A/N: Just something I thought of the other day. Don't worry – there's no animal abuse in this; only people abuse. ;)
I hope you find it amusing, and if you do – leave a review.
And it switches to Collins' POV near the end.
Mark jolted awake at the sound of a guitar blaring to life, the noise leisurely bringing him back into reality from his peaceful slumber. He rolled over on his back with a groan, realizing he had fallen asleep on the couch – again.
"Good morning, sunshine." Roger greeted, sitting on the arm of the couch with a guitar in his lap, grinning cheerfully.
"What time is it?" Mark asked with another groan, wishing Roger hadn't claimed victory in awakening his roommate.
"Time to get up," Roger replied in a cryptic manner, leaning backwards slightly and strumming his guitar rhythmically.
Mark shook his head at the ineffectual answer and slowly raised himself into a seated position. He blinked his eyes, trying to get rid of the foggy haze he was seeing, and looked around the loft as the tune of 'Musetta's Waltz' drifted to his ears.
Judging by the dull sunlight filtering through the window, he had been asleep for a few hours and evening was now approaching. He stifled a yawn and rubbed his eyes.
"When did you get in?" Mark asked after a moment of listening to the melodious accord of the guitar.
Roger shrugged. "An hour ago, I guess, I didn't really look at the time."
"Typical." Mark sighed. "How was your date with Mimi?"
Grinning, Roger waggled his eyebrows.
"Forget it, I don't want to know."
Roger laughed and reached over to ruffle Mark's hair. Mark quickly ducked and pushed his arm away. Roger laughed.
A loud crash broke the two friends from their playfulness. Both roommates whipped their heads up just in time to see a pile of clutter in the far corner of the room topple over. A loud skittering noise was heard followed by another crash as a small box fell over.
"What the hell was that?" Mark asked.
"I don't know, let's go check it out." Roger shrugged his shoulders and propped his guitar against the wall before heading towards the corner.
Mark followed cautiously, not quite sure what they would find. He let Roger go first and remained only a few feet away.
Roger stepped over the clutter and peeked down at something.
"Holy shit!" He exclaimed loudly, taking a step back.
"What? What is it?" Mark asked anxiously, ready to run if needed.
"It's a fucking raccoon!"
"What?" Mark furrowed his brow and moved to accompany his friend. He mumbled curses as he tripped over various items along the way.
When he made it through the death-trap-of-junk, he gaped at the furry black and grey bundle that stared at them both with wide, black-rimmed eyes.
"It's kind of…big." Mark stated numbly.
Roger gave his friend a sideways glance. "It's a fucking raccoon. What do you expect?"
Mark shrugged and looked at the medium sized creature.
"What do we do with it?" He questioned.
"I don't know," Roger said, "I guess we should get it out of here."
"Touch a wild raccoon? I don't think so." Mark shook his head and retreated a few paces.
Roger rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. I had one of these things as a pet when I was a kid. They're harmless."
"You touch it, then."
Roger scoffed, "Fine, I will."
Mark watched in fascination as Roger bent down and reached out a hand towards the fluffy creature.
When the rocker's hand was no more than three inches from its face, the raccoon sprang up on its hind legs and let out a menacing hiss.
Roger yelped and stumbled backwards, tripping over a tennis racket. Mark caught him before he could hit the floor.
"Jesus Christ!" Roger regained his balance and jumped away from the not-so-domestic beast.
"Harmless, you say?" Mark muttered sarcastically, backing up as well.
"Shut up."
The raccoon got on all fours and moved forward intently. Roger bent down and picked up the tennis racket he had tripped over earlier. He held it in front of him like a sword and was about to swing when Mark interrupted.
"Roger! Don't hurt it!"
"Why the hell not?"
"It's a wild animal! Don't think for one second I'd let you – "
Mark was cut off when the raccoon suddenly lunged forward with intent as it sunk its sharp claws into Mark's leg.
"Kill it, kill it, kill it!" The filmmaker wailed and began flailing around the loft.
Roger lunged forward with the tennis racket, intending to smack the raccoon right off Mark's leg.
He missed. Mark screamed as the racket connected with his knee.
"Hold the fuck still!" Roger yelled and swung again – this time hitting Mark full-force in the stomach.
Mark doubled over slightly, still shaking his leg. "GET IT OFF!"
"I'm trying! Stand still!"
Mark's eyes grew wide as the raccoon began to scurry further up his body, its sharp claws and teeth meeting their mark – Mark's crotch.
Mark paled and thrashed both of his legs about. If someone had walked in right then, it might have appeared that Mark was stomping his feet frantically as if he were in a marching band. But that was not the case; Mark was in pain, and only Roger could get him out of it.
"Get it!" Mark yelled, eyes getting teary as the pain intensified.
"Okay, I got it!" Roger held the racket like a pool stick and thrust it forward…just as the raccoon let go.
There was a pitiful little squeak, and Mark Cohen, the creative filmmaker everyone knew and loved, went into the fetal position.
The raccoon scurried off and perched itself on top of a floor lamp. Roger tried to pull Mark to his feet, but the poor guy was curled into a little ball, whimpering and muttering threats to his roommate.
"Come on, buddy, get up." Roger urged as he eyed the watchful raccoon carefully. When Mark didn't move, he got on his knees and slid Mark across the hardwood floor and behind the couch, where they both awaited the raccoon's next move.
One hour later, Mark and Roger looked as if they were in the military.
Roger held his tennis racket protectively at his side, and a large football helmet on his head.
Mark had a firm grip on a black, toy gun loaded with red, rubber darts,and – like Roger - wearing a football helmet.
Roger peeked over the couch and sought out the enemy. The raccoon had its back turned and was munching on a week-old Pop-Tart it had found in the kitchen.
"What's the situation?" Mark whispered, careful not to raise his voice.
"The son of a bitch is eating my Pop-Tart." Roger grumbled, tightening his grip on the tennis racket.
"Should we go in?"
"Affirmative...er…I mean, yes - yes, we should."
The two roommates inched their way towards the oblivious raccoon. Slowly and surely they crept behind the beast that had caused them so much trouble.
Over the past hour, the sly mammal had ripped the backside of Roger's pants so that his boxers were clearly visible and the extra material flapped behind him every time he moved. Mark had once again been succumbed to cruel and unusual punishment as the raccoon had latched onto his back and ripped his favorite red and blue sweater to pieces. The conniving brute had also destroyed the loft – or rather, Roger and Mark had destroyed the loft while trying to fend for themselves.
They were desperate for revenge to say the least.
"On three, we attack." Roger whispered. "One, two – "
Before he could finish, the raccoon whirled around and pounced forward. Luckily, both Mark and Roger leaped backwards just in time. The raccoon suddenly took off flying towards the cluttered area it had first been found.
"You little fucker!" Roger yelled as he took off after the beast, swinging his racket around in a futile attempt to hit the large creature with Mark trailing behind.
In the process of chasing the raccoon, a lamp was broken, three coffee mugs were knocked off the table, a magazine was torn to shreds, Roger tripped over his own feet, and the raccoon remained unharmed.
At one point, the raccoon decided it was time for a little fun. It skidded to a stop and ran in the opposite direction - chasing them instead. Mark and Roger squealed before running around the loft aimlessly, trying their very best to outsmart the coon.
The filmmaker and musician later found themselves sitting atop the refrigerator, holding their weapons uselessly and watching as the raccoon ate them out of house and home.
"I swear to God," Roger whispered, "if that thing touches me again, its hairy little ass is getting busted all the way to China."
Mark smirked and fiddled with his dart gun aimlessly. He watched silently as the raccoon munched on a piece of bread.
There was a knock at the door, and a broad, familiar man bustled through the entryway.
Collins turned the knob and was surprised to see that the door opened with ease.
"Yo, bitches!" He said cheerfully, stepping into Mark and Roger's apartment. "You left your door un...locked..." He trailed off, staring open-mouthed at the overturned furniture and miscellaneous objects thrown haphazardly across the room.
He stared. "Mark, Roger? You guys here?"
"Psst!" A hushed voice whispered from the kitchen.
Collins turned his head and what he saw made him burst out with laughter. Mark Cohen and Roger Davis sat shoulder to shoulder on the refrigerator – both of them nearly falling off – wearing football helmets, clothes tattered and dirty, Roger holding a tennis racket and Mark holding a plastic gun.
His laughter echoed throughout the trashed loft. He was quickly shushed by Mark and he stopped abruptly. He eyed the two curiously.
"What the hell is going on?" He asked, holding back another fit of giggles.
"Shh!" Roger waved his hands frantically, signaling for him to be quiet. Collins reluctantly obeyed.
"What's going on?" Collins lowered his voice to a whisper.
Mark pointed his gun at the kitchen floor. Collins walked towards the kitchen to get a better look and smiled at the scene.
A cute, little raccoon sat munching on the boys' beloved Cap'n Crunch. Perhaps that was why they looked so dejected…
"Don't move!" Roger hissed when Collins took a step towards the coon. "It'll kill us all!"
Collins felt confused. Here was an innocent, hungry raccoon minding its own business, and two full grown men sitting on a fridge acting as if it were the end of the world. What the hell had happened?
Collins took a step back, obeying Roger's plea. However, his foot crunched on a stray piece of Cap'n Crunch that had somehow managed to flee from its box. The raccoon was startled and spun around to face the new visitor.
Collins froze, somewhat afraid of what it might do. The raccoon bared its teeth and let out a low growl. Out of nowhere, a rubber dart shot forth and popped the raccoon right in the side.
"VICTORY!!" Mark threw his hands up in the air, smacking Roger clear across the face as he did so.
Collins glanced up at Mark dumbfounded. The raccoon took the distraction as an opportunity and darted out of the kitchen and dashed out the open door in a blur. Collins frowned while both Mark and Roger let out triumphant cheers, hugging each other victoriously.
Hopping down from the fridge, Mark and Roger threw their 'equipment' aside and drew out deep breaths.
"Where on earth did that raccoon come from?"
Roger glowered and spoke between clenched teeth, "HELL."
Collins raised his eyebrow skeptically and looked at Mark for backup. Much to his dismay, Mark nodded in agreement with Roger.
"Hell?" Collins chuckled at the idea of a raccoon coming from hell.
"Yes!" Both Mark and Roger exclaimed at the same time.
Collins grinned. "Well then, I'm sure Benny is going to be thrilled that you've managed to destroy the loft. Have fun telling him about Satan's pet raccoon."
END.
A/N:Uh…yes? No? Maybe so? I hope you at least smiled during it, that's all I ask basically :)
I apologize for any spelling/grammar errors. Microsoft Word is telling me where to put commas and crap like that. So yeah.
I'll be writing more RENT fanfiction eventually, but right now I need to finish the third chapter for my SW fic -otherwise my reviewers might get upset. :)
Please review and let me know what you think.