Bohemian Rap-sody

A/n: Okay this was a challenge from my onee-chan I Live I Love I RENT. Um…she gave me a one word prompt, Snackwells, which for those of you who don't know are those little cream sandwich cookies that come in green packages. So um…here you go.

(Full) Summary: Roger's a fanboy rapper, Angel's drunk, Benny loves his cat….all in all, not the most opportune time for Maureen to crave Snackwell cookies. [For I Live I Love I RENT. Most likely post RENT, but not really a specific time period. Mark/Maureen, other crack!pairings. References to another fandom in here, particularly a specific character. Prizes if you can name the character. Rated for one bad word

Disclaimer: I don't own Snackwells or RENT.

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BOHEMIAN RAP-SODY

"Marky?"

I sighed as I looked up from the storyboard for my latest film. "Yes Mo?"

"Buy me Snackwells."

"…What?"

I looked up at the brunette standing above me, her arms crossed in front of her leopard-print tank top.

"I'm hungry. Buy me Snackwells."

"Mo, I'm working…." I protested. Really, one would think she's pregnant or something, what with all her weird food cravings. Except she's always craving strange food, so I'm not worried.

"Snackwells, Marky."

I try to protest, this time something about the rent and my current lack of a job or other constant source of income, but Maureen Johnson has never been one to listen to reason.

"Buy me Snackwells or I'm breaking up with you."

Well, can't argue with that one. I raise myself from my chair, and begin plodding over to the couch where my roommate is for once doing something other than songwriting. One shoot from the Evil Maureen Pouty-Face Slash-Evil-Look of Doom, however, and I'm running over there like my bottom's been singed. Which, metaphorically, it has.

"Roger? Can I borrow a dollar?"

My best friend and roommate, Roger Davis, pauses a moment before replying.

"I'm broke, Mark. Remember?"

I think. Do I remember? Then I realize that the loft is silent. None of that infernal wailing from his guitar…

Then I remember. Roger is staring, his eyes more than slightly glazed over, at the color TV (bought with Roger's money) holding in his hands a small black controller (bought with my money) attached to a brand-new Playstation 2 (bought with my mom's money) while staring at the screen. On the screen, a little boy with weird hair is whacking at tons of black blobs. It's this new video game (bought with…heck, I don't /know/ where the money for that came from) that he's been absolutely addicted to ever since Mimi dumped him after she realized she was in love with her toaster.

It's also the reason why we're months behind on paying our rent, and would have been evicted if Benny hadn't spent the past…long time…ignoring most of the world in favor of Felix the Dark Lord, the cat he bought to replace Evita.

I turned. "Mo, I'm sorry, but we have absolutely no money."

"You know, Pooky, I hear Joanne's still single…"

"…but we could sell this!" I held up the hot plate Mom had got me for Christmas last year. Even though I know very well Joanne is not single, that since she and Maureen broke up a few months ago, she's been going out with Alexi Darling, but remembering the lawyer's formerly immense devotion to my girlfriend, I was worried.

I was one foot out the door, from there to head up to the grocery store and buy some Snackwells to please my always-hungry girlfriend, when Roger's voice, hoarse from weeks of disuse, echoed through the loft.

"MARK! MAUREEN! IT'S HIM! GUYS, YOU GOTTA WATCH!"

I closed my eyes, counted to five, and turned to face the songwriter. His eyes were lit up in excitement, his hands were virtually shaking on the controller, and his attention was riveted on the screen, where a tall, red-haired man in a severely strange black cloak was addressing the weird-haired boy.

I tell ya. I gotta hand it to the redhead dude. He single-handedly turned angsty, boring, Roger Davis into a childish, obsessed fanboy. I don't even remember his name—starts with an A, doesn't it? Alex, maybe?—but he sure is talented, for a dude made out of pixels.

"Merry Christmas!!!"

I rolled my eyes. No. Not now. I did not need this. "Angel, it's July."

"July? I had an aunt July once. She fell out a window. Or maybe that was my cat."

The drag queen—resplendent in her Santa jacket, striped tights, short black wig, and intoxicated grin—staggered into the loft, leaning heavily on the arm of her boyfriend Collins.

"Ang, what have you been drinking now?" Maureen asked from where she still stood behind me.

"Watermelon," Angel slurred.

"GUYS, YOU'RE NOT WATCHING THE AWESOME AMAZINGNESS! THIS IS THE BEST PART! WHEN HE TALKS ABOUT WHY HE WAS SENT TO FIND THE BOY!!"

Rolling his eyes slightly at me, Collins went to close the loft door. From outside, I got enough of a glimpse of Mimi, on the landing, heatedly kissing her toaster, whom she'd named Sir Forty-Two, to scar the inner workings of my mind for eternity.

"So…to what do I owe this impromptu visit?" I directed the question at Collins, the most sane out of all of us right now.

His girlfriend answered for him. "We just wanted to be here for you in your time of troub….PENCIL!" She dove at the floor, grabbed for a pencil that was just randomly laying there, missed, conked her head against the floor, and quickly passed out, but not before yelling "ANGEL DUMOTT SCHUNARD IN THE HOUSE!!" for no apparent reason.

Before I could ask Collins what Angel had meant by "our time of trouble," Roger jumped up from his game, glazed eyes turned to face us for the first time today.

"That reminded me guys! I finally wrote my one great song! It's about our life right now. It's a rap. Wanna hear it?"

I closed my eyes, shaking my head, knowing it was futile and Roger would ignore me.

It was. He did.

"Oh! I'm Roger Davis and I'm in the house

'Cept it's not really a house, cause I live in an apartment!"

"What do you mean by "time of trouble?" I finally managed to ask Collins over the din.

"Oh. Well, you know Benny's cat? His new one?"

"Our answering machine, it says Speak!

You can call us

It will tell you to speak!

Speak, speak, sp-sp-speak-oh-yeah-speak!"

"Felix the Dark Lord?"

"Yeah, that one."

"What about it?"

"I play video games, all day long

Except for when I'm working on my one great song!

Hey that rhymed

Just like bowling ball doesn't!"

Angel semi-woke-up from her unconsciousness, muttered "…Can I have some watermelon?" and promptly passed out again.

"Oh! Speak, speak, sp-sp-speak-oh-yeah-speak!"

"It was killed in a terrible, tragic accident."

"Did it involve any of us?"

"No, but he's blaming it on you."

"There's six of us, 'cept their used to be eight

Or maybe sixteen, cause I can't count

When I do count, I count like this

Potato, potato, cherry, three, video game, hot plate, zero!"

"What's he gonna do?"

"Evict you and fine you a million dollars!"

"…You'll lend us some money, right?"

"Sorry buddy, we're all out. Angel drank it all off."

"And that is the end of my one great song

Except it was really a one great rap!

Oh

Yeah!"

Finally, there was a moment of blessed, blissful silence. I breathed a sigh of relief. Things would get no worse.

"Mark, Pooky, you still haven't gotten me my Snackwells…"

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A/N: The end.