nurse/nun corrected at once.
"…you still can't touch it," the viscount told her. "It's old and breakable and worth a lot of money."
"So…it's like you, only less annoyin'?" Abby ventured, smirking in amusement as she wheeled the viscount out of the ruinous Opéra house. Dibier opened his mouth in an attempt to form a retort, spoke intermittently for several seconds, and finally settled on muttering:
"You're outta my will, you know."
"Uh huh," the nurse/nun replied, unimpressed. "Yeh know I've already robbed yeh blind by now, right?" Before Dibier could answer, she brought the wheelchair to an abrupt halt in front of a black, old-fashioned Rolls Royce, causing the viscount to pitch forward and tumble onto the pavement most comically.
"Sorry 'bout that," Abby said calmly, stooping to put the viscount back on his feet before chucking him headfirst into the car.
"Floor it, m'love," the nurse/nun told the chauffeur as she slid into the passenger's seat.
"How many times do I hafta tell yeh not t' call me that at work?" the driver demanded, pulling his black chauffeur's cap down over his eyes, which were heavily outlined in khole almost to the point of being ridiculous, but it actually turned out to look rather attractive.
"Right, darlin', sorry," Abby assured him, holding up her palms in a gesture of peace.
"This scheme o' yours had best be worth it," the chauffeur muttered. "I've had t' wear this idiotic outfit, cut my hair, shave –"
"An' take a bath. Yes, yeh've really been through a lot, Jack," Abby commented dryly. "Trust me, it'll work. The ol' man's senile – 'e has no clue what's goin' on."
"Uh, hey! I'm right back here!" Dibier reminded them, waving his arms wildly. "Hey! Man, how'd I wind up with a couple of thieves as my driver and…nurse…lady…thing?"
"For the record: We're not thieves, dearest heart," Abby informed him, twisting around in her seat. "We're pi –"
But what they were, exactly, Dibier never found out, for the chauffeur chose that moment to stomp on the brakes, causing the tires to emit a piercing squeal, that in turn forced Dibier to press his hands over his ears, which made it impossible for him to hear what Abby had to say. Then again, Abby had already shut her trap thanks to the screeching halt, which meant that Dibier wouldn't have heard what the nurse/nun had to say whether he had covered his ears or not.
"Jack!" the nurse/nun vociferated furiously, pummeling the chauffeur with her fists, the belled sleeves of her habit whipping wildly about her. "What the bloody hell was that about?"
"Are you drunk, woman?" the driver shouted back.
"No!"
"Then have you visited any opium dens as of late?" he prodded further.
"Yeh'd know if I had," Abby said, rolling her eyes. "Believe me."
"Then why d'yeh feel the need t' shoot yer bloody mouth off?" the chauffeur demanded.
"Oh, come off it, like 'e's gonna know –"
"Look," the Vicomte Dibier, leaning forward as much as his senescent body would allow, "I don't care who you are just as long as you do your job, which includes getting me out of here before some creepy ex-ballerina shows up."
After exchanging a concerned glance, the pair of servants then turned their eyes to the Opera House in the distance and gasped. Sure enough, there was an auburn/gray haired old woman hobbling after the car as fast as her brittle legs would allow, waving her handbag, knocking down small children, and yelling "M. le Vicomte! M. le Vicomte!" all the while. Abby shrugged.
"She still looks better than you, sir."
"Hey, I'm in a wheelchair; gimme a break," Dibier defended.
"C'mon, mate, you're a viscount," the chauffeur insisted. "Surely you, of all people, 'ave the gold t'...y'know...not let yerself go t' pieces in yer old age."
Dibier glared, highly offended. "I'm one of those crazy, reclusive types who hoards all of his cash and freaks out whenever a single penny is spent."
"Is that why yeh bought that bloody ugly monkey thing?" the nurse/nun inquired coyly.
The viscount slumped down in his seat in a huff, his bony arms folded across his chest.
"Oh, shut up."
♪ ♪ ♪
Paris, 1971M. Rouge was in a fix. The theatre he and M. Violet had purchased was supposedly haunted, the new lead singer had mysteriously disappeared, the old prima donna refused to come back to work, and his partner (and no, not in that sense, you perverts) was on the verge of having a mental breakdown. On top of that, he didn't have a thing to wear and was still unsure if the burgundy cravat was too much with a jacket, vest, and pants of the same color, or if the white dress shirt went with the outfit at all. Worse yet, some vacuous ballet rat had stolen his last bag of cheetos. What's more, nosey reporters had caught wind of the scandalous affairs and published everything in the local newspapers! Well, everything except the stolen bag of cheetos, but M. Rouge still considered that of equal importance. Needless to say, he was in quite a foul mood when he burst through the doors of the Opera House.
"'Craziness!
After just one song,
It's craziness!
The new diva's gone!
"'Scandalous,'
The newspaper reads.
'It's scandalous –
She's presumed deceased!'"
M. Rouge threw his newspaper to the ground, sending its contents spewing all over the marble floor that the cleaning crones had worked so hard to polish. But M. Rouge was not to blame. After all, he had a lot on his mind.
"Calamari's insulted,
Now Silvie just might be dead!"
He shrugged it off, striding up the grand staircase, his boots leaving a trail of mud in their wake.
"Eh. There's no need to worry
Long as I've still got moneys."
Reaching the first landing with a broad grin, he pivoted gracefully and faced the Opera's lobby. The cleaning crones glared as they went about effacing the mess he had made.
"It's not way to rule an empire –
Though I'm not about to complain.
What else did I expect
When the Massive wrecked?"
He scoffed, waving a dismissive hand.
"Opera?
No way! This stuff is lame,
And Purple claims
That it is driving him insane!"
"Curse it all!" a furious voice broke in. M. Rouge turned to find his co-manager clothed in a pair of dark gray pants, a plum colored dress coat that had a lighter purple collar with a white polka dot pattern, a vest that matched the aforementioned collar, and a stylish silk bow tie, also in plum. M. Violet thundered down the staircase on the left, cursing and waving in his hands what appeared to be a cream colored envelope.
"Our lives are at stake!
Curse it all!"
"Would you take a break?" Rouge demanded with a roll of his unusual red eyes.
"It's propaganda!
So the fans will swarm.
Just propaganda –"
"No one will perform!" M. Violet exclaimed hysterically. His partner sighed, draping a slender arm across M. Violet's equally bony shoulders in a would-be-friendly gesture.
"But, Pur, we've still got tons of cash.
So don't freak out; you'll get a rash."
He was on the verge of giving the edgy manager a kind (albeit, patronizing) pat on the head when he caught sight of the envelope in M. Violet's hand. "Hey!" he exclaimed, snatching the note up. "I got a letter!" And he promptly began to read aloud, knowing that it would be beneficial if the entire world knew the contents of his mail.
"Hey Rouge,
Just thought that I would tell you:
Silvie's fame should, no doubt, amass.
Calamari's not lead –
She has made ears bleed!
By the way,
I nearly tossed my cookies
Upon looking at some dancer's exposed – "
M. Violet interrupted by pulling out a letter of his own, thereby muting any words that may have been profane to young, impressionable minds.
"Hey Violet,
I should inform you:
I think you might have missed a date.
My payment has been due
Since last Tuesday, fool!
Now you know
To not trifle with me
For you will be
Dead if my salary is late!"
He looked up from his letter, his purple eyes wide with shock, his mouth stretched in a gaping O, and turned to his equally outraged partner.
"Who on Irk would dare to write that?" they both demanded to know. "Probably some dumb short-thing."
Rouge pointed out, "The bottoms say 'I. Z. –'"
"Yeah," Violet agreed, "but that could be –"
"Anyone!" they both concluded.
"It could be Mlle. Gazette," Rouge speculated.
"Or even worse yet," Violet gasped, "It's the milkman!"
"No way, that can't be," Rouge scoffed. "It's stupid."
"You're who's stupid! Mine was better."
"These letters aren't funny!" they both agreed. "We've no money if we've got no one to sing!"
"Where's she at?"
At the ring of the emphatic inquest, Messieurs Rouge and Violet whipped around to find the Vicomte de Dibier – today clad in a royal blue coat, light gray vest, black pants and boots – standing at the foot of the staircase, arms folded, and scowling furiously up at the rangy managers.
"Oh no. It's that kid," sighed M. Rouge, massaging his temples.
"You've kidnapped Silvie!" the viscount accused, pointing a choleric finger at the pair of managers. "Where's she at?"
"You think we did it?" Violet asked, dumbfounded.
"Don't go playing dumb," warned the viscount as he hurried up the stairs. "It's pointless if you try to resist!"
M. Violet, always the more nervous of the two managers, panicked and quickly ducked behind the banister. "Ack! He suspects us!"
"No way, kid!" Rouge protested.
"His head's so big…" Violet noted, awed.
This stymied the viscount for a moment, causing him to halt his interrogation, though he was still rather suspicious of the towering, green-skinned pair. Well, who wouldn't have been? The verdure would have been enough of a turn-off.
"It wasn't you guys?"
"No way, kid!" Rouge insisted, holding up his hands in defense.
"We're both human!" Violet assured him, poking his head out from behind his makeshift refuge.
"So you're both saying," the viscount inquired, "neither of you know about this?" and he at once withdrew a cream-colored envelope from his breast pocket and held it up as one would a threatening dagger. M. Rouge scoffed.
"Have you breathed in that mysterious mist? …fog," he explained. "Stuff. You know."
Violet rolled his eyes at his partner and snatched the letter from Dibier, who let out an indignant "Hey!" but was, as usual, ignored.
"'Don't worry your massive head,'" Violet recited. "'A dear little pixie has Silvie safely enslaved. Contact her and face the pixie's wrath.'" Slowly he lowered the note, looking upon the unfortunate viscount with unmitigated disdain. "You think we wrote this?"
"Yeah!" Rouge added, letting his vexation be known. "You expect us to know about your secret infatuation with our new lead singer, and that said singer happens to be the girl you mistook for a being of unimaginable ethereal abilities when you were younger, and that you later became so enamored with her that, when you were in her dressing room last night, you trusted her, which allowed you two to become friends, which in turn made her confess to you that her deceased begetter had sent a wraith from her childhood to come down and watch over her and make her into a spectacular singing sensation, and that we took all of this information, which we somehow magically obtained during our short time as managers, and, for some unknown reason, decided to send it to you via a threatening epistle? Well? Do ya?"
The viscount's only answer was to shuffle his feet uncomfortably.
"Um…o-kay…" he said eventually. "I guess I did get a bit…carried away, there, but –"
"Darn right, ya did!" Violet exclaimed huffily.
"And you accused us of kidnapping your girlfriend!" Rouge reminded him, highly insulted.
"She's not my – we're not like that!" Dibier fermented, immediately on the defensive, which led one to suspect that he really did have, at the very least, a small amount of feeling regarding Silvie. "And what do you know? You're an alien!"
Violet gasped, his eyes widening in terror. "Uh…uhhh…LIAR!"
"Yeah," Rouge acquiesced, nodding. "You're crazy, kid. Get lost."
"No way!" Dibier yelled. "I'll bet you two have this all planned out! You probably did send me that letter so I would come here and you could question me, and cut me open, and poke at my insides, and stick a –"
"Vhere's 'e at?" a shrill voice demanded from the doorway, cutting through their conversation like a thermogenic cutting instrument through a soft yellowish emulsion of butterfat, water, air, and salt that is churned from milk or cream. Calamari now stood where the viscount had been only seconds before, wearing a voluminous gown of brilliant fuchsia, as well as a fuzzy pink shawl and a gaudy, pink, lace-trimmed hat complete with a decorative taxidermal pigeon. Flanking her sides (and nearly being crushed by the number of skirts) was a trio of servants along with her beau Pooncy, Bevitore di Odio.
"Oh, whadda you want?" M. Rouge sighed.
"Dat loveseeek veecomte!" was her furious reply.
"My head's not – I mean, I'm not, uh…" Dibier stumbled, quite unsure as to exactly what he was protesting at the moment.
"Vhere's 'e at?" Calamari demanded again.
"I am right here," Dibier informed her, unable to contain his sarcasm as he waved his hand in a half-hearted attempt to gain her attention.
"Aye 'ave a mehssage," Calamari claimed. "A mehssage claiming Aye'm vanted dead!"
Rouge rounded on Dibier. "Why would you do that?"
"I didn't!" the viscount insisted, every-so slightly intimidated by the towering figure.
"Why not kill him?" Violet suggested to Calamari.
"Youa deed not wrrite dees?" Calamari shrieked at the viscount.
"I didn't!" he cried again.
M. Rouge stared, lost, at the viscount and the diva. "I'm real confused…"
"Dees ees 'is letterr!" Calamari declared. "Aye know eet's frrrom 'is enormous 'ead!"
"And just what am I supposed to have said?" Dibier asked dryly, fed up with the former prima donna's unfounded accusations. Calamari held out the letter at once, waving it imperiously under his nose in a silent command to read it. Eyeing the woman darkly the entire time, Dibier ripped it out of her hand and complied.
"'I am sick of enduring your awful singing. Your foul voice has damaged my hearing organs long enough. My slave-girl Silvie is far better that you could ever hope to be.'"
Dibier was about to crumple the letter into a ball, throw it at La Calamari, and then launch into a prolix tirade about how the diva's own idiocy had blinded her beyond comprehension when he was forestalled by the two managers. They swooped down on either side of Calamari and draped their sticklike arms across her shoulders.
"What is up with all these letters?
Why do they all concern Silvie?
It's as if the whole world
Revolves 'round that girl –"
"Hey" said a dry voice, calling them all to attention. "Silvie has come back." Mlle. Gazette scowled at the others from the foot of the steps, as did Tyia the ballerina. However, while the ballet mistress glared, the dancer gave them all a nervous smile, which was much more welcome than Mlle. Gazette's dirty look, though it went unnoticed for the most part, given the news that Mlle. Gazette had just delivered.
"Well," replied M. Rouge jovially, thinking all of his problems solved and beginning to edge out of the room, "that's good to hear, now I'm off to get some snacks."
But M. Violet grasped him by the shoulder and hauled him back before he could slink away. His violet eyes still on his fellow manager, he demanded of Mlle. Gazette:
"Where exactly has she been?"
"She's passed out in her bedroom," answered the ballet mistress, flat-out refusing to sing despite the fact that the libretto called for it. Vocal warbling of any kind was simply not something Mlle. Gazette did.
"I think she's drunk!" piped up Tyia, ignoring Mlle. Gazette's declination to sing and caroling to the best of her ability.
"Will she see me?" Dibier beseeched of the ballet instructor, momentarily forgetting to mask his concern for Silvie's welfare.
"No way, Dib," Mlle. Gazette snorted heartlessly. "She doesn't like you."
"Lovesick keed! Lovesick keed!" both Calamari and Poonchy chanted mockingly.
"Shut up!"
"You have a letter," Mlle. Gazette informed the managers, holding up an envelope identical to the ones before it. At the sound of this everyone immediately dropped what they were doing (quite literally, actually; Poonchy dropped the soda he had been drinking) and pounced on the ballet mistress.
"Fork it over!"
"Yoink!" cried M. Rouge triumphantly as the letter slipped from Mlle. Gazette's grasp. The ballet teacher rolled her eyes as Rouge began to read.
"'Imbeciles,
"'I have tried to be as pleasant as possible while writing my notes, all of which give clear instructions for my Opera. Yet you fools chose to disobey me! ME! So,'" M. Rouge continued, unknowingly letting a voiceover of the famed Opera Ghost leak into the manager's words until it eventually consumed them entirely, leaving the ghost to dictate the rest of the letter. "I'm through being nice, now…'"
♪ ♪ ♪
"'I will lend you my stink slave Silvie,
If only to further her rising career...'"
Flashback-Zim grinned maliciously as he scribbled away at his desk, reading aloud as he wrote his letter to the managers. He looked across the mess of papers, inkwells, and quill pens at the miniature theatre complete with painted wax dolls crafted to fit the likenesses of the entire company, including a Calamari in a gigantic pink dress and towering white wig and a Silvie in …pants. Why a great and powerful Opera Ghost/Irken Invader would have a dollhouse, let alone play with it, the author was quite unsure. But she admitted to liking the idea, somewhat, because it like Zim was ruling over the Opera House or like he was "God of the Opera" or something. In any case, Zim soon became lost in his maniacal thoughts, and was gazing at the tiny doll-Silvie when, suddenly, the replica was lifted from the model stage by a metal claw. Zim gasped.
"Gir!"
The robot paused to gaze dumbly at his master, the little wax feet of the doll poking out of his mouth.
"Put it back, Gir," Zim commanded tersely.
"Aww…"
Zim glared, unmoved by the pleading expression that would have driven many fangirls to tears at its cuteness. "Now."
"Okaaay…" the robot sighed, dejected, before returning the now saliva-coated doll back in its proper place and shuffling sulkily out of the room.
"Now," Zim murmured to himself, "where was I…oh yeah." Clearing his throat importantly, he lifted the letter and once again began to orate what he had written.
"'Therefore the casting's changed for Ill Mootoe,
And Silvie will be in the leading female rôle…'"
The alien reached out and plucked the heads off of both the Calamari and, cringing slightly as drool came into contact with his fingers, the Silvie doll. Quickly, he placed his protégé's head on the body of the model with the gigantic pink dress.
"'While Calamari will damage no more ears.'"
Calamari's head connected with the Silvie doll's body and Zim smirked in satisfaction.
"'See, silent rôles are best
Suited for one with her voice,
And parts with singing are for Silvie,
Which means the aud'ence will enjoy…'"
Zim's smirk broadened as his letter came to a close.
"'…my choice.'"
He paused, looking at the little theatre and sneering maliciously to himself.
"'Tonight I'll be observing the show from Box Three, Five, or Eight,'" he continued, "'so no smelly Dib-humans had better steal my seats!'"
Zim lifted the letter and slid it into its envelope as he reached out for an ornate, spoon-like device that was full of bubbling red wax.
"'By disobeying these orders, you will be DOOMing yourself to a lifetime of pure…DOOM! Ahahahaha! Ahem. So don't try anything, fools!''"
Slowly, he poured the red wax onto the back of the envelope.
"'The omnipresent spectre…'"
He pressed a stamp onto the wax before it dried and then quickly pulled the stamp away, careful not to leave any residue behind. In the stamp's place was a large, triangular seal that, upon closer inspection, appeared to be a face of some sort. Delighted at his own work, the Invader picked up the letter and held it out for himself to admire, grinning wickedly at the odd red insignia.
"'I. Z.'"
♪ ♪ ♪
"Silvie!"
"I need a drink…" muttered M. Violet, wincing at Calamari's indignant shrieking.
"You've alla gone mad forrr dat Silvie!" she fumed again.
"I'm outta here," M. Rouge said to himself, preparing to sneak off once again. Much to his dismay, however, M. Violet at once noticed what he was up to and gave him a swift whack upside the head.
"'ee prrrob'ly deed eet!" Calamari incriminated, jabbing her finger at Dibier again as she stormed up the rest of the stairs and down the hall. "Zee keed with zee biga 'ead!"
"Come on!" Dibier vociferated. "My head's not that big!"
"But lady!" Violet begged, hurrying after Calamari and nearly getting smacked in the face with a door as the irate diva burst into her Silvie's-formerly-hers-bur-soon-to-be-hers-again-since-Silvie-was-going-to-be-pushed-out-of-the-limelight-because-the-managers-were-idiots-and-would-make-Calamari-the-star-again dressing room.
"Porcoddio!" Calamari spat, hurling every object within her reach at Messieurs Rouge and Violet, stomping her feet, and generally throwing a temper tantrum.
"Where'd my chips go…?" Rouge wondered aloud, casting a glance around the room as he ignored the smoldering look Violet was giving him.
"Could you be more dense?"
"What?" Rouge asked defensively. "They're the extra salty kind!"
When Violet continued to glare, Rouge could detect that his partner was on the verge of having another one of his nervous breakdowns and that it would be easier just to consent. "Ohhh fine," he sighed, letting his chips become his second priority for the time being.
"Ty curaku!" Calamari wailed.
"But lady!" Rouge pleaded, though not nearly as soulfully as his co-manager.
"We'll stop this guy!" Violet assured her.
"I'll use my lasers!" the red-clad manager suddenly exclaimed, grinning eagerly.
"But lady!" Violet beseeched again as Calamari flopped grandly onto her feinting couch.
"This guy is nuts!" Rouge told her.
"I'll be he's short, too," Violet added pointedly.
"We will make Silvie one of the extras," Rouge proposed. "She'll have no lines."
The managers shared a grave look.
"Calamari will be in the lead!"
But the diva would have none of their sickening glorification. Tossing one last throw pillow at the managers, she flounced petulantly out of the room, her springy blonde curls swinging wildly behind her.
"Do not theenk youa can brrribe me!" she warned.
"Bribe her!" echoed Poonchy obediently as his girlfriend took her conniption to the backstage area where flocks of stagehands, ballerinas, choristers, and other random people who did not deserve a title or even a category gathered to see what the uproar was all about.
"You know dat you cannot lie to me!"
"To her!" Poonchy reverberated.
"Nenda kutomba!" ranted Calamari, oblivious to the euphoric atmosphere that had come over the rest of the company… "Coma a merda ei morra!" …to the exuberant cheers of the choristers… "Ne joue pas avec moi!" …and to the lone stagehand that decided to tell her exactly what he thought of her and flashed her his middle finger.
"Ti deegeneeraat! Schleimer!"
"I told you so, but you're all dense," muttered Mlle. Gazette, keeping her distance as she watched the others troop on to the stage where the corpse de ballet was busy rehearsing for that night's performance.
"You 'ave all shunned me!" Calamari declared, ignoring the pained cries of several dancers as she shoved them out of her way.
"…now stupid Zim will take offense," continued Mlle. Gazette.
Suddenly, just as she reached the edge of the stage, Calamari came to a halt, causing the others to crash into one another in a comical fashion.
With her back to the managers she proclaimed, "You 'ave deesmeesed me!"
"Both our lives are at stake!" they cried.
"Youa insulta me!" she raved, rounding on the managers, who, though they were much taller and therefore should have had the upper hand, recoiled at the weedy prima donna.
"Come on, lady," Rouge and Violet entreated piteously, "we're begging you!"
"As to Diavolo!
Oma kora su!
Shakli b'tahat!
Te hülye kurva!
Te fut in neam! "
"Loud creature – make noise now," the managers commanded. "Do us a favor!"
"I think this plot is getting worse…!" surmised the Vicomte de Dibier, Tyia, and Mlle. Gazette.
"We're cursed…!" wailed Rouge and Violet.
"Irrumator…!"
The diva, the managers, the viscount, the dancer, and the ballet instructor all ended their song on a trilling high note despite the fact that they had just circumnavigated the entire theatre and therefore should have been way too out of breath to sing anymore. Calamari's servants stopped and stared, though they were being weighed down by the furniture they had been moving out of the diva's dressing room. They had been stricken dumb, you see, upon realizing that they were back where the started: the grand staircase of the Opéra House.
Calamari ploughed onward, shoving the towering doors to the lobby open only to back away in slightly flattered surprise. A massive crowd had gathered outside of the Opéra House while she, Calamari, was picking a bone with the managers. The diva smiled widely, mistaking the horde of people for her admirers, and stepped forward to accept their encomium. Therefore, she was greatly startled (and angered) when one of her supposed aficionados stepped forward, proffering a yellow carnation, and said:
"Oh my God! It's Paris Hilton! Geeze, your nose is even bigger than I thought… Guys!" he said, turning to his companions. "Guys – check it out! Paris Hilton! Oh wow! Hey," he began, looking at the now fuming Calamari again, "hey, Miss Hilton, Paris…d'you know that Silvie chick? Yeah, okay, d'you think you could give this to her?" He grinned, holding out the carnation again.
With her teeth clenched so tightly they threatened to crack, Calamari let out a growl of rage and slammed the doors shut. Messieurs Rouge and Violet rushed to her side.
"We're not bribing you," Violet hurried to tell her.
"I'm not a smooze," Rouge insisted.
"Do you nota vant dat snotty ballet rrrat to sing fora you?" Calamari seethed.
The managers looked at each other.
"Short creature – no.
That girl's old news."
♪ ♪ ♪
NotesJack the chauffeur - come on. You think I'd let my Pirates of the Caribbean OC in the story and not a character who was actually in the movie? I'm ashamed of you guys, really. For the record, however, I do not own Captain Jack Sparrow. He belongs to the Disney corporation, though I'm going to say that Johnny Depp should have partial ownership since he's the one who brought Captain Jack to life, after all. Also, I should either be pummeled or awarded for making him wear a chauffeur's outfit in my parody./Captain Jack: And fer makin' me take a bath./ And for making you take a bath, yes, even though you did need one. Don't even think of denying it. -.9
Opium dens - this might actually be very funny to those who have seen the movie From Hell . For those who haven't, it's a film about Jack the Ripper starring Johnny Depp as a British inspector/opium addict who is trying to hunt down the infamous murderer. I merely thought that some might find it amusing since Captain Jack is the one who mentions the opium dens.
...some creepy ex-ballerina... - uhh...yeah. When I first started this parody, I made the mistake of thinking that, in the movie's prologue, it was an older Meg Giry who was at the auction. Apparently, it's not. According to my friend's copy of the Phantom Companion, it's Meg's mom, Mme. Giry, and not Meg herself. So, the fact that I made the woman an older Tyia in my parody and not an older Gaz is incorrect. Sorry. However, it makes more sense for the cute and bouncy ballerina to be watching and following Dib around than dark and moody Gaz, right? Right.
Messieurs Rouge and Violet's outfits - this is so crazy. While deciding how to describe their clothing, I checked out an online PotO 2004 gallery to see what Firmin and André were wearing during "Notes." Originally, I had planned on giving Red and Purple the same clothing on in their signature colors. The crazy part is, though, when I finally found good, clear pictures of Firmin and André during "Notes" they were already wearing red and purple outfits! Firmin (Red) was wearing a deep burgundy/auburn ensemble and André (Purple) had on anoutfit that was several shades of violet. Honestly, how freaky is that?
Cheetos - like I said before, don't mind the anachronisms. Rest assured, they are completely intentional.
"Upon looking at some dancer's exposed – " - it didn't say what you think it said, you know. It said "flesh," not something foul. Zim doesn't swear (not in human, anyway ;D).
"Have you breathed in that mysterious mist? " - it's a joke among several of my fellow Phantom fans that the mist that filled the dressing room during the mirror scene is actually a narcotic of some kind, which would explain why Emmy looks stoned throughout the title song and "Music of the Night."
"...and stick a –" - gosh, however could this sentence end? Well, I'm certainly not about to finish it, so I'll leave it up to your little minds. I'm sure you're all smart, creative kids; you can figure it out on your own. By the way, is it just me, or is this chapter considerably much more...vulgar...than its predecessors did? No one has actually come out and said anything (yet), but stuff has certainly been implied.
...like a thermogenic cutting instrument through a soft yellowish emulsion of butterfat, water, air, and salt that is churned from milk or cream - because, and this was stated in the Prologue, saying "like a hot knife through butter" is so yesterday.
The Ghost's dollhouse - like I said in the story, despite the fact that many fans were annoyed by this and the fact that many more make fun of it, I always kinda liked the idea. I'm note entirely sure if it's something Erik would do , but I like the idea nonetheless. It shows that the Phantom is in control of his theatre and everyone in it, and that, even though he calls himself the manager's "obedient servant" and acts like he's working for them , he's really the one running the show (bad pun intended). But maybe that's just me.
Ill Mootoe - I know it's really Il Muto , but I also know that it's school and not skool. ;D Remember: In Zimworld, it would appear that things are spelled the way they sound.
an ornate, spoon-like device - there's a name for this. I know there is. But I couldn't find out what it's called, so I went with "spoon-like device." Hope nobody minds (this is probably another one of those situations where I'm the only one who really cares, right?). Besides, this is a parody. If it were a serious work of fiction, I would be even more of a perfectionist and stop writing until I finally figured out the name of the ornate, spoon-like device.
Porcoddio - Italian for "that pig of God." I decided that, instead of actually saying stuff in a foreign tongue like Carlotta did, Calamari (since she can't seem to decide what her ethnicity is) would just say a bunch of random (and dirty) things in many different languages. It's lewd! And fun! Please don't be offended by the following phrases; they're only meant to be humorous.
Ty curaku - Czech for "You prick."
...other random people who did not deserve a title or even a category... - extras are severely abused, you know, not to mention the emotional problems they develop because of all the neglect. What's more, it's incredibly aggravating when the bloody lead misses six rehearsals in a row and nobody says a word to her, yet when a somebody who doesn't even have any lines and could easily be replaced or left out of the show completely is just a few minutes late for a practice, it's the end of the world. Lousy injustices... (realizes that she has been ranting) Oh. Sorry.
Nenda kutomba - Swahili for "Go screw yourself."
Coma a merda ei morra - Portuguese for "Eat shit and die."
Ne joue pas avec moi - French for "Don't mess with me."
Ti doegeneeraat - Russian for "You're a degenerate."
Schleimer - German for "Kiss ass."
As to Diavolo - Greek for "Go to Hell."
Oma kora su - Japanese for "I'm going to kill you."
Shakli b'tahat - Hebrew for 'Kiss my ass."
Te hülye kurva - Hungarian for "You stupid whore."
Te fut in neam - Romanian for "Screw your relatives."
Irrumator - Latin for "Bastard."
Special Note to Amethyst Fluff (yay, you're special!): You're in luck! The rewritten "All I Ask of You" actually makes me quite proud of my (mediocre) skills as a lyricist – note that it's already written, which means that the next chapter should be along much sooner than this one was. I'm somewhat happy with "Wishing You were Somehow Here Again," as well. And the sword fight…ahaha…just you wait for that sword fight. (proceeds to smirk mysteriously)
I apologize for the confusion about which Erik is making a cameo in this parody, which says to me that I have been negligent in my duty as an author. I should have been clearer in the fact that it is, in fact, Leroux!Erik, as much as I would have loved to use M. C. Phantom, which brings me to my next point. You are so right! I've often thought that Zim and Michael Crawford had eerilysimilar sounding voices, whether singing or otherwise. In all honesty, it's what originally made me think, "Hmm…Zim equals Phantom." It's also one of the reasons why I didn't make the Erik in this parody M. C. Phantom. The similar sounding voices would have brought on much confusion, to Silvie, anyway. And because I felt that, especially after the 2004 movie came out, Leroux!Erik was being severely neglected. Plus, his entire persona kinda fits in with the whole IZ crew, anyway.
Backing up a bit – yeah, I always felt that Lon!Erik was just a little too creepy, even for IZ and even though it was a funny kind of creepy. As a note, however, if you're a little put off by him because of his acting…well, that's the way it was in silent films. The actors didn't have the privilege of using their voices, so they had to work with everything they had in order to get the message across to the audience. Sorry; that's the theatre geek in me going crazy again. But I gotta love Lon Chaney after all of the painful lengths he went to in order to make his face look as skull-like as possible.
I've always wondered why Dib never mentioned Zim's being nose-less, as well. To me, that would be more obvious than a lack of ears. Come to think of it, the nose thing has never come up on the show, not to my knowledge, anyway. Huh. Funny that.
Very true. Dib is much more Persian-like than Raoul-like, which has only just occurred to me now. XD I can't believe I never made that connection. Dib's just always struck me as the Raoul of the story. This is mostly due to the fact that I've, obviously, always seen Zim as the Phantom, and, since Dib and Zim are rivals fighting over the same thing (in the case of the show, the earth), I automatically stuck Dib in the role of Raoul. Plus, Dib's kinda heroic, though not in the traditional sense of the word, and he's determined and very protective – in the show, it's the earth; in the parody, it's Silvie. However, for the most part, I'd say that he does seem to be more like the Persian in personality: Inquisitive, annoying to those around him (but we fangirls like him well enough, of course.
Aww, you weren't babbling! You made several very good points! Don't worry about writing long reviews, since I enjoy them very much, especially since you and I seem to be on the same level with several things. :)
Special Answer to Invader-Maz (yay! The answer's special! Erm, well, not that you aren't, of course): They say what keeping your hand at the level of your eyes means in Leroux, but I'll be nice and explain it here, as long as you swear to go out and read the original PotO immediately after (you can read it for free online, btw, so it's not like you'll even be spending any money on it). "Keep your hand at the level of your eyes" is basically what it says: raise your arm in front of your eyes (or right above them, so you can see, which would make more sense). You do this in order to escape the Phantom's most dangerous weapon: his Punjab lasso, i. e., a noose. He is an expert noose-wielder, you see, and can easily kill a person by using one. With just a simple flick of the wrist, he can have the rope around your neck. And the only way to escape it is to keep your hand at the level of your eyes; that way, the rope hooks around your arm instead of your throat, and, supposedly, you can get out of it this way. They do not, I'm sorry to say, explain this in the movie at all, and, while they do in the musical, it's very vague. Like I said, Leroux is your best option if you want the full explanation.
Special Author's Note to Everyone (see? You're all special!): As much as it pains me to say this, I'm afraid that this parody is on hiatus until further notice. Please forgive me and remember, as I said before, this does not mean that I will let this story go unfinished. It simply means that it will most definitely be some time before you see another update. Sorry, kids, but, as crazy as it sounds, skool comes first in my life even if I despise it for the most part. Good grades are the only way I can escape my uncultured hick town and move to France. So, until next time…
So long, farewell, auf Wiedersehen, goodbye!
– ESY