"Gaaawwww," Erik groaned, "My insides hurt. They're in PAIN."

"What can I do to heal you my love?"

"Turn off that DAMN music box!"

Christine batted her eyes profusely. "But Erik, that is a gift you gave our son. He would be heart-broken if you stopped him from toying with it."

"Don't make me repeat myself!" He seethed, and Christine obliged.

Gustave began to cry. "You are not much nicer than my other Papa."

***

Raoul was broody. Oh, so so broody. The gin coma was slowly erased by a serious headache and he slammed his hand on the counter as loud as he could.

"One more drink, Sir!"

Bartender Joe pushed the bill at him. "You must take care of the tab, sir."

"I SAID ONE MORE DRINK!" The fop hair clung to the Count's sweaty brow.

"You horses always think loud equals effective," Joe mumbled and patted the bill. "Pay up."

"I thought I'd find you here."

Raoul peered over his left shoulder to see Meg Giry, giving him one of those "Jasmine to Aladdin" faces that suggested she knew who he REALLY was under all that booze-breath.

"Meg."

She sighed, "I'm surprised you recognized me."

"As am I," Raoul took a swig from his empty cup. "Look at you. The beast's fool. Following orders. Horrible."

"Look at you. Booze and sweat. Impotent. Pitiful."

"Once upon another time, we were were on the same side."

"Ten years is a long time." She looked away.

"Since 1881."

"Hm, but if it's 1907 now, it should technically be more than ten–"

"Who CARES?"

"Nobody," she said bitterly. "I don't care. I've thrown my youth away to please who mother thinks is God. I'm the Ooh-la-la girl with an act that will make Miss Adelaide and Evelyn Nesbit jealous."

The Count snickered. "Bathing Beauty. Such a peach."

***

"And this," Erik said after moments of petting his Christine automaton, "is my electric guitar."

"YESSSSSSSS." Gustave stroked the instrument with his pale little fingers and ooohed and ahhhed like Nadir on hashish. "It's so beautiful."

"Go ahead," Erik folded his arms, "Play with it."

The boy struck a chord.

The phantom covered his mouth. "GENIUS."

"I think he's in love with you," Christine said to Erik adoringly. "I've taught him well."

"Oh?"

"He looks with his heart and not with his eyes. He knows that love is often disguised."

Erik sneered.

"Yes," She said with a sigh of sadness, "Raoul is the one wearing the mask now, and he wonders why I love him still."

"Clever." Erik said drily. "I should show the boy my face then?"

"Oh, I wouldn't do that." Christine said quickly.

"Why not?"

"Well," she thought for a moment. "You might scare him."

Erik frowned. "I was jesting. Have I ever removed my own mask voluntarily to strangers, let alone to people I protect?"

She thought for a moment and shook her head.

"Precisely."

"But," She raised a protesting finger, "This time, you will."

A deep, sinister growl followed the length of that wagging finger.

"WHY."

"Because it is written, Erik. It is written in the book–"

GROWL.

"I mean the script–"

GROWL.

"I mean, the seq–"

"ENOUGH!" The phantom swept to his organ and slamed his fists against the keys so hard that a few black notes flew out and hit Gustave in the head.

"OW, PAPA!"

"SHUT. UP. I need to be alone."

"Come Pierre!" Christine lead her son off stage and calmed him in the wings. "Father's under a lot of–pressure–right now. You understand..."

"But he was just teaching me to play the electric guitar!" Pierre cried.

"I know," Christine cupped the poor child's face in her hands. "And he will finish with you later. You just don't want to see him when he's angry. He gets..Well you're father Raoul isn't nearly as bad when he's backhanding me."

The boy was severely let down but followed his mother.

Erik had already repaired his organ and began winding up his automaton. "Now, let me see," he whispered, "what hook from 'The Apartment' shall we start off on in your first aria?"

"I hope you're aria is for Meg, my friend." Madame Giry entered and slammed her candy cane on the stage with panache.

Erik ignored her. He owed her nothing and never wanted anything to do with the old croanie even when she followed him to Coney Island.

"Or did you forget Meg. My daughter. The ballerina you promoted 10 years ago."

"More than 10 years ago."

"Plenty of time to have earned the right to be the star of your show."

"She is the star because there is no talent on this island." His fist came down on the keys again, and this time a key hit Madame Giry on the brow. "We are in America, and if Christine Daae weren't gracing us with her prescence, I'd give the aria to Christine Nilsson over MEG. In fact, if it weren't for my unduly respect for the managers at the Metropolitan Opera House, I wouldn't have settled for this pathetic circus hosted by freaks in the first place."

"Are you saying you won't give the aria to my daughter?"

Erik squeezed an ivory key so hard that it cracked. Trapped, his hands trembled with rage. His sanity: questionable. A sudden urge to detoxify.

"Get me Christine. Now."

to be continued...