Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even the fingers typing this up. I accidentally bet those to my dad's step-grandfather in a pool game in Oregon last September.

This is supposed to be in script form, but that's apparently not allowed on so just imagine it's being acted out rather than told in a story.

And one last thing: I don't expect to update this often, so if you, for some ridiculous reason, want to keep reading it, check back once a month at the most.

Prologue

Karina, the author of this, sat in her music history class, a pencil at the ready in each hand. (She was ambidextrous and enjoyed showing it off whenever possible.) The professor cleared his throat, unfortunately not much silencing the room. That didn't stop him from beginning the lecture.

"Beethoven. Mozart. Chopin. Liszt, Brahms, Panties--" He coughed and shook his head. "I'm sorry. Schumann, Schubert, Mendelssohn, and Bach. Names that will live forever. But there is one composer whose name is never included with the greats."

He raised an eyebrow. The class finally stopped talking, realizing that he was going to say something that would most likely be on a test.

"Why is it the world never remembered the name of Erik Gambolputty de von Ausfern-schplenden-schlitter-crasscrenbonfried-digger-dingle-dangle-dongle-dungle--"

He took a deep breath before attempting to continue.

"--Burstein-von-knacker-thrasher-apple-banger-horowitz-ticolensic-grander-knotty-spellunkle-grandlich-grumblemeyer-spelterwasser-kurtslich-himbleeisen-bahnwagen-gutenabend--"

By this point, he had to stop and get a drink of water before continuing. Karina had by this point completely tired out her left hand, and she began scribbling furiously with her right.

"--Bitte-ein-nurnburger-bratwustle-genspurten-mitz-weimache-luber-hundsfut-gumberaber-shonendanker-kalbsfleisch-mittler-aucher von Hautkopft of Ulm?"

A lasso suddenly wrapped around his neck, effectively garrotting him and cutting off any possibility of taking further notes. Karina massaged her exhausted hands and, completely nonplussed, stared at the tall man with the mask.

The stranger looked disgustedly at her professor and then announced to the class, "Je déteste ce nom. Je le change en le fantôme de l'opéra!"

The rest of the class figured that the teacher's demise warranted a shortened class, and they began packing up their books. Karina, however, was curious and didn't speak French well. "Er...what did you say?"

The man looked confused. "You do not speak French?"

"No, we all speak English here."

"Er...where's here?"

"The music history class at UC Davis. In America."

The guy sounded astonished. "What the heck kind of wormhole did I drop through?" The remainder of her words suddenly took effect, brightening his tone. "Music history class? And you were learning about me?"

"Well, if you're..." Karina checked her notes. "Erik Gambolputty de von Ausfern--"

Erik cut her off. "Well, who better to tell you the story than the composer himself? Now take notes, everybody."

One girl who had been close to getting out the door turned, groaning. "Will this be on the test?"

Erik's eyes, underneath the mask, narrowed. "Would you like me to test out my Punjab lasso?"

That answered her question quite thoroughly.

I am not taking a music history class. But I may in the future, so imagine me when I'm twenty or twenty-one doing this.

I took four years of Spanish and only one year of French. I had to use a translator. Lo siento/je regrette/je suis desolee.