A/N- I was looking through my old junk and realized that I used to be able to write some relatively amusing stuff. Admittedly, it's gotten a little harder since they outlawed script form, but I thought I'd give it a stab once again. This story was inspired by a review from xxx-DaydreamBeliever-xxx for my ancient rip-off of Mystical Chinchilla entitled "Mizzies at the Park." I hope it'll be amusing later... I think Montparnasse broke my funny bone somehow. But with a title like this, how can you go wrong?

Disclaimer- I read that a hundred years after an author's death the copyright on his work expires, so I refuse to say that I don't own Les Mis. Try and sue me! Hah!

Sarah had never been on a plane before. Her mother had said she was lucky to be going on such a trip by herself, and even more lucky that the seats on either side of her were empty. During takeoff, she had moved to the window seat and pressed her nose against the glass, watching the world dwindle down to a model; she had transferred to the aisle seat when the flight attendants came by with lunch.

But now Sarah was getting bored. She was eighteen years old, though she looked much younger, and she had been planning this trip to Paris with her family since her junior year of high school. Upon graduation, her parents had promised, they would go to see the birthplace of her one true obsession in life—Les Misérables. Of course, they hadn't foreseen her father's sudden promotion and a slew of business meetings in Raleigh that followed. Sarah's parents had insisted she go ahead, promising they would call her cell phone at least twice a day and make sure everything was going well. She was to meet her mother's college roommate, Céline, upon getting off the plane, so her family was sure she would be in good hands.

The night before, Sarah had stared at the stars in the most Javert-esque way she could manage and wished with all of her being that somehow Paris would make Les Misérables would come alive for her in a way she had never been able to grasp in the United States. The characters of Les Mis had always been more real to her than her classmates, and she was sure that seeing the streets they had walked would help her understand them even more.

As such, Sarah was caught off guard when her wish came true in the literal sense.

The plane was somewhere above the Atlantic Ocean, and Sarah, weary of the vast blue expanse of sky out the window, had moved back to the center seat and drifted into sleep. She was awakened by an elbow suddenly lodging itself in her ribcage and a startled shout. Sarah's eyes flew open, and she found that somehow costumed men had appeared in the seats around her. She scowled at the intrusion. "Can I help you?"

The man who had somehow worked his way to the window seat turned to face her, frustration contorting his otherwise handsome features. "Well, where are we?" he demanded irritably.

"Isn'd id obvious?" said a new voice; another oddly-dressed young man was peering over the back of the seat in front of Sarah. "We failed ad died. Dis vessel is takig us to de afderlife."

Keeping an eye on the mysterious men, Sarah slowly reached up and pressed the button to summon a flight attendant.

The man in the aisle seat leaned over Sarah to speak to the blond at the window, and she recoiled from the stench of alcohol that his body and clothes seemed to exude. "Sheems to me," he drawled, "that we're flying. Nothin' to worry 'bout, though. Happensh a lot when you've had a bit too much—" and he suddenly collapsed into a faint, his unshaven head falling into Sarah's lap.

The girl screamed and pushed the unconscious drunkard away; his limp body hit the floor of the plane with a massive WHUMP. The blond at the window rolled his eyes. "Winecask," he muttered.

"Who are you people?" Sarah squeaked as more strangely dressed men began to look over the backs of their seats for the source of the commotion. She couldn't remember any of them being on the plane earlier.

The blond straightened up, puffing out his broad chest and lifting his chin so that she might see his Grecian profile. "We are Les Amis de l'ABC, friends of the lowly, fighters for the good of the people," he declared grandly.

"And it seems we're on our way to the Ineffable Beyond," added a poorly-dressed fellow kneeling in his seat one row ahead.

"Les Amis…" Sarah repeated slowly.

"De l'ABC," another of the men finished, winking suggestively at her.

"And there's the blond leader… the drunk… a hypochondriac… shabby-looking poet…"

"And the ladies' man," interrupted the man from across the aisle, winking again.

"Don't forget the lovable fan-maker!"

"The philosopher!"

"Bad luck charm."

"The… baldy."

Sarah's mouth was hanging open in disbelief. There could only be one explanation for all of this…

There was a commotion from the first class, and a moment later four rough-looking men burst through the curtain, glancing about in a wild confusion.

"This ain't the armory!" cried the small, thin man at the front of the group.

Sarah felt like crying, screaming, and laughing all at once. She couldn't believe it—her father had somehow hired more than a dozen men to dress up as characters from a book he'd never even bothered to read just to surprise her on her big trip to Paris!