Stalker of the Pastry II:
Flying Fops
A/N: This chapter is dedicated to(and blamed on) certain people who know who they are and who need to sing something better than the soundtrack to some crappy McGregor movie. So there. Nyah.
Disclaimer: Shoot, I forgot one last chapter…the Phantom of the Opera does not belong to me. It belongs to(among far more talented others) Andrew Lloyd Webber, who is stupid and has poor management skills and I'm going the right way for a lawsuit so I shalln't elaborate. Shalln't is a word, right? My spellcheck doesn't think so. Then again, my spellcheck doesn't think "spellcheck" is a word, so what does it know? Anyway, I do, however, own Cheese Danish, the Stalker of the Pastry, and Schartlefritzen, which, thanks to is actually a country. Sort of. And that lame song belongs to…someone other than me, and Nicole Kidman belongs to Tom Cruise. And Australia.
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Chapter Two:
Nicole Kidman Would Be Proud
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Raoul was having an extremely unpleasant evening. His One!True!Love had locked himself away inside a bakery belonging to Raoul's only possible ally, who was most likely now well out of his reach. In addition, there were disturbingly large grass stains running the length of his trouser legs. So his inevitable nervous breakdown and subsequent total loss of sanity shouldn't come as a surprise.
"I'm just as good as Christine, Erik!" Raoul looked around feverishly. "I…I can sing better than her! No, really, Erik, look!" He hummed to himself – horrendously off-key – before breaking into his impromptu performance.
"A kiss…on the hand can be quite…quite continental…" Raoul twirled halfheartedly. "But diamonds…are a girl's best friend…" Erik's window remained stubbornly shut. "A kiss might be grand…but it won't pay the rental…la la la something…lalalalalalalala…" Still shut. He hopped and skipped, very ungracefully. "Men grow cold…as girls grow old…" Dance, step, kick, turn. "And we all lose our charms in the end!" Hop, skip, jump!
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Inside the bakery, Erik paced ever so phantomishly back and forth in front of the broom closet, but each pass brought him closer and closer to the hall window. This was not good. (pace) He was trapped. AND he was barefoot. (pace) He HATED being barefoot. If he left…(pacepace)…Raoul would surely jump him and do…he really didn't want to think about what Raoul would do. (pacepacepace) This was not good. (pace) This was BAD. (pace) Very, very-
Something tapped him on the shoulder.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEK!" Erik leapt on top of the nearest table, promptly leaping off again when it groaned alarmingly under his weight. "GET OUT, FOP! GETOUTGETOUTGETOUTGETOUT-oh, hello, Christine. How did you get the closet door open?"
Cheese stared at him blankly. "The door locks from the inside, Erik."
"Oh."
"What's Raoul doing now?" She tried to peer over her stalker's shoulder out the hall window.
"NOTHING! Absolutely nothing! Well…he's ah…he's watering the lawn! YES! LAWN CARE! THAT'S IT!"
Cheese nodded agreeably. Wonderful. She believed him. What a relief.
Then she had to go and ruin it.
"So…the cancan dancers in the glittery leotards are the mowers?"
"THE WHAT?"
Erik rushed to the window, horribly confused and terrified of what he'd see.
For good reason.
Very good reason.
There was Raoul, in an obnoxiously shiny sequined jacket, surrounded by tall, beautiful women will abnormally long legs, all in a line, dancing to music coming from the elaborate speaker system that had magically appeared in the yard.
KICK! TURN! KICK! "Diamonds!" Raoul screeched. DANCE DANCE KICK KICK! "DIAMONDS!" The girls were beginning to knock each other out with their enormous headdresses. "ARE A GIRL'S…BEST..." Raoul threw himself on the lawn for no apparent reason, staring at Erik with adoring big blue eyes while lying on his back.
"…friend!"
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A/N: Yeah. Short. I know. But I spontaneously decided that was a good chapter ending. More later.