(Untitled)

[feintsoncue]

Walter sweeps.

Walter sweeps and he clears empty glasses and he refreshes the fire and he cleans tables and he sweeps.

You will have seen him, but you won't have noticed him. He's as much part of the furniture as the rats. Less noticeable, really, because wait rats are at least interesting.

Not Walter. Walter's juts a background figure.

He

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[operathon]

The Phantom is tired, worn and thirsty as he takes a seat at the bar; asking for a glass of refreshing wine, he glanced about the place, it was nearly empty if his vision served him correctly. The mask sat on his face perfectly, he had taken it off earlier this morning for a clean before he set out for a lonesome day.

Paige? Where was his Prima Donna, his lady of the stage? The only woman that could soothe this headache he had from the blinding lights of the bar. Oh, Christine, he was sorry for betraying her but she had betrayed him so who was right?

[feintsoncue]

Walter's sweeping up the floor nearby, not really looking up as he appears to focus mor on not falling over his own feet. It's remarkable how someone so naturally clumsy can sweep so efficiently.

Until he sees the man in the mask, however. Then he just openly stares.

[operathon]

Staring bothers him, it reminds him of his horrid childhood days when he was stared at for a living, made fun of and ridiculed as the Son of Satan. Staring, what was the purpose? To gawk and to point, to laugh and to giggle at his deformity that was Hellsent but God given for him to use to his advantage.

They stared, they all did and his stare was more like the gawking of those Theatre rats that talked about him and got the Punjab Lasso treatment.

[feintsoncue]

After a few seconds of openly, unabashed staring, Walter seems to actually notice he's lookgni at someone and is suitably chasticed. Mrs Plinger didn't bring up a bad boy.

He looks down, suddenly, shamefully, and continues to sweep with almost ferocious determination.