You'll see a word or two (or five, to be exact) borrowed from Cleolinda, who is responsible for the Phantom in Fifteen Minutes parody. Yes, I did email her a while back and ask her if I could borrow a little and she didn't have a problem with it.

For anyone who has ever taken this as high brow serious literature: I wrote this for fun and to include as much of the ALW dialogue/lyrics in here and twist them about—hopefully in a way that was funny and a little bit on the naughty side.

Rose39

"Afternoon," Raoul said quite amiably.

"Get out of my way."

Raoul was casually waiting at a fork in the road when Erik approached. St. Olga's of Perpetual Longing was within sight, which was all he cared about.

"I just witnessed a most spectacular sight. Out of nowhere, and seemingly for no reason, an elk appeared. Naturally, I followed it a while until the gates appeared and beyond them, the gracious, nude statues. I was reminded of Meg, which naturally reminded me of Christine."

"Fascinating." He looked beyond Raoul at the distant gates and cursed the falling snow. He'd hoped to follow the carriage and locate Christine, but there were far more tracks than he anticipated and the snowfall was making it impossible to distinguish the freshest ones.

"There are two entrances into the lady," Raoul stated.

Erik's eyes narrowed. "I beg your pardon?"

"There are two entrances into Old Olga." He nodded toward the massive graveyard cloaked in white. "First, there is the front entrance which you see before you."

"Yes?" Erik asked impatiently.

"And then there is," his voice lowered. "The rear entrance."

Erik rolled his eyes. "Fine. Get out of my way."

"Experience, Monsieur," he said casually, "tells me that you should never leave one unguarded."

Erik paused. His horse snorted impatiently. "You wish to guard one?"

"I shall plug one, yes, with my presence." He pushed back his cuticles and straightened his lapels. "The question is…which do you prefer? The front or the rear orifice?"

Erik's eyes widened. "Perhaps I am mistaken, but you seem like the rear orifice plug to me, Monsieur."

Raoul cocked a brow. "Indeed. I shall ride swift as the wind and stand guard at the rear, and together you and I will save her!"

"I don't need your help," Erik seethed.

"Perhaps not, Monsieur, but once you've used a man's bath towel you feel the need to assist him in all manners." He tossed his hair, quite urgently, over his shoulders and looked with great determination toward the cemetery. "To St. Olga's Perpetually unguarded rear gates! Away, Buttercup!"

Again he mounted his unsaddled horse, appearing manly as ever, and road off yelling his battle cry. Erik was quite certain he'd caught a glimpse of ungodly erect nipples but swiftly banished the thought. Never was there a more masculine—albeit terrifying—sight than the Vicomte de Chagny riding away in his white shirt and close-fitting trousers. Once again, Erik found himself strangely attracted to the Vicomte, which he passed off as far too much exposure to the cold.

Erik took a deep breath once Raoul was out of site. Perhaps with all of the commotion that fool made, he'd push Bouquet toward the front and into view. He cracked his knuckles and heeled his horse. If a hair on Christine's curly head was out of place, someone was going to pay with their miserable and worthless life.

-o-

"Let me go!" Christine shrieked.

"All in good time, my precious, all in good time," Bouquet said in his smarmy, greasy-smiled fashion. He reached back to grope her and she shrieked again. "That's a good girl, Christine. Wake the dead with that voice of yours. No one will save you."

Christine viciously whipped her head from side to side and assaulted the stagehand with her hair. The unexpected thrashing of curls distracted him long enough for Christine to stand in the back of the carriage, but the wheels hit a bump as they entered the graveyard and she was thrown into her seat once more.

"Almost there," Bouquet said with a grin. He glanced ahead and then looked back at her as she lay sprawled out in the backseat. "Now, which way do I turn for your father's stinking grave, eh?"

Again she prepared to stand, deciding that death was more welcomed than his hands slithering down her body. She glanced around at the cushy snow, then looked at her poofy dress and figured she could easily leap from the carriage and safely land somewhere. Then, once she rolled to her feet, she could run screaming and someone would help her…wouldn't they?

She mustered all of her strength and courage and hauled herself to her feet, this time clinging to the door. She had no idea how Raoul made it look so easy as he stood and held the reins.

The carriage wrenched in a hard left-hand turn. The horses whinnied and she was nearly tossed from the back.

"What are you doing?" she screamed. "You'll kill us both!"

She glanced up and saw a white horse dash past in a blur. Or so she thought. Perhaps it was only a statue of a horse. Again the carriage made a hard turn which tossed her to the right, giving her no opportunity to glance back.

Her sides throbbed from being knocked back and forth, her head swirled with the constant motion.

"Stop!" she yelled.

"Never!" Bouquet laughed and pumped his fist in the air.

"No, seriously, stop! I think I'm going to be sick!"

One moment Bouquet was sitting before her, smiling in his usual perverted fashion. The next he was gone and Raoul was standing triumphantly in his place.

"Ah ha!" Raoul shouted. He looked at her and smiled like a school boy. "Good afternoon, Mademoiselle."

"Tree branch!" Christine yelled.

"Excuse! Oof!" Raoul pitched to the side and landed beside her with a heavy thud. She stared at him, mouth agape, before she heard Bouquet laughing to himself.

"Idiot," he sneered. "I knew he would attempt to save you and just as I suspected, he failed. Miserably. All the money in the world can't buy brains, now can it, Christine?"

She tapped Raoul's cheeks but he was knocked out cold. Frustrated, she glared at Bouquet and decided to once again play stupid. "What do you want from me?"

"You know it isn't what I want from you, but who. Don't pretend to be a fool, Christine. It's very unbecoming of you."

"He won't come for me. He doesn't know where I am," she replied innocently, hoping to God that wasn't true. She looked around, nervously searching for a hint that Erik was near.

"Oh, come now, Christine."

The carriage slowed as they approached her father's grave. She swallowed hard and frowned, hoping she wasn't about to join him much sooner than expected.

"He's very busy writing his music. You're merely wasting your time out here in the cold."

"And I suppose the Vicomte just fell out of the sky?" He climbed into the back and grabbed her by the arm. "All these years you've been a worthless little wretch crawling about the opera house. Well, Christine, you always wanted to be the star."

"Actually, I was quite content playing a slave girl with the rest of the ballerinas when a backdrop nearly killed Carlotta. That's when—"

"Oh, shut up and come with me, my dear." He attempted to drag her through the snow toward the waiting mausoleum, but she lunged forward and clung to the carriage. "It's almost show time. Let's see how well you play damsel in distress."

At the tips of her fingers was the Vicomte's sword.

-o-

The front entrance was barred with several heavy chains that no amount of illusion or deception could break. Nostrils flared, Erik paced back and forth, knowing that each second he remained was wasted.

His shoes crunched the snow as he grabbed his horse by the reins and stepped into the saddle. Somewhere in the distance, barely heard by the creak of leather, he heard horses whinny.

"Christine," he whispered.

His horse broke into a gallop before his heels touched the gelding's sides. He raced along the iron fence line and guided the horse through the open gates. Buttercup pranced past him and he pulled back on the reins.

"Where is Raoul?"

The horse snorted. Erik's eyes narrowed as he stared at the beast, wondering if its mane was naturally shiny or if Raoul conditioned it.

"Excuse me?" He felt ridiculous speaking to a horse, but no more absurd than he did speaking to his monkey.

It (the horse) shook its head to the right and gave a tail swish for emphasis.

"Over there?"

The horse whinnied.

"With Christine?"

The horse gave a listless sigh.

"Is she all right?"

The horse shook its head from side to side and urgently pawed the ground, which Erik considered gravely serious in equine dialect.

"Thank you." He paused and stared at the horse. "Do you understand what I'm saying or have all these years spent underground clearly turned my genius into madness?"

The horse merely blinked.