And Break Out The Dom Perignon

So a good year ends. Just a few more final exams to go, and then that excruciating final Wednesday, and we will be home free as Ayesha. And, I'm sure, my readers and faithful commentors, especially a party who shall remain nameless but whose title is Monsieur Giry shall find the time to read Susan Kay's Phantom. Of course, there will probably someday come a point in time that Ben will read Leroux, but after a long and hard battle that involved a silent movie with Claude Raines in it, I'm not holding my breath. But anyhow. I think you all deserve this bit of very Kat-like fiction.

In Which the Opera Ghost Makes Itself Known

The manager of the Opera, a Monsieur Gabriel of the Slightly Overstuffed Pillows and Jerome Robbins Choreography, was fidgety. It was nearly time for vacation at the Opera d'Junior High, and he was in a terrible amount of suspense so that he might reach that blissful nirvana known as "doing absolutely nothing for three months straight," when he heard the distinctive rap of a cane on the door, and a muffled, "Ow!" accompanied by a "Maaax. . ."

It was Maxwell Giry, the ballet master of Box Five. This was due to the mixture of the versions of PotO, one in which Giry is a ballet mistress and the other in which she is a box keeper. As a result, Max taught the ballet rats, but he had to do so in the confines of Box Five, which complicated life terribly, because it was only about four foot square. The cane he was presently holding was an Andrew Lloyd Webber creation, gold topped. He didn't really need it to walk, and indeed, he was having serious difficulty using it. But he did persevere, and thump the manager's door with the cane he did.

Gabe opened the door with a sort of annoyed flourish that it took anyone ordinary quite a while to master. Max grinned sheepishly at him and went back to nursing his leg, where he had quite mistakenly hit himself with the cane. With a resigned sigh, Gabe pulled up a chair for the box ballet master and sat down himself, behind the desk. Rubbing his head, as was his habit, Gabe asked wearily, "What's the problem now?"

"Eet ees -" Began Max, in a French accent accidentally carried over from Mme. Giry in the ALW movie. He cleared his throat and began again. "It is a message, Gabe, from the Opera Ghost."

"We've got a ghost?"

"Yes, sir. She raids the fridge at night sir. She would like us to restock more often on mochi, sir."

"Fridge? Mochi?"

"Yes, it's those little Japanese ice creams He of the Unspellable Name buys -"

"I know what they are, Max! But. . .our ghost is into our mochi?"

"Yeah. She wants a private box too."

Gabe spat out the water he'd just gulped down. How he did this after swallowing is anyone's guess. "She wants what?" He sounded a bit like he was saying, "You want it when?" Which people will do, you know. "And wait. . .hold up. She's a she?"

Max blushed for reasons no one fully understood. "Very."

"But ghosts are men!"

"Why?"

"Because men are mostly the ones that die," provided the Sane Personage dryly, coming into the room with a rather frustrated looking Monsieur Ben d'Nosy Nadir Like Figure by her side. Ben sat down heavily and asked, in a rather messy use of what was meant to be simple present tense, "You've all will have had heard of this J.G. person? Well, my hidden camera would have be has been wrecked!"

"You had a hidden camera?"

It was at this point that Monsieur Darth Luke dashed in, in Sith robes that were much too big. Gabe managed to restrain Max from killing the Sith, and all was well, until, of course, the little scourge of a ten year old opened his pink little mouth. "My favorite bomber jacket is gone!"

Finally, a terribly disheveled looking Patron Spencer staggered in, and managed to murmur, "All of the Alaskan baseballs are gone, and all the corps de ballet have Hungarian accents, and no one knows the theories of Jean Paul Sartre!"

Of course, that clinched it. They all ran off, or will have did must ran off, in Ben's case, or galumphed painfully off, in Max's, or for some reason flew, in Spencer's, mostly because the author felt guilty about him staggering earlier.

†

Max Giry settled himself into an armchair in Box Five, yawning profusely and pulling out a Diet Coke. It was at that point that a letter floated from the ceiling, with red wax dripped upon it in the shape of a, well. . .it looked like a gerbil of some sort.

My Dear Monsieur Maxwell Giry,

Been a good year at the Opera, no, Max? Your first. You are an excellent ballet box master, actually, I think you're the world's only one, hey! Apply for a position in the Guiness book. I'm terribly glad you decided to stay on with us here, we're so pleased to have you. Oh, and quite Diet Coke.

If this demand is not met, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

P.S. I have abandoned O.G. because Allie thought it meant Omnipotent Gerbil.

†

In his office, Gabe booted up the computer to do a search of the building. "You've. . .Got. . .Mail. . ." said the slightly trailing voice of Emmy Rossum as soon as it started. Gabe tried his best to click out, but there was no convincing emmy-mail, the extremely evil application Gabe and Ben had created so that the Opera employees could communicate with each other.

But this piece of emmy-mail was a little wierd.

My Dear Monsieur Gabriel,

Gabe, it's been unimaginably fun hanging with you all these years. Wow, for the longest time, eh? It's been ten years now, I think. Known me since I was the Phantom of the Elementary School. Even back then you had big "idears" and knew your stuff as far as playing police went. So on to new horizons!

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

†

Ben found his letter in a terribly uncomfortable fashion - he tripped over it. It was under a piece of scenery, and he dabbled in the art of stagehanddom, so he'd been frolicking in his own sort of subdued and nonsensical way, among the scaffoldings when he found it. He cracked open the wax, pondering as to why it had been hidden under that enormous heap of black trenchcoats.

My Dear Monsieur Ben d'NNLF

Gagit in the works, I presume, so I won't keep you. It has been interesting knowing the mind behind the logos, and a little frightening too, but ah well. Visalek, Whistlehoofen, Starblam, or whosoever - I love that word - you are, you've certainly made the last bit of the year interesting. I await the random revels of the Point of No Return Party.

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

†

The Sane Personage, in her turn, proceeded up to the roof, with the thought in her head that perhaps the Phantom might frequent it again. On the way up she bumped into an extremely attractive masked man holding a smashed rose, and looking quite depressed. He demanded, "Git oot of the way, och, ye bonny lass!" She blinked rapidly and allowed him to pass. From his cloak a letter tumbled. . .

My Dear Sane Personage,

Thank God for our only sane resident of the Opera. Every mad place needs the sane to guide it, and for this we thank you.

I remain, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.

†

And as for Spencer, in his dressing room he found a rather large cherry pie with a black ribbon tied around it. This he understood the signifigance of perfectly.

†

Thus, just before vacation, the residents of the Opera d'Junior High were made aware of the presence of their omniscent Phantom. They were terrified. But they were also very hungry. More hungry than terrified, actually. So Monsieur Giry made creme brulee with a blowtorch that was subsequently consfiscated by the Sane Personage, quite sanely.

Deep below them, a tall girl in clogs that were too big and a black coat that was too small laughed maniacally and ate her mochi.

FIN

I figure there were enough of my trademark closings in the story to satisfy you all, so no "I remain, gentlemen," this time.