A/N: T'heck with the not-replying-via-chapters, for now.
SarahBelle: It could be that type of seamstress— or it could not be. Up to you. If it is, please take the men to your apartment instead of bringing them back to the Admin Office. Thanks.
Circe Rose: I have not forgotten Terik! He is yours and he shall appear.
ElfLover: Here! I rewrote the first chapter specially for you.
Adison: RAA!
SimplyElymas: Okay, that was great. I loved that. Thank you.
Phoenix Angel 13: I know its been pretty phan-intensive right now, but hopefully I can get my mind twisted the right way and figure out what the heck I'm doing with everything— at that point, more Eriks will make themselves known. If I can get them to obey me. (whip crack)
Color Me Gray: I knew there was a reason you'd make a good minion. Thank you for the longest, most rambling review I've ever in my life gotten.
OieCuite: Absolutely! You're in.
Ridel: We could try, except I think the Eriks tend to go commando. (innocent blink, then a wicked smile)
Hoshi: (takes her by the shoulders and shakes her) For Pete's sake, Loyal Minion, pay attention! And thank you for frothing, yes, I love froth. Especially in the bathtub, with bubbles, but please don't feel obligated to froth in my bathtub because that would just be wrong, as, indeed, this entire reply is. (is laughing so hard she can't make any sense at all, as if this is a departure from how she normally is) And I love froth on pie. Er. Different kind of froth, of course. I assume. If not, Marie Calender's must be employing some crazy rabid people in the backroom. Which should not be ruled out as a possibility. I believe they are equal-opportunity employers, after all.
A/N: The rest of you, thank you so much for reviewing, and for those of you who comment in the chat at PPN, I love that as well. Its all very encouraging.
Chapter Five: The Hunting of the Fop
Preparations went on apace, mostly consisting of Adison and VictoriaTai primping in front of the solitary mirror in the bathroom. In the main room, the Eriks were being fed tea. Many were the instances of the tea being spilled on the Erik-laps by the dazzled hands of their phans. ElfLover in particular was having some trouble. She had been serving Leroux Erik when she got all excited by the odor of death and clasped her hands around his neck, entirely disregarding the fact that she had an entire teapot in her hands. This had resulted in some tense moments as the tea spattered over several of the Eriks in the vicinity, and it could not be said that any of them appreciated it; however, the situation was somewhat taken care of when it was decided that the solution to this was to take the tea-spattered Eriks outside and hose them off. The Leroux, Crawford, and Brad Little versions were hauled off protesting ardently, and after some time there were roars of rage from the men and squeals of delight from the phans, and so everything was sweetness and light.
Celtic Heart and Mandy had, eventually, managed to contain their laughter at the rumpled and peeved-looking Stalker Erik, long enough to set him free of his own shirt. He had flung the overshirt away from him and now stood, flustered, in a t-shirt that said, "Shagging Is Not A Spectator Sport" and then in smaller letters, "But It Should Be." He didn't seem to mind the loss of his wallet, being more concerned with the fact that he'd been subdued by a female.
"Why should that bother you?" said Mandy, blinking at him pleasantly. "It happens all the time."
"Wrong sort of subduing. Where is she?" said Stalker Erik, smoothing a hand over his head in a doomed attempt to get his hair to cooperate and behave itself.
"Primping," said Celtic Heart helpfully. "She's going in search of the fop, you know."
Stalker Erik went dead still, his body radiating tense alertness, or, possibly, alert tenseness. Or, possibly again, he was simply being quiet, in a relaxed manner, though this is less likely.
"The fop?" he repeated.
Five minutes later, after a slight detour, he was lounging against the doorframe of the bathroom trying hard to be nonchalant.
Ten minutes after that, he was standing straight up and slightly flustered.
"Take me with you."
"For the last time, Erik, no you can't go with us!"
"Take me with you. Please."
"No!" Adison finally rounded on Stalker Erik, glaring at him. "We want to catch Patrick Raoul, not kill him."
"If you want to catch him, take me with you. I'm the foremost expert on fop hunting." Stalker Erik hefted his version of the Punjab lasso over his shoulder. It was a Winchester, it was double barreled, and if he squeezed the trigger the first thing that would not come out was a little flag that said "Bang."
Adison transferred her glare to the rifle. "What are you doing with that thing anyhow?"
"Yeah," said Tori, "I thought you were a man of peace."
"This? Its— er— ah— meh— um— eh— uh— it's a water gun," he lied, not very convincingly. Adison put her hands on her hips.
"Prove it then."
"Alright," said Stalker Erik, put the gun across his arm, winced anticipatorily, and pulled the trigger. There was a sound exactly like a rifle shot and he blinked down at the gun. "How'd that get in there?"
Across the room, MPS said, "Ow," and slumped to the floor.
"It got in there," said Adison, pseudo-patiently and putting her hands on her hips, "because it's a rifle, and what does one do with rifles? One puts bullets in them."
"Shells," corrected Stalker Erik absentmindedly.
There was a bit of a ruckus going on, on the other side of the room.
"Bullets," said Adison, just because.
"Shells."
"Bullets."
"Shells."
More ruckus, some pandemonium, and some hurriedly-arranged last rites, just in case.
"Bullets."
"Shells."
A few of the more opportunistic Writers started going through her backpack, where they discovered twenty three romance novels and a notebook that had "Mrs. Stalker" written in it, over and over, on every page.
"Bullets."
"Shells."
Some of the more-helpful-but-dreadfully-inept Writers tried to force carrot cake between MPS's lips, but this effort was doomed from the beginning and as she coughed spastically, cream cheese frosting flew everywhere, covering the more-helpful-but-dreadfully-inept-and-now-irritated Writers, and retexturing a small part of the nearby wall.
"Bullets."
"Shells."
"Pasta," said VictoriaTai, dreamily.
"Patrick!" said Adison.
"Yes!"
"Yes!"
"Take me with you," said Stalker Erik.
They left him behind, and went to catch the fop.
It didn't, in the end, turn out to be as difficult as they had anticipated. They found him holding court in a Starbucks on Ventura Boulevard. He sat in one of the little metal chairs, his back straight, regaling some well-dressed fellow patrons with stories of his daring escapades as a Vicomte— all of which he appeared to be making up entirely.
"And there was a dragon— yes, a dragon! A hideous dragon! With great big teeth! And I cut off its head with my fingernails!" He nodded emphatically, ponytail bobbing, and his audience laughed politely; they didn't seem to quite know what to make of him.
"Patrick Raoul, honey," said Adison, putting a hand on his shoulder, "we've come to take you away.
Patrick Raoul looked up at her with trusting eyes.
"Hey!" said the patrons, irritably. "That's not fair! You can't take him away just because he's insane. All he's doing is telling some stories, is that a crime?"
Tori blinked at them.
"Odd, how they all spoke at the same time like that."
"Creepy," agreed Adison, nervously.
The patrons stood, and began to move forward.
"We'll defend him! The poor man shouldn't have to go to an insane asylum just because he's telling stories!"
"Actually, we're the hair police," tried Ad. "The ponytail is in strict violation of this city's good taste code."
But the patrons were having none of it. Clearly, looking at strangers on the sidewalk, there was no such thing as a good taste code, else eighty percent of the population would have been in jail until they agreed to shave their heads and just start over again. The fascinating thing about people in that city is when they get determined about something, very few people escape alive.
Ad, Tori, and Patrick Raoul barely made it themselves.
"We should have brought the stalker after all," said Adison, panting. Her face was smudged and dirty.
"Or at least his gun," said Tori. Her hair was a tangled mess.
"But at least we got what we came for."
They looked over at Patrick Raoul. At some point his shirt had gotten torn from his body, either by the rampaging mob or, more likely, VictoriaTai, and he blinked at them innocently and gave them a slight smile.
"You look a bit familiar," he said. "Do I know you two ladies?"
Tori whispered, "Should we mention that we're from the phic where he got beaten up, de-ponytailed, and finally killed?"
"Oh, come on," said Adison, tiredly. "Lets just go back to the Admin office." They each took a hand and led him away.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch—
Or, if not ranch, Administration Office—
Where Random had just picked up three lackeys in addition to her minions, because now that she was completely crazy, everyone wanted to be on her good side—
In fact no one quite wanted to find out if she had anything other than a good side, because she was reputed to be quite cruel when the occasion warranted it—
Or didn't warrant it—
Or if she was in the wrong mood—
Anyway, Mistressphantomshadow was not quite dead.
There were a group of people standing over her. The ambulance had been called, but due to rush hour traffic, probably wouldn't show for another three years. Becky tried to take Stalker Erik to task for shooting her, but he was laughing too hard, bent double, hands on his knees, face turning red, to pay her any attention.
"Honestly, Erik—"
"I didn't do it on purpose! It was a kind of Freudian slip, except with a gun. A gunnian slip, if you will."
The Eriks sat at the table and watched the goings on with irritation evident in their eyes. A few of them were more irritated than others; these were the ones that had been taken out, stripped, and scrubbed— all this for the sake of a little bit of tea, but really, phangirls need no excuse when it comes to removing clothing. Subsequently, kimonos had been doled out to all who needed them, and, also subsequently, drool buckets had been doled out amongst the more rabid phangirls. The floor had already been mopped three times, and Random's muse/janitor, Alberta Eric, was starting to complain.
At any rate, the Eriks were irritated in the extreme. And if Erik ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. Mostly because, when Eriks are unhappy, they tend to kill people. And death, strange as it may seem, is not the most joyful experience one can undergo.
They were getting ideas, and fingering punjabs, and dreaming dark daydreams of death and destruction. They weren't exactly happy with the whole situation; not only had they been kidnapped into the Admin Office, but now that they were here they were being ignored, overlooked for the sake of a theatrically-gifted phangirl.
MPS sat up halfway and moaned, then flopped back down and writhed, reaching both hands up towards Stalker Erik, who took a step back, and slurring his name. Obviously she would have been quite happy to have blood coming out of her mouth, in order to make it more dramatic; as it was she had to be satisfied with spit bubbles. She frothed at the mouth in a slightly pathetic manner, trying to draw out her death as long as possible.
Kay Erik stood up and banged his fist on the table as he was wont to do, startling Random awake. She was curled on the table now, her hat tipped at a rakish angle over her face, and blinked sleepily up at him.
He glared back down at her.
"This is ridiculous!" he said. "You brought us here and now you cannot even control your Writers! They're not even paying us any attention, and yet they will not let us go! They have guards at the doorway!" Indeed, Regina, Twisted, and Killthefop, as the new lackeys, were guarding the doorway, and guarding it quite well. There was no way an Erik was going to get past them— unless, of course, he asked them nicely and was the right one. "And look at the Artists! They're—" He paused, one arm spread out in a theatrical gesture, and stared at the Artists faction, which were setting up ladders and laughing amongst themselves. "They're— painting the ceiling?"
Random blinked at him again, and for a moment almost looked as though her mind had returned. He looked down at her and crouched over her slightly, waiting for an intelligent response.
She beckoned him closer with a crooked finger.
He bent down lower.
She called him on.
He bent down lower.
She pushed herself up on one elbow, raised her lips to his ear, and said, "What were large hailstones the size of before golf balls were invented?"
Before he could stop himself, he yanked hard on her hair. It was a perfectly natural reaction, and one she was perfectly used to. She responded by butting her head into his shoulder, and within seconds the fight was joined.
Hoshi sat up from reading one of MPS's romance novels.
"Sucker punching!" she said. "I knew it had to happen sometime!"
Of course, it happened just as she was getting to the part where Count Armante Fortescue was chasing Valesca Rosein de la Saytra around the table on a slippery linoleum floor and they were both wearing socks— so Hoshi ignored the fight, lay back down, and read on. It was only a matter of time before one or both of them slipped and fell—
Random didn't so much lose as simply decide to roll away from Kay Erik's pummeling fists and snapping jaws. She rolled straight off the other edge of the table, landing in Gerry Phantom's lap, and clinging to him for all she was worth. Gerry Phantom picked her off his lap and set her on the ground. She stood, a bit shakily, and leaned heavily on the table.
"Oh God," she cried in horror, "what if the hokey pokey really is what it's all about?"
"Here," said Mandy, comfortingly, "have a lemon."
Random took it, stared at it, and said, "Apple!"
There was a slight pause. Stalker Erik looked up. "Snapple," he said.
"Grapple," said Random.
"Dapple."
"Rapple."
"Tapple."
"Crapple."
"Sapple."
"Mapple."
"Napple."
Twisted lunged at Stalker Erik and clapped a hand over his mouth. "Stop," she hissed between her teeth. "Stop. Just stop— right— now."
He squinted at her and made indeterminate noises from behind her hand. "Look, SE, I know this is odd, but you're the sane one in this situation, okay? No rhyming. I mean it."
"Anybody want a peanut?" Random asked hazily. Stalker Erik snorted wildly and Twisted removed her hand, looked at it in disgust, then wiped it on Elektra, who appeared not to notice.
"Fezzik, are there rocks ahead?"
"If there are, we'll all be dead," chanted Stalker Erik.
There was never a better time for WeakWilledChristine Erik (whom, if you remember, bore more than a passing resemblance to Cary Elwes) to appear, and so, with uncanny instinct, he failed completely to show up.
This total mindlessness was getting even to Leroux Erik, who stood up and backed away from Random, saying, "Begone! Begone, foul spirit!"
She blinked at him and swayed dizzily. "What, you mean like, ghost chickens?"
MPS half-sat again and clawed at Stalker Erik's pantleg. The only thing to do when someone claws your pantleg is to back away hurriedly, which he did, and when one backs away hurriedly, as he did, one does not watch where one is going, and as he backed away, he bumped into Leroux Erik, who shoved him, and then rebounded off Kay Erik, who wasn't paying him any attention but was still growling at Random, and so the two of them crashed to the floor, Stalker Erik on top and Kay Erik still growling, and in the midst of the ensuing laughter, hoots, and chaos, there was the voice of Becky shouting, "Not again!" and Regina shouting, "I knew it!" and Twisted repeating the phrase, "Male-hussy," several times over.
Kay Erik, much to everyone's surprise, didn't attempt to kill the stalker; instead, he merely regarded him coldly and shoved him off with his foot, standing up and brushing himself off. Stalker Erik sat on the floor, leaning back on both hands with his legs stretched out in front of him, and laughed himself sick.
Kay Erik said, "This nonsense must stop, and it must stop now."
There was some confusion as to which nonsense he was referring to— the Artists had just dumped a bunch of paint over both Chaney Erik and Rains Erik, and the Old Movie Phantoms were starting a league in order to protest— the Writers were falling over themselves laughing and interrogating Stalker Erik on what he thought of the whole thing— Random was trying to talk philosophy with Leroux Erik— and VictoriaTai and Adison had just got back, Patrick Raoul in tow, leading to some glomping of the fop.
However, things were much clearer when Kay Erik strode to MPS, bent and picked her up in both arms, and carried her into the bathroom. Placing her firmly and none too gently in the tub, he withdrew, closing the door behind him. With a carefully aimed blow of his foot, he broke the doorknob. There was no going in. There was no going out.
He dusted off his hands and turned the baleful stare on everyone in the room.
Whatever else Eriks dislike, the one thing they truly, truly hate, is to be ignored.