(6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…)
(Cujo, Pokey, Dippy, and Kate Scissorhands file into the theatre and sit down.)
d/c: I don’t own any characters in POTO and I don’t own Gaston Leroux
Mrs. S: Why, were you planning on purchasing his corpse?
Pokey: YAY! POTO!
Dippy: Actually, I believe that’s Latin.
‘Remember that you will die’
Dippy: “Series of Unfortunate Events”! “Series of Unfortunate Events”!
Mrs. S: I have to stop being so confused.
Dippy: Fred Astaire?
I. Post Fata Venit Gloria ‘Glory comes after death’
Cujo: Or before. Just look at Beowulf.
“Once there was a girl named Little Lotte who loved her father more than anything in the world.
Mrs. S: Well, not quite as much as chocolate, but Little still loved him with all her-
Dippy: Gaping black hole.
Mrs. S: -heart.
Her mother had died when she was just a baby, so her father was all she had. Everyday music would float out of their humble home; she would sing while her father would play his violin.
Cujo (handing her a Pippin action figure): Here, play with this.
Dippy: He has pecs. Why does he have pecs?
Lotte had never been properly educated because her family was poor and she spent most of her time working for extra money. She had only one friend, a young
boy. “Little Lotte and her little friend played as often as possible.
Mrs. S: With their little boats in a little pond next to the little prostitution ring.
Together they invented miraculous stories were evil always lost to the hero, and the guy always got his girl.
Pokey: Watch out, we’ve got a Raoul lover on our hands.
Then one day, little Ms. Lotte lost her favorite red scarf.
Mrs. S: Okay, even I know that Little Lotte is Christine.
Cujo: Shhh! I want to be surprised.
The little by
ran all the way to the sea to fetch it for her, and Lotte was happy.
Mrs. S: Ah, the complexities of a child’s bedtime story.
Cujo (to Pokey): Tell us the end of Hamlet!
Pokey: Well, Prince Hamlet dies, and Ophelia dies, and the king dies, and the queen dies, and Laertes dies, and Polonius dies, and…
Pokey: Everyone else lives happily ever after.
“The problem with happiness is that it never lasts. Her friend moved away and her father got very sick.
Dippy: He became so sick that Little Lotte had to give up her childhood dream of becoming an opera singer and sell herself for crack.
Day after day she would stay at his side, attempting to nurse him back to health. They were too poor to afford any money for medicine or a doctor, so before long her dad died.
Mrs. S (Dad): I grow veary of this vorld. Put me in my coffin.
Pokey (Christine): I’ll put you in your coffin!
But before he passed into that surreal realm,
Cujo: The Halls of Mandos!
Dippy: Beyond the Veil!
Pokey and Cujo: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
he looked straight into his daughter’s eyes and promised with sincerity that he would send down an angel of music, so that even though he has past on, she may still bring their music to life.
Mrs. S: They’re going to reanimate their music like Dr. Frankenstein?
Cujo (singing): If you’re blue and you don’t know where to go to…
“It was then Little Lotte discovered she was no longer little. She was now a fine young woman and she had to take her life into her own hands.
Mrs. S: She decided to commit suicide. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Cujo (still singing): Puttin’ on the Riiiiiiiitz. Dressed up like a million dollar…
At that, Lotte (no longer little) packed her bags, took whatever money she had left, and moved to the city were singers and poets, and musicians, and writers, and everyone was happy. The city of the Bohemian revolution.
Paris, where even the dreams of a girl could come true.
Pokey: But only through absinthe.
“Before long, Lotte got a job as a
Mrs. S: Courtesan.
chorus girl in the Paris Opera House. Not quite the glorious fame her father promised, but it was a home and an income.
Dippy: Not to mention a great place to meet angels of music. They weren’t as rampant in London.
It was at the Paris Opera house, in her humble dressing room, Lotte met the man- No! – The Angel
Pokey: Moses wasn’t an angel.
Cujo: Quiet Goy!
that changed her life. Just as her father promised, the angel of music had come,
Dippy: And murdered Christine in her sleep.
Pokey: I don’t remember that happening.
Mrs. S: You must not have read the book thoroughly.
and he sang like no other being on earth. For three months he taught her to sing, until that one night she finally got to play the lead role in the play.
Dippy: It was her school’s production of “Annie”, but he didn’t seem to care.
She got to play Margarita!
Mrs. S: It’s not that exciting!
“Her voice was heavenly, almost inhumanly enchanting. And lo and behold, who was to be in the audience but her young friend who had moved away.
Pokey: Little Fop?
Only he wasn’t young anymore, he had become a man,
Pokey (Raoul): I’m a real boy. Did I say boy? I meant fop- err -man.
Cujo: And how exactly did he become a man? I think that would be a much more interesting bedtime story.
and he was in love with Lotte. Lotte’s angel of music, however, was not so enthusiastic about this, because he too had fallen for this siren.
Mrs. S: Even more so when her head spun in circles and she emitted an ear piercing screech.
He gave her a golden ring, which he said that Lotte would be safe as long as she wore it on her finger.
Cujo : Why hello there Lotte. Wat’cha got there? Ohhhh… A Magic Ring have you? Is it the One Ring? You don’t know!?!
Then he told her he would die soon, and a week after she saw his name in the obituary she should return the golden band to him. And then… and then…”
The MSTers: And then?
Christine’s voice escaped and disappeared into the distance; her head abruptly turned to the vanity mirror at her right, feeling every bit nostalgic.
Dippy (Christine thinking) I’ll have to add that to my story. “And then my voice leapt out of my throat and ran away, back to Ursula. And my fish’s tail became a pair of legs…”
“Oh mummy, do go on!”
Mrs. S: No, please don’t!
Pokey: Spare us! We’re but poor 19th century British Urchins.
A little voice piped from the blankets below, “What happens to little Lotte?”
Cujo (Christine): Well, after Lotte was done stealing the plot from Moulin Rouge-
Dippy (obnoxious child of indeterminable gender): She was a whore, right Mummy?
Cujo (Christine): Well, I wouldn’t call her a whore.
Dippy (O.C.O.I.G): I would. Especially after she slept with her friend Meg.
Cujo (Christine): Lotte was just experimenting! She had never done anything like that before, and probably wouldn’t have if her blood alcohol content was a little lower! (awkward silence) Stop judging me!
Putting on a smile, Christine looked down at her daughter, wrapped in her expensive silk blankets, a tiny doll in the mass frame of her canopy bed.
Mrs. S: She only wished that paternity tests had been invented. Then she’d know who to pawn her off on.
A handsome child, people complimented; having a diluted version of her father’s face
Pokey: Diluted meaning ugly.
Mrs. S: Actually, I think it’s diluted meaning, I’m so dense that I don’t know what diluted means.
(a pronounced chin and sharp nose), her deep russet hair reminiscent of her mother’s.
Pokey: There was a period after mother’s.
Dippy: Sure there was Pokey, sure there was.
Shadowing her other features, however, was her illustrious blue eyes.
Cujo: … OF LOVE!
Mrs. S: I like DOOM better.
Her eyes were a bonnie shade of blue,
Dippy (singing horribly off tune): My bonnie lies over the ocean! My bonnie lies over the sea! My bonnie lies over the ocean… I’M OBNOXIOUS!
not unlike Christine’s. Christine’s eyes held warmth, they radiated love, and made people feel perfectly comfortable and at home; her daughter’s the converse.
Mrs. S: Ahhhhh! The misuse of vocabulary is painful.
Cujo (Vaudevillian): I’ll misuse your vocabulary!
so, making it seem she has seen your darkest secrets, your humiliation, and thinks you a fool.
Pokey: It feels like I’m taking the SATs and I’m required to find the mistake.
Dippy: That’s easy. It’s D, this whole story is a mistake.
Continuous eye contact was almost non-existent. Heads would look down, people turn away, and many nursemaids have been lost, all thanks to a little girl’s stare.
Cujo (Christine’s Daughter): We all float down here Georgie.
“Mummy,” the little girl repeated firm and demanding, “finish the story.” She gave her mother the same look that made the weak turn their heads.
Dippy: Confucius say, I am strong like bull. They are weak like fish.
Christine met her stare with love and a sincere smile. Crossing her arms and giving a pout to end all puppy-faces,
Cujo: Viggo ran to Cujo’s house…
Pokey: … without any pants on…
Dippy: … forcing her to grab a microscope in hopes of getting a better view.
Cujo: ^_^ Im meleth Estel!
the little girl wriggled back under her goose-down covers, reluctantly accepting defeat.
Mrs. S: Unconditional surrender. Thank you Churchill.
“It’s way past your bedtime.
Dippy (Christine): Michael, you know you’re supposed to be in bed by 6:00!
Pokey: Michael darling, the diapers are under the sink, and the babies diapers are in the cupboard.
I’ll finish the story tomorrow, Erika.”
The MSTers: Erika? >_<
Mrs. S: If that’s any indication of how predictable this story is, I’m setting the theatre on fire.
Dippy: WE’VE GOT A FLAT-LINER!
“I don’t want to wear that dress! I HATE the color pink.”
Pokey: Don’t you mean you abhor the color pink? Might as well put that thesaurus to good use.
Erika pinched her maid until she jolted back. “And I hate going to singing lessons. I hate music.”
Cujo (Erika): I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair.
Mrs. S: That wasn’t ten.
Cujo: Did “Taming of the Shrew” have ten?
Mrs. S: It wasn’t called, “Ten Things I Hate About You”.
The small frame of a ten year old girl ran down the hall, kicking vases and knocking over anything that crossed her path. She screamed in anguish as loud as her lungs could manage and feigned collapsing.
Dippy: Someone has issues.
Dippy: I didn’t mean you.
There she lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, refusing to get up for anyone, dressed in naught but her shimmy.
Pokey: Dressed in naught but two band aides and a cork.
“Ms. Erika…please get up, your father will have a fit if you’re not at your music lessons again.” The stout nursemaid tugged at Erika’s arm, but to no prevail. The insubordinate little girl remained planted to the ground.
Mrs. S: She’s a tree.
Dippy: She’s an Ent.
Pokey: She’s Faramir.
The MSTers: *JAZZ HANDS*
Cujo: Fosse has taken Osgiliath my Lord!
“I shan’t go anywhere I don’t want to. Oh, I hate music lessons. I sing like a goat with tuberculosis.”
Pokey: Moulin Rouge consumption rip-off.
Erika kicked her maid from the floor and crossed her arms. “If anyone mentions music again I shall scream.” The nanny dared part her lips.
Dippy (the nanny): You know, just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down.
Mrs. S (Erika): In the most delightful way, I get the point.
“There’ll be no angel of music for Erika,” came the voice from the floor, and at that she started screaming again. Fast as her portly legs could carry her, the nanny ran to Christine.
Cujo: And how old exactly is said nanny?
Pokey: Surface area.
Erika watched the feet scurry outside; within a few minutes her mother would coax her out of her wonderful melodrama and force her to be a bubbly little schoolgirl.
Mrs. S: She’d even make her wear the pigtails and dress up in the little pleated skirt.
She hated how her mother had the power to make her do whatever she wanted. Soon she would be on that dreadful piano and croon horrible sappy love songs.
Cujo (singing): Some people want to fill the world with silly love songs.
Pokey (singing): Well what’s wrong with that? I’d like to know, cause here I go agai-
Dippy: Musical interlude, bad idea.
Pokey and Cujo: Sorry.
The same routine continued day after day: music in the morning, manners in the afternoon, 30 minutes to spend outside, dinner with the family, sleep, awake, repeat.
Mrs. S: Lather, rinse, repeat.
It was those short thirty minutes where she was free to daydream and run and do whatever she wished.
Pokey: Like run into oncoming traffic.
Refusing to acquiesce, the little girl decided to grow roots to the spot.
Dippy: She’s Audrey II.
Mrs. S: Don’t you mean Erika II?
Well I won’t conform to this provincial life, she thought with a great deal of assurance, I’ll run away to a completely fresh new city.
Cujo (Erika): One that’s completely devoid of ska music.
Paris, the city of the bohemian revolution;
Dippy: Argh, too much Moulin Rouge. Can’t take it… (faints)
Mrs. S: Dippy is totawee awone.
that is where she belongs. To flock with the artisans, drawing landscapes; to perform in the streets, collecting spare coins; or act on stage, performing works of Shakespeare; to live, not for the acceptance of your parents, but for the art and passion and music of life.
Pokey: And you’re ten.
Overtaken and romanced by her personal fantasy, Erika’s furor had subsided, leaving her with at an ethereal state of being.
Cujo: She needs Thesaurus Use for Dummies.
Dippy (slowly recovering): With at an ethereal- umm –err- shma… ach.
Tugging at a loose auburn curl that hung on her shoulder, the minute lady sighed as she saw her mother enter the room. “I’m awfl’y sorry ma’am,”
Pokey (the nanny): But I just don’t know where this vernacular speech came from. I didn’t have it three paragraphs ago. And will you look at that, it’s gone again.
the nurse prattled, stumbling behind her lady, “She jus won’t listen, no matter what I say!” Christine touched her hand, quieting the vexed maid and giving a forgiving look.
Mrs. S: Before slapping her across the face.
Cujo (Christine): You bore me.
Crows’ feet were evident on her aging face
Mrs. S: Proof that Eric Draven is alive and well.
and laughter lines outlined her lips. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, save for a few loose tendrils framing her face. She was not exceptionally tall, yet those who have heard of her character were surprised to find she was not just under 6 feet.
Pokey: Back then six feet was tall. In fact, it still is.
Dippy: But that’s because you and Cujo are so friggin tiny.
Cujo: Thanks for enlightening us, we had no idea.
“Erika, dearest,” she calmly said, sure of her footing even in the most violent earthquake. “You’ll be late for your music lessons. Why don’t you put on that darling dress your father bought you?”
Mrs. S (Erika): Why don’t you shove it up your ass?
Dippy (Christine): Because that would hurt a lot Erika.
Erika felt her heart sink, and ugly words knot her throat, stifled by her mother’s affectionate beam.
Cujo: … OF DOOM!
Mrs. S: That’s better.
Refusing to budge, Erika drawled the argument as long as possible; she may not beat her mother but she could beat her personal record.
Pokey: Why? This has no point. None of this has any point!
“I abhor the color pink mother.
(Mrs. S, Dippy, and Cujo stare at Pokey.)
Cujo: You didn’t write this, did you?
And I HATE singing.”
Mrs. S: And I HATE wire hangers!
Sighing just as she had seen Mama Valerius do whenever she saw a younger portrait of herself. Erika threw her hand dramatically to her forehead. “You shall be the death of me mother!”
Dippy (Erika): Or should I say, I shall be the death of you? MUAHAHAHAHAHA!
She rested there (in that long dramatic pause heroines always did before reciting an inspiring monologue or falling into the strong arms of her handsome man)
Pokey: Or before suffering heatstroke.
and expected applause, or at least a bit acknowledgement. The chiming laughter of her mother interrupted the silence, soon to be joined by the nanny. Scowling at her ruined performance, Erika barked, “Now just what is so funny?”
Cujo (Christine): You’re ugly! Hahahahaha… (sigh)
In a futile attempt to subside her amusement, Christine managed to slip a few words, “You, my darling, have been sneaking novels from your father again.
Dippy (Erika): But “A Midsummer Night’s Orgy in Guam” is my favorite book.
You know very well you’re too young to be reading stories of that caliber.” Erika, having a pervasive vanity for have only lived a decade, took this as a major offense. “Why can’t I read those novels? I suppose you think I’m an ignorant fool! Mother, I am quite articulate for my age
Cujo: You are also quite annoying.
and understand everything those novels say.”
Dippy (Erika): Especially the subliminal message that it’s all right to be promiscuous, as long as you use protection.
Mrs. S: (coughchastitybeltcough)
“Yes, unfortunately. That would be the reason your father forbids these books; you comprehend material…unsuitable for one so young.” Tilting her head to the side, Christine added, “If only you spent as much time on music as you do reading and writing.”
Cujo (Christine): After all, I myself can’t… can’t…
Pokey (Erika): Mummy, what’s wrong?
Cujo (Christine): I can’t… (crying) I can’t read.
Huffing in anger, Erika propped herself up on her shoulders and pointed her finger at her mother. “Oh don’t you start on music again! In case you had any inquisition
Dippy (singing): The Inquisition, let’s begin. The Inquisition, look out sin.
Mrs. S: Einsatzgrüppen!
Dippy: I was singing about the Spanish Inquisition, not Nazi storm troopers.
as to what story I happen to find so fascinating, it is the Portrait of Dorian Gray. Oh, it’s positively enchanting.” Erika beamed in remembrance. “It’s about a man who never grows old, and commits marvelous crimes, while remaining an aristocrat, only to kill himself in the end.”
Dippy: Still boring.
Pokey: What happened to Pippin?
Christine slipped her hands round Erika, and hoisted her on her feet. “You shouldn’t be reading such trash, Erika.
Pokey (Christine): You should be experiencing it. Now, go find out who your biological father is.
Mrs. S: I’m going with Raoul.
Cujo: Joseph Buquet.
And now that you’re on your feet, perhaps it’s best we end this discussion and you return to
Cujo: The gas chamber.
the piano room.” The nanny handed Christine the pink, frilled dress. “That is of course, unless you want to go dressed in your under garments.” The small girl embellished a wince
Mrs. S: Can you embellish a wince? Can you catch a falling star? Can you say to a rainbow, “Hey, stop being a rainbow for a second?” No… such is Mango.
as the dress slipped on, as if the touch of cloth burned her delicate skin. “It’s not trash mother,”
Dippy: It’s refuse.
Erika pouted, “It’s a literary masterpiece.” Her mother chided her once more before walking her to the piano room. Erika stole a glance at the grandfather clock. ‘10:30,’ she thought.
Cujo (Erika): When did I learn to tell time?
‘Twenty minutes…that’s five minutes longer than yesterday.’ She raised her eyebrow high as humanly capable
Pokey: Possible. High as humanly possible.
and entered the room, staring death at the instructor. ‘Someday I’ll escape this torment’.
Mrs. S (piano instructor): Her stare, it burns us.
Cujo (Erika): Who wields the flame of Arnor now, you poncy tosser?
Mrs. S: Kipper, stop blank-ing all over your father!
Seventeen-year-old Erika sat alone at the long hall table for lunch, dressed in a long black coat.
Pokey (Erika): I am the One.
She was well accustomed to her father’s absence, ever since she was small he had never paid any attention to her other than the extravagant gifts he bought.
Cujo: And just who the fuck is her father?
Dippy: Calm down, everything is going to be fine.
Cujo: Nothing’s ever fine, Dippy! I’ll show you fine! (stabs random Legolas standee) I hate you!
Her mother’s vacant chair, however, was a new addition. For the past few months Christine had fallen ill with consumption,
Pokey: My little sparrow is dying?
today the doctors predicted, was to be her last spent on earth. On Erika’s terms, it was just fine. The piano had been abandoned for what seemed decades, and the absence of her mother meant the servants must bow to her every whim. Erika stared in disgust at the plate before her. “What is this atrocious excuse of a delicacy?”
Dippy: And how many more times can Vaudevillian possibly attempt to sound intelligent, but fail miserably?
Pokey: Surface area. The answer is always surface area.
Her particular irritated mood was do in part to the fact that her new nanny/maid Tallulah
Mrs. S: Bankhead.
refused to let her go to her “future-beau’s” birthday party. “It smells horrible and will go straight to my thighs.”
Pokey: I didn’t know that birthday parties had an odor.
Dippy: And I didn’t know that they caused weight fluctuation.
Tallulah snorted in the background. Her hefty black frame, familiar to Erika’s ridicules, remained dignified. A few years former, she had escaped from America to Europe in hoped of a new life.
Mrs. S: Let me guess, she was originally from New Orleans?
Pokey: Yes, but what she wouldn’t give for a drop of good old fashioned Creole blood.
Christine had met her at the port and, after only a few minutes worth of conversation, invited her into the house. “Miz Erika, ya’z gots tha smallest thighs from her to ‘merica,”
Cujo: Ahhhhh, it’s “Their Eyes Were Watching God” all over again!
Tallulah husky voice was tainted with wisdom. A week in service, Christine had found in her a gift that no other nanny had possessed:
the will to survive Erika’s wrath. “Oh, hush Tallulah,” Erika snapped, resting her chin upon her hand as she bent over the table. “I don’t see why I cannot go to Vincent’s party.
Dippy (Erika): Oh, I’m so fat. Tallulah, tell me I’m fat.
Mrs. S (Tallulah): You’re fat.
Dippy (Erika): How dare you, you horrible evil wench.
Ooh, Madeline is probably smothering him. I don’t know what he sees in her. Her waist is as big as an elephant’s.” Imagining an obese Madeline put a smile on Erika’s face. “I’m so much prettier than that nitwit, and smarter to boot.
Cujo: Hopefully this will end like Narcissus and Echo.
Pokey: Does that make Vincent, Echo?
Cujo: … Sure.
She wouldn’t know literature if it slapped her in the face.”
Dippy: I’m sure she’d know a fish if it slapped her in the face.
Pokey: Dippy, fetch the punishment tuna.
Frowning, Tallulah reminded Erika of her mother’s current situation. “Miz Erika, ya’z is tha mos self obsessed girl in all a Europe. Yo mutha is dyin, an ya’z never gon see her again.” Intended to hit hard, the words hardly made an impact; Erika just laughed.
Mrs. S (Erika): Tehehe! I’m Liv Tyler. (puts on glasses) The nominees for worst portrayal of a female Elf are… me. (takes off glasses) Me. (puts on glasses) Me. (takes them off again) And Orlando Bloom.
“What do I care if my mother dies? In fact, it had better happen soon. I can still catch the party…” Erika played with the food on her plate, spinning the silver fork in circles.
Dippy (Erika): Someone should invent a spoon that’s also a fork.
Cujo (Tallulah): Why Miz Erika, tha’ is teh stupidest thang I’ve eva heard.
She was filled to capacity with boredom. All the servants were either at Christine’s side, making sure she had every necessity or with her father, consoling the grieving man.
Mrs. S: Are we just assuming he’s Raoul, or are you going to tell us?
If anybody, Erika was most disgusted in Raoul.
Mrs. S: CUT! Can I try that again?
For years he had appeared this emotionless surreal being. This respectable aristocrat who didn’t need love or money; all he needed was his respect and his money.
Dippy: Somebody’s contradicting themselves.
And then, illness struck out of the blue, and he collapsed. Erika was appalled to see her once dignified father crying at the side of Christine’s bed. He was emotionally unstable, raving mad with intoxication at night, yet a crying baby by day.
Pokey (Raoul): Out damned spot! Out, I say! All the perfumes of Persia wouldn’t sweeten this little hand.
Yet even worse than her father’s hysterics, was the sympathy she received from neighbors. How clearly she remembered Vincent holding his hat to his stomach offering his condolences,
Cujo (Amus to Erika): My name isn’t Vincent, it’s Amus.
promising to do whatever he could to aid Christine in her hard time. ‘Christine!’ Erika thought spitefully ‘Always with my mother!
Mrs. S (Erika): It’s always about her!
Poor Christine, she was so kind, and helpful, and never lost her temper. God forbid the awful day Christine die, for she was as holy as the immaculate Mary!’
Dippy: The whore of Babylon.
Pokey: I think that’s the other Mary.
And Erika would smile at them, thanking them for their kind words, but not after arching her eyebrow and saying frankly,
Dippy: Scarlett… I love you, let’s get married.
Pokey (old sounding): Didn’t that movie used to have a war in it?
“Oh yes, she’s going to die any day now. Father is stark raving mad, which means it won’t be long before I become head of the de Chagny household, eh?”
The MSTers: Eh?
The look of astonishment never ceased to amuse her. Erika hoped they would let her recite the eulogy at the funeral, she would give the best performance of her life. At the beginning she would sniffle, then burst into tears, until the passion would overwhelm her and she would collapse (hopefully into the arms of Vincent).
Cujo: Amus… Or Mr. Cellophane, whichever you prefer.
The doctor interrupted Erika’s imagination with a look of grief on his face. “I’m afraid…I’m not sure how to break this to you.” He paused there and looked down at his feet. “She was a great woman you know, I’m sure everyone will miss her.” Erika shot up, chair falling over behind her.
Dippy (Erika): HEY YOU GUYS!
“Is she finally dead?!” She yelled, a bit too enthusiastic to seem remorseful. The man’s mouth fell open at her bluntness. “Well?” Erika said, tapping her foot against the wooden floors,
Pokey: This would be better if she had a cane.
Mrs. S: And her name was Madame Giry.
“Speak man!! Don’t leave us waiting all day long. Is she dead?”
Cujo (doctor): There’s sort of dead, mostly dead, and all dead. Lucky for you, your mother’s only mostly dead.
His shake of the head released a frustrated sigh. “She only has a few minutes left,” the doctor said, staring at Erika curiously, “She has already spoken to your father Raoul,
Mrs. S: Dippy, the fanfic is mocking me.
Dippy (not paying attention): Why are there so many songs about rainbows? About rainbows… rainbows…
Cujo: Hey! If Pokey and I don’t get a musical interlude, then neither do you.
and she wishes to speak to you before she passes away.” Erika looked rather annoyed, but went over anyway. “Well, it has to be done sooner or later, right?” Erika said and trailed behind the doctor out of the room. Tallulah followed nagging in her usual ways.
Pokey: She had a lantern tied around her neck and was pacing in front of the house in case any sailors came past.
Be polite, watch your tongue, blah, blah, blah. Freedom was so close, Erika could almost taste it.
Dippy: And it tasted like man flesh.
‘Note to self,’ she thought,
Pokey (Erika): Kill that kid.
Cujo: You and your soliloquies.
‘fire Tallulah immediately posthumous.’
Dippy: Why, is Tallulah going to die too?
After finally arriving at the ante-room before Christine’s bed chambers, Tallulah whispered behind Erika, “Don be sayin things yall regret.” Rolling her eyes, Erika pushed the door open.
Dippy (high-pitched shrieking): AHHHHHHHHHHH!
Mrs. S (Erika): Whoops, wrong room.
“I’ll say what I want” Erika said, wearing a small smile, “And she has no option but to take it to the grave.” Closing the doors behind her, Erika rested, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dark of the room.
Mrs. S: Ooh, the “let’s make retina” game. I love that game!
Her mother’s once beautiful room looked completely renovated. None of the furniture had been replaced, but the flickering candlelight cascaded shadows. The chairs seemed to quiver, and the roof above her loomed inward as to take a bite from the floor.
Cujo: Ugh, just like in that horrible movie, “The Haunting”.
The air felt muddy,
Mrs. S: Like pudding.
thick enough so that it’s hard to breath. And in the center of this hell, the center of the macabre scene, Christine lay, peaceful and serene amongst the madness of death.
Pokey: And beams of light were radiating from her chest.
Erika frowned. ‘Even in her last hour she still looks an angel.’ From her sheets Christine stirred, forcing enough energy for a smile. Motioning weakly towards the chair near her bed,
Dippy: Erika promptly picked it up and cracked it over her mother’s head.
she called her daughter’s name. Sauntering towards the chair, Erika braced herself for another act,
Pokey: Scene 24.
already compelling tears to her eyes. She flopped into the chair,
Mrs. S: How do you flop into a chair?
Cujo: I don’t know. How does one go about climbing an oliphaunt?
Pokey: I think the answer to both those questions would be, foppishly.
instantaneously seizing Christine hands. “Oh, mother she said, “You must prevail! You just simply have to be strong. Why…why to think of a life without you! It’s…Oh it’s inconceivable!
You must live.” Erika paused to take a breath, ready to repeat everything she had heard neighbors say, everything the opposite of hoe she felt.
Dippy: Sometimes I feel like a hoe.
Mrs. S: Don’t you mean ho?
Erika started another long string of angst ridden pleas,
Mrs. S (Erika): I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed. We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal.
but the feeling of her mother’s fingers upon her lips stopped her. “Erika,” Christine said softly, “Spare me the dramatics, darling, I know you don’t want to be here.” Shocked at her mother’s attitude, Erika (for once) was speechless.
Dippy (Erika): And I was just getting to the good part.
“Oh, but mother..uh…of course I want, I mean, you mean the world to-”
“Erika it’s not good to lie to a person on her death bead.” Christine spoke without accusation, only honesty. The smile was still plastered to her face, sincere as ever. “Erika I must tell you something before I die.
Cujo (Christine): I’m pregnant… and you’re the father.
Pokey (Erika): I’m a Mummy?
A death bed confession if you will.” A harsh coughing attack cut Christine off, she grabbed her sheets to cover her mouth, but Erika caught glimpses of red stains on the white silk.
Mrs. S: Moulin Rouge much?
Dippy: We get the point Kate! It’s a Moulin Rouge rip-off!
Erika opened her mouth…but once again found her mother hushing her.” “For once in your life, darling, pay attention without interrupting. I shall speak as fast as I can.”
Cujo (Christine): There once was a man from Nantucket…
Christine’s voice was fading quickly; her voice was a raspy whisper against the muddy hell-room air.
Pokey (Christine): Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.
“Erika, remember when you were little I used to tell you the story of little Lotte? –Don’t talk, just nod. Yes? Do you remember the angel of music? The boy who found the red scarf? Yes? Well it’s all true.
I am little Lotte, and your father is the little boy, and Erik was the angel of Music.”
Cujo: Well that’s a surprise. Definitely didn’t see that coming.
Erika nearly burst into laughter. “Mother! Your sick! This illness is making you hallucinate, Little Lotte was a made up story. Your name isn’t Lotte…it’s Christine. You have a very nice name…”
Mrs. S: She’s actually being nice?
Christine’s smile had disappeared, “You don’t believe me! Erika! You couldn’t not make up a story so complicated.”
Dippy: Of course you could, that’s what Gaston Leroux did.
Pokey: IT’S A TRUE STORY!
Dippy: Sure it is, and Jesus is an actual person who died for our sins.
“Complicated,” Erika smile, “Mother a five year old could understand it. That was how old I was when you first told it to me.” “Hush, darling. And listen. It was not complicated in your literary terms, but it had many complicated emotions.
Cujo: Which are closely related to the four facial expressions of Orlando Bloom:
1. Happiness/I just realized something that everyone already knows.
2. Sadness/Why can’t I act, grown men think I’m sexy that must count for something?
3. Confusion/Why is that person dead, I don’t understand I’m an Elf.
4. “Sexy” smirk/battle glare.
Pokey: I agree, shut up!
Now, I never told you the end of the story did I? –Hush Erika I know the answer. Well the ending of the story is that Lotte and her little friend get married and run away to London.
Mrs. S: Wouldn’t it have just been easier to say, “Your father and I got married and moved to London.”
Pokey: Yes. Wouldn’t it have been easier for Graham’s wife in “Signs” to say, “By the way, aliens are coming to invade earth and they’re allergic to water, so make sure Merrill beats them with his bat, which I’m sure is compensating for something.”
Mrs. S: O_O
The only problem is that Raoul –the little boy, didn’t let me give Erik –the angel, his ring back.”
Pokey: Stupid fop!
Erika couldn’t help but let out a laugh, it was like trying to contain a bomb ready to explode.
Mrs. S: And Erika is the Enola Gay, so watch out.
Cujo: Operation Goodlord.
Mrs. S: Hey! Overlord and Goodlord are very close.
“Mother you on your death bed and insisting me to listen to your confession, which is the ending to a childhood story?”
Dippy (Christine): No, I just felt like wasting your time.
“ERIKA!” Christine yelled, and at that she shrank back down into her sheets, the color seeping from her face. “Erika, if I didn’t return the ring before I die, I don’t know what I go through.
Pokey: The usual. Purgatory, seventh level of hell, repeated ass rapes from the Dario Argento Phantom.
You don’t understand. I have to.” Christine took her hand from Erika’s and slipped it inside her shirt.
Dippy (Erika): Mother! Stop fondling me!
She pulled out a ring on a small silver thread. Placing the ring in Erika’s hand she whispered, “You must take this ring to
Mrs. S: Mount Doom.
Paris. You must go to the Pars Opera house and go to my old dressing room. Ask for the Persian
or for Meg Giry, they’ll lead you into the bowels of the Paris underground. There you must find his corpse, Erik’s corpse, and give him his ring back.”
Mrs. S (Erika): What if he doesn’t want it back?
The laughter had subsided. Erika stared at her mother. “You’re serious aren’t you?” The slow nodded answered her question.
Dippy: Slow nodded, narrow minded, must be the same thing.
“There is a ticket to Paris in my armoire, I bought it last year in hopes of returning, but then I got sick. It should expire soon, but you can exchange for a new ticket it you leave soon.”
Mrs. S (Christine): Take the Bat Mobile, you’ll get there faster.
“Paris,” Erika said in disbelief. “Paris,” Christine echoed in wistfulness.
Pokey: “Paris” Nadir repeated from behind the curtains.
Cujo: That guy sure does get around… In more ways than one.
Mrs. S (singing): Jump in the line…
Erika emerged from the room clutching a white cloth to her eyes, obscuring her entire face. Soft sobs were barely audible and her shoulders quivered. The air of the room seemed thick, humid with emotion. Raoul, standing no more than a few feet apart, found himself at a loss of words.
Dippy: It was then that he regretted burning his thesaurus.
His frame stooped over, no longer projecting a dignified air. His back bent with melancholy and his knees were stiff with depression.
Cujo: His heart was filled with ennui, his sore feet oozing with stress, and his intestines laden with cholera.
Once containing a youthful spark, his weathered face held wrinkled crevices and dark circles. Trying to retain the little respect that remained in his worn body, Raoul straightened his posture.
Pokey: Way to go Brum! You’re a hero!
Mrs. S: You always give it your best Brum, always!
Raoul moved a few steps forward. For one second he reached out, as if to touch his daughter in solace. His hand stopped inches from her handkerchief-veiled face,
Pokey (Raoul): Erik, is that you?
Dippy (Erika placing the handkerchief on the right half of her face): Yes, it is I, the angel of music. May I service you?
prevented by the barrier that had grown throughout the years. It was too late to comfort, words would be of no help. She looks so much like Christine. Clearing his throat and regaining his poise, Raoul withdrew his hand.
Mrs. S: And slapped her.
Cujo (Erika): But Daddy, you promised that I would only get beaten on Tuesdays.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Erika’s sobs continued to float in the muddled air of the ante-room. Raoul turned his back and staggered out of the room, not looking back.
Dippy: Just like Egor.
Cujo: Which is pronounced Eye-gor.
An uncomfortable silence settled. Erika, face hid behind opaque whiteness, stuttered, “Is…Is my father…is he gone?”
Pokey (random servant arbitrarily turning oven knobs): We were never sure if he really was your father.
Tallulah emerged from the corner of the foyer and placed her hand on Erika’s shoulder in sympathy. “Aye, he dun gone miz de Chagny.” At those words Erika popped up from the lounge chair,
Dippy (Erika): Okay then, who feels like dancing?
throwing the white kerchief on the floor. Her eyes were perfectly clear showing no signed of red irritation nor were her cheeks stained with tears. Unbuttoning her black coat as possible, Tallulah gasped to see
Mrs. S: Erika standing in front of her… completely naked.
the bright red party dress hidden beneath.
Cujo: She’s a smoldering temptress.
Dippy: Cujo, I won’t hesitate to kill you.
Erika harried to vanity mirror making sure her hair hadn’t messed, pinching her cheeks so that they would glow a bright pink.
Mrs. S (Erika): Tallulah, will you tweak my nipples for me?
“I thought he’d never leave,” she laughed at her reflection. “The senile widower believed me.” Laughing like she had committed the prank of the century, Erika pulled her shoulders back and tilted her head coquettishly.
Pokey (Tallulah): Miz Erika, are ya hittin’ on me?
“Well, considering the spectacular presentation I fashioned, it’s absurd to think anybody would have done otherwise.”
Pokey (Tallulah): Are we talkin’ bout the same thang?
Grabbing her arm and pulling her away from the mirror, Tallulah shrieked. “Jus were d’ya think yaz goin tonight?” Ignoring the severe stare, Tallulah shook Erika. “Yo mutha jus died! An yaz goin to a pawty!
Mrs. S: Partay!
Ya’z oughta be wearin crepe an in mournin.”
Dippy (Erika): Sure, sure, I’ll eat crepes in the morning.
Shaking out of Tallulah’s grip, Erika grabbed her hat and made towards her chamber, skipping and giggling.
Cujo (singing): Tiptoe, through the tulips…
She sorted through all of her drawers and took out her finest dresses, packing them hastily into her luggage. “Oh Tallulah, crepe is so old-fashioned. The day I wear crepe will be the day hell freezes over. Ha! Imagine this lovely face covered by that grotesque black veil.”
Mrs. S: What idiot would wear a black veil anyway?
Pokey (pout): Howard was leaving “Phantom” I had to do something.
Erika dropped to her knees and began to grope the floor,
Dippy (the floor): RAPE!
feeling for a niche. Pulling a wooden panel from the floor, Erika plunged her hand into the dust; it reemerged with a fist full of bills.
Cujo: And I’m sure someone didn’t do enough research to tell us what kind of bills.
Stuffing it into her bosom and returning to her feet, she picked up her luggage, pushing Tallulah out of her way. “And I’m not going to a party,” she added hotly, “Or rather, not anymore.”
Mrs. S: Yeah, she going to a partay.
Erika motioned for another servant. “Call a carriage, I am leaving the house immediately.” She paced down the hall briskly, Tallulah nagging at her heels.
Pokey: Lantern swinging merrily around her neck.
“Leavin! An wha in tha world are yaz planning ta go miz Erika? Leavin yo parents, tha persuns who dun luv an watched ya’z throu yo childhood.”
Dippy: It’s like trying to have a conversation on Instant Messenger with a monkey (moment of silence) That sounded rasist didn’t it?
Everyone Else: …yeah.
Erika halted mid-step and dropped her luggage to the floor. Turning on her heels she met Tallulah face to face. Her eyes were ablaze with passion and she yelled at the top of her lungs, not caring who heard her.
Dippy (Erika): Why don’t you just fade away!
“Parents? You give them the respect of being called parents?! Do you think I’m so ignorant that I don’t know my parents past? My mother was an opera-house whore
The MSTers: SHE’S THE PHANTOM’S WHORE!
who played on my father heart strings while running off with HIS BROTHER behind dear daddy’s back.”
Mrs. S: Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!
Tallulah mouth fell open as Erika spat her feelings out. Erika arched her eyebrow. “But that’s not all. Oh no. Then my mother tricked my father into killing Count Phillip, and the both of them ran away with his money.”
Cujo: Someone has an awful lot of pent up rage.
Pokey: Yeah, let’s beat it out of her.
Erika spat on the floor at the mere mention of the subject. “And that’s not the end of it. My mother-whore actually loved another, much older man, as she has just told me on her death bed.
The MSTers: And then?
Yes, pious, innocent Christine, who never says no.” The last few words accented with mockery, clearly announce her hatred. “Quite frankly, Tallulah, I don’t know who my father is, seeing as how we have three subjects, each with great potential.”
Mrs. S: That’s what we’ve been saying all along. Finally, proof that this is predictable. You know what that means?
Cujo: I hope it doesn’t mean what I think it means.
Mrs. S: Bring wood and oil!
(Several men in Gondorian helmets, who just happened to be in the theatre at that precise moment go off in search of kindling.)
Pokey: … and marshmallows!
Seething with anger, Tallulah grabbed Erika’s arm exerting all her strength in preventing her from moving another inch. “Ya spoild wretch! How dar ya talk bout yo mutha thata way! Im no lettn go of ya! Ya’z are stayin here and ya’ll apologiz to yo mutha an fatha fo dispectin dem like dat!!”
Dippy (Tallulah): Fo’ shizzle my nizzle.
The amusement had gone from Erika’s face. Her narcissism had taken the best of her; she would never let a slave chastise her.
Cujo: Unless they were planning on giving her a spanking afterwards.
Wrenching her hand from Tallulah’s rigid grasp, Erika slapped her straight across the face as hard as humanly possible. “Unhand me you filthy nigger!”
Dippy (Tallulah): Erika! Did you just say the N word?
Pokey (Erika) Jew?
The words rang through the empty hall, echoing so anyone within an earshot could hear. Christine had strictly forbid anyone from hitting a servant, and the offense was punishable
Mrs. S: By death.
with exile from the de Chagny household. Tallulah did not cower back. She had been hit before, thoughts racing, though her lips didn’t dare open. Erika managed to know what she was thinking any way.
Cujo (Tallulah): Was that a love tap?
“Go ahead, tell everyone what I did. Tell everyone I’m leaving. It’s not like my mother-whore will defend you.” Tallulah, for once, said nothing, only staring at her with empty eyes.
Cujo: Where did her pupils go?
Dippy: France. If they get there before Erika they win a pony.
A sick feeling started in Erika’s stomach, the stare was unsettling. Picking up her bags, she continued to walk down the hall calm, poised, narcissistic. A nod of the head signal of a final goodbye.
Pokey: So long, farewell auf wiedersehen, adieu…
The last thing Tallulah saw was the ruffles of her red dress disappear behind the enormous wooden front doors.
(The soldiers walk back in with wood, oil, and marshmallows.)
Pafway (acronym for, Poor awesome Faramir… who are you?): Where do you want these my lady?
Mrs. S: Just start piling them on the empty seats.
A/N: Well I finally finished the first chapter. Hm, well this was the first story that did not slap me in the face and demand, ‘WRITE ME!’
Imrahil: I think I saw enough to understand why.
Mrs. S: Less talk more wood.
I actually sat down (well actually pace…I have to pace back and forth [while listening to music] in order for a story to fully structure itself in my mind) and thought this one out.
Beregond: Didn’t seem like much thought was involved.
I wanted to make a fanfic slightly E/C, but true to the story when Xtine
Imrahil: Oooh, she’s dirrty.
chooses Raoul. I always thought Christine was blindly optimistic, and pure, and perfect and sooo Mary-sue with her beautiful blue eyes. So I made a better Christine.
Pokey: Out of plywood and nails.
A Christine with just as much drive, but in a paradox manner: the same eyes, only with an evil stare; almost the same appearance, except Erika is completely conceited; and the influence of music, but a hate for singing.
Dippy (Vaudevillian): I didn’t want a Mary Sue, so I made Über Anti-Sue.
Pafway: We need a body.
Cujo: You don’t need a body to light a fire! What am I saying? Stop it! No fire!
I hope Erika came across as a conceited bitch. Oh and by the way…NO! Erika is NOT going to get with Erik. EW, how unoriginal do you take me for?
Mrs. S: Well, considering her name is Erika… Very.
Feel free to give constructive criticism. And I hope you didn’t mind the n-word…. It was a little rough.
Beregond: As rough as lighting this fire.
Pokey: Cujo, that was horrible.
(Cujo isn’t paying attention, she’s more focused on stopping the soldiers.)
Cujo: Don’t touch that… What are you… Put that back on…
Pippin (sprinting into the theatre): WAIT! STOP!
Dippy: Pippin! Pippin, it’s me… it’s Dippy.
Pippin: You can’t do this!
Imrahil: Why not?
Pippin: Because the credits are coming.
Pafway: Damn! He’s got us there.
“Memento Mori” written by Vaudevillian
MSTed by Cujo
MSTing concept belongs to Best Brains Inc.
Thanks to Vaudevillian for being blissfully unaware that I stole/borrowed her story
and to Kate, Stephanie, and Kelly for being themselves.
Super special thanks to Christine Persephone for finding this story,
to the mysterious Meg, who sounded like she was part of this,
and to Alyx Bradford for her wonderful parody, which helped me get
an A on my “Macbeth” test.
Pokey: I didn’t get an A. It’s all your fault Cujo! You had to look at me and say, “I’m a tree, I’m a tree, I’m a tree!” I’m gonna bleed you… like a stuck pig!
Cujo (stabbing Pokey with Sting): Not if I stick you first.
Mrs. S: You killed Pokey! (stabs herself)
Dippy: Oh well, when in Rome. (jumps off the conveniently placed cliff, previously used for the “Thelma and Louise” ending)
Cujo: Just look at this mess. (The Witch-king appears, randomly, holding a mace.)
Pokey: Look out Cujo, he’s got mace!
Cujo: No, he’s got a mace. Hey, why are you still alive?
Pokey: Plot device?
Cujo: Works for me. Want to go see “Return of the King” again?
Pokey: Okay. Dwimmerlaik, want to go to the cinema to see a film?
Witch-king: Only if you’re paying, and you never call me that again.
Pokey: Okay, but when I call people phantom that’s a compliment.
Witch-king: Sure it is. Now, where did I park my Fell Beast?
Cujo: Shot gun!
Due to the author’s inability to stay on topic and write a coherent story, the
credits have been completed in an entirely different style at great expense
and at the last minute.
(“The Hamster Dance” begins to play.)
Karl, the tap-dancing llama’s wardrobe sewn by Cujo.
Sound and lighting operated by Cujo.
Refreshments sold in the lobby by Cujo.
Ritualistic goat slaughter performed by Cujo.
Sting provided by Frodo Baggins.
“Ya spoild wretch! How dar ya talk bout yo mutha thata way! Im no lettn go of ya! Ya’z are stayin here and ya’ll apologiz to yo mutha an fatha fo dispectin dem like dat!!”