A/N: To avoid possible flames: I have nothing against Gerard Butler, as I do not know him personally. I do have a bit of a problem with the portrayal of Erik in 2004's The Phantom of the Opera, though. So, I am not a movie- or Gerry-basher. I am, however, a Gerik-basher, and I hold the firm belief that the truth of Leroux's Erik must be spread. On a lighter note, please enjoy. I have never written humor in POTO before, so drop me a review if you feel so inclined and let me know what you think.

A Word to the Phangirls

Dearest phangirls:

I am sure you all can imagine my immense surprise in discovering I am so well-liked by so many young women. In fact, some of you even proclaim to love me. If only you all knew, sweet phangirls.

However, I write to you not to express gratitude, but rather to express disgust at my most recent incarnation, as played by M. Gerard Butler.

Upon first viewing the film and catching sight of "me", my first thought was: "Who is that handsome devil in the suit and half mask?" When I caught on to the fact that, yes, that dashing swashbuckler was supposed to be Erik, I was shocked, to say the least.

I was blushing to my toes in the scene titled "Music of the Night," both at the intimate caressing—groping, really—that ensued, and at the fact that anyone would honestly think I could be such a skilled lover. Not to say that I do not appreciate the misconception, dearest mademoiselles, but examine the harsh truth: I have lived the past twenty years of my life in complete solitude. Even preceding this time, I'd laid a friendly hand on another very few times. So the assumption that I could so adroitly caress and so comfortably be caressed without repercussions is—forgive me for this—laughable!

Everything went along fairly smoothly (I could comment on other aspects of the film, but I shall keep to the critique of my own character) until the Masked Ball scene. "My" costume was positively atrocious. The tightness and flamboyance of it all! It left little, if anything, to the imagination; not remotely frightening, phangirls, though I daresay it captivated your little minds in an entirely different manner. Not the effect I was going for, I assure you.

Forty minutes later, the epitome of absurdity was breeched: my Don Juan Triumphant being performed in front of a stale, aristocratic crowd who held no better understanding of art than La Carlotta for humility? As if I would unveil my masterpiece to such a dense, undeserving audience. Phangirls, at times I honestly wonder if you know me at all.

This is not even to mention my persona's performance in said opera. A wanton, explicit display of sexual desire privy to the gapes of uptight Parisians. Appalling.

This is only the beginning. I was positively anguished to hear what Erik's voice has been reduced to. A hissing, gravelly, inflexible baritone replaces a beautiful, angelic tenor. My one worthy legacy swept from the earth with a few poorly dictated lyrics.

I have not yet mentioned my character's appearance. Phangirls, I mean not to upset you, but if you came to me, expecting me to look as I did when played by M. Butler, you would be horribly, horribly disappointed. And yet...I cannot not help but envy his robust body; well-formed nose; ruddy complexion; sensuous charm; consistently green eyes that neither glow in the darkness nor blacken in the light; a scarcely considerable deformity affecting only his face, and only one side of it, at that...all things which I do not—and never can—possess. Oh, the unfairness of this world...

I am afraid my musings have sent me into a black mood—another thing you wretched girls can never understand if you go by M. Butler's performance. I am not so emotionally stable, wenches; some may even call me insane, a lunatic! But I digress.

In closing, my little mademoiselles, if you have only seen MM. Schumacher and Webber's film version of my story, you do not know me at all, I'm afraid. If any of you wish to know me—as if any one of you would, now that you have learned the truth—I implore you to turn to M. Leroux's original novel. His narrative catches my essence with far more accuracy than any other version one can encounter.

I bid you farewell now, phangirls. I am off to the organ to fend off this sorrow. I do not blame you if you choose to remain in ignorance of the true Erik; perhaps I am better left unknown, the lowly, cowardly, beastly, unlovable demon I am...Oh, beg pardon! (Sweet music, take the pain away...)

Yours always (or perhaps not),

Erik