AN: OK, so I took a blood oath not to start any more fanfictions until my first two are finished, but sure an itsy-bitsy one-shot can't hurt, can it?
Also, this is my first attempt at humour… And I'm terrified of the result… Kinda like Frankenstein, only not as pitiable…

My Dear Phans

From Erik: Corrections and Commands

To My Dear Interpreters, Phangirls, and Persian,

Allow me to make a few corrections within this amiable note.

First and foremost, no matter what that asinine fool of a 'journalist' Gaston Leroux may have argued, I am an entirely fictional character that has been reinterpreted, or rather misinterpreted, misquoted and generally sold off throughout the course of this century. Please discontinue all attempts to find with the the intention of murder by suffocation in mind.

Secondly, Christine Daaé did not choose that mondain fop of a vicomte over me. I gave the soprano to the boy; someone must be within his vicinity to teach him the truth of the monsters beneath his bed. (Because we most certainly do not wish for him to have an early death now, do we?) On that note, kindly inform him that to jump up in the middle of the night with a feminine battle-cry and hurtle to his balcony in order to shoot a cat does not qualify as sane behaviour. The streets of Paris are filthy enough without an unnecessary pile of felines gathering beneath his window.

Thirdly, tell Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber that I have never, to my knowledge, leapt upon a chandelier, especially one that I know is to fall. Remind him that Christine is incapable of the wickedness required to betray me in front of an audience, and inform him that to hear Don Juan Triumphant is to bang one's head against a wall—quite literally, as a certain prima donna will be able to confirm—and therefore is for my exclusive indulgence alone. Although I am quite willing to overlook this infringement and blatant disregard for detail in favour of the heated scene accompanying 'The Point Of No Return'. Allow me to show my offence at the casting of myself—Michael Crawford was bad enough, but really, Gerard Butler…?

Courteously remind Miss Brightman of her debt; there is a price for my expert advice and guidance in coaching her voice, and I will be waiting for the payment at our regular secret meeting place in Starbucks.

Fourthly, to Mr. Joel Schumacher; I know the half-mask was the invention of the playwright Andrew Lloyd Webber, but must you be so tame with the make-up beneath? I resembled a scalded puppy more than a deformed hidden genius…

And lastly, to my good Nadir, my one true friend, the same noble-hearted shahzadeh who relinquished his position as daroga alongside his life to save me before betraying me years later in a tragically ironic twist of fate when he led a certain ex-patron to my lair…

…I want my hat back.




AN: Like it, loathe it? Wish to axe me for neglecting my other brain children? I may write a few replies… I want to edit this anyway… Why can't I ever FINISH something?! (hits self with caveman's club)