The Show Must Go On

Morgan Sennhauser
Short Story
A short story, part of the long series of Canland stories.  A rough spoof of Phantom in the Opera.  Honorable Mention in Mudrock Press 2005.
2004
Last revised: September 13, 2007

Canland: The Show Must Go On

         “What is it, Officer?” Lieutenant Landes asked, taking his feet off his desk, creating a brief flurry of the papers stacked there.  Officer H'rg, newly recruited rapoid (the creature that evolved out of the dirt on the streets, literally), handed Landes (the creature that evolved out of the dirt on the streets, figuratively) a small slip of card stock.
         “We foun' dis on da body, sah,” Officer H'rg said in his sludgy voice (what would happen if a creature made entirely out of muck evolved vocal chords.)  Lieutenant Landes sat back in his chair and sighed.
         “H'rg, this is Ack.  We have lots of bodies.  Which body?”
         “Da butlah foun' danglin' in da Tyn, sah,” H'rg said.  The Lieutenant, a member of the Collectivized Royal Ackian Police, Allan Landes read the spidery writing on the postcard.
         “If you want the show to fly
          Than catch me, you will not try
          But if you wish to see me caught
          Then both Sebastian and his play with flop
          - The Phantom of th Tyn
          P.S. Mwuahahahaha-aha!!”
         “Only a truleh crazy man woul' 'ave a 'yphen in his evil laugh, sah,” the rapoid said helpfully.
         “No need to read that far into it, boy,” Landes said, and then, appraising his company, amended, “er, thing.  Any man who writes down an evil laugh is crazy.”
         Earlier that day, Landes reflected, Sebastian Hoddes had found his butler tied up.  The rest of the circumstance, his cop mind told him, was of no consequence.  But that evil part of him that wanted to use logic demanded that he remember the rest.  Sebastian owned the Tyn, the largest theater in the world.  He had found his butter, Mr. Hagbard, tied up in the rigging of a fake pirate ship that was being used in a soon-to-debut play.  Sebastian had recently bought the theater, aware of the myth of there being a phantom that brought actors good luck.  The fact that he occasionally killed a few stagehands and supporting actors was, it seemed, easy to forget and didn't bother anyone that Landes had talked to.

         “Knock, knock, knock,” Officer H'rg said.
         “Perhaps if you actually knocked, H'rg,” Sergeant Bluster (the creature that evolved out of baby's breath and steel beams) said.
         “Right 'way, sarge,” H'rg said, and promptly put his fist, or what Bluster good-naturedly hoped was a fist, through the solid oak door.
         “Tell you what – let me knock,” Bluster said as Officer H'rg started to pull some sludge from his own body to fix the door.  Bluster poltely knocked and looked through the hole H'rg had created.  He saw two polished black leather shoes coming down the stairs operatically.  There was no other adjective that would fit.  Bluster heard a mumbled “What the...” and the shoes suddenly lost their flow and proceeded down the stairs with as much grace as a hen thrown off a cliff, and at about the same speed.  Then Bluster saw the face of Sebastian Hoddes.  He resembled, in both personality and appearance, a tallow candle left too long in a hot and humid room.  Even his drawl made one think that when the words left his throat, they immediately began to melt.
         The door opened, and Sergeant Bluster shook hands with the shocked man and pushed himself inside.  Sebastian defensively held an umbrella in front of himself.
         “I'm Sergeant Bluster, and this is Officer H'rg.  Mind if we come in?” Bluster asked, already taking a seat on a elaborate and obviously expensive white couch in the foyer.
         “This isn't... about the butler... is it?  I asked that... no one involve... the authorities...” Sebastian said, each word seeming forcefully intentional, yet completely accidental.
         “Compared to you, sir, we are not authorities.  And no one informed us.  The body was still hanging during a play that our captain saw.  It still is hanging.  And we know that this phantom has killed more people, so why not just tell us all about it.  Over some cocoa, bitterly cold out, you know.”
         “Because,” Sebastian said, and leaned toward Bluster and whispered, which, due to his already quiet tone, made him nearly inaudible,” He'll kill... me, too!  But you can have this... box you found... on my coffee table...  It's full of... notes... about the... phantom.  But... you took it... I didn't... give it too you... okay?” Sebastian said, with an obvious pleading look in his eyes, but something else hidden under the facade of helplessness.

         “So you're telling me there's some guy in a mask at this playhouse, and even though he's killed-” Lieutenant Landes glanced at the stack of notes in front of him, all with a “T” monogrammed in the upper-left corner, “-6 world-known actors, 10 local actors, and over 40 stagehands in the last eyar alone, the people who work at the theater think he brings good luck?”
         “Yessir,” Sergeant Bluster said.
         “And this is just some guy in a cheap paper mask?”
         “Yessir.”
         “Exactly like this one I bought at Crinkle's Joke Shop for two pennies on my way to the station today?”
         “Yessir.”
         “And everyone knows this?”
         “Yessir.”
         “And they think this salughter is-” Landes again consulted the notes, “-exciting, interesting, and in one instance 'loves it!'?”
         “Yessir.”
         “Sergeant Bluster?”
         “Yessir?”
         “We're going to the theater on Saturday, dress appropriately.”
         “Yessir.”

         “Bluster?”
         “Yessir?”
         “We're incognito.  Take off your badge,” Landes said, whispering over his shoulder to Sergeant Bluster, who was getting lots of looks.  They were both offstage, watching the play.  It was something about a pirate who fell in love with the governor's daughter, or something like that, anyway.  Landes never was one for the higher arts in life.  Not enough air up there, he always thought.
         “But sir, I'm a member of the Royal Ackian Police.  It says in Section F, subsection 3.4, paragraph 35, a member of the Collectivized Royal Ackian Police must at all times have his Policething badge visible at all times, due to the law of Regulas the Fifth, Commander of the Ackian Imp-”
         “Bluster?”
         “Yessir?”
         “Shut up.”
         “Yessir.”
         Suddenly, there was a motion up in the rafters.  Instinctively, Landes went to climb up the rafters, but was held back by an actor.
         “Hey mister, if you're going to arrest the Phantom of the Tyn, don't stop the show.  The show must go on.  So please, do it operatically.”
         “Bluster?”
         “Yessir?”
         “Fetch me a cape.”
         “Yessir.”
         Moments later, the Phantom of the Tyn swooped onto the stage with the aid of flight rigging, head straight toward the lady who was pretending to be the governor's daughter.  At the same time, Officer H'rg, who had gotten bored with watching the back door, had started plucking the taunt ropes behind the stage, trying to see which one made the funniest sound.  One string, which made a pwoinoing, also upset the Phantom's descent, and after some more swoops and a few shouts from the cast, ended with his toes dangling inches off the stage floor, his hands knotted above his head.  Lieutenant Landes, who had been watching the swinging with some amusement, with a dash of concern, took this as his cue.  As he began to go out onto the stage, he heard an urgently whispered “operatically!” so as he walked, he made sure his cape fluttered operatically behind him.  And then, the entire audience, not sure where the play stopped and the crime began, watched in silence.
         Lieutenant Landes opened his mouth to say something that he knew cops should say, like “I've got you now!” or “You know the good guy always wins.”  But nothing like that came out.  Instead, he spoke.
         He spoke of crimes he never knew about, of the crimes of gods (although when lightning crackled above the theater he amended that they were “probably fine people and had good reasons) and of the crimes which the phantom had committed.  He spoke of the fire being stolen from the gods, of prison breaks and cartels, of offers which could not be refused, and of the lowliest purse snatcher.  He spoke, and the speech went on.  And on.  And on.  All quite operatically, of course, for his cape was fluttering in a nonexistent breeze throughout the speech.  When it was over, the audience clapped, which drowned out the snoring that had happened around the time when Landes was detailing the complex aspects of stealing cookies from the jar.
         The phantom operatically leaped forward and swung back into the rafters with the thick rope around his hands.  When he was cloaked in shadows, he let out an evil laugh.  Landes, Bluster, H'rg, and all the audience then understood why there was a hyphen in that laugh.  That laugh needed some punctuation.  Not that the murdering sonnuva whatever-breeds-phantoms was any less crazy.  Lieutenant Landes had had enough.  He took out a small hand crossbow he kept on his belt and fired into the darkness.  The bolt seemed to soar operatically into the shadow, and the specter plummeted to the ground, landing in some prop wooden crates that shattered apart, just as they had been designed to do.  The Phantom stood up weakly, and staggered toward Landes.  The audience collectively drew their breath.
         “You will... never forget... the lessons... taught to you by... the...” the defeated Phantom said weakly, the bolt stuck in the left side of his chest.  “Phantom of the Tyn!” he finished triumphantly, lunging toward Landes before collapsing back.
         As the audience roared their approval, the curtain closed.  Bluster bent down to look for any wallet or something the ghost might have had, and quirked an eyebrow.
         'Er.  Sir?”
         “Yes Bluster?”
         “You might want to have a look at this,” Bluster said.  So Landes looked at the corpse.  The bolt had fallen out, and there was no impact wound.
         “He was holding it between his arm and chest, sir.”
         “Aha,” Lieutenant Landes said, as if that settled things.
         “But sir!  He wasn't even stabbed,”
         “Shame he didn't notice that,” Landes said.  At that moment, the curtain spread.  The Collectivized Royal Ackian Police, Sebastian Hoddes1, and the actors (who were all more likely to have puncuation in their laughs after the night's events) all took their bow.  And at the end of the line, invisible to all watching, the Ghost of the Phantom of the Tyn took one final bow, as a bony hand rested on his shoulder.
         “Shame no one looked under your mask,” Death said to his latest collection.
         “That... wouldn't have been... operatic,” the Phantom said, and faded into nothing... operatically.