I'm pretty sure The Producers and RENT take place at different times, but for my story, they take place at the same time. I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: I don't own RENT or The Producers. You can thank Jonathon Larson and Mel Brooks for those.

"Mark, it's your mother. Pick up the phone honey. Please? It's Chanukah Mark, the least you can do is talk to your mother for the first time this year."

Mark sighed before picking up the phone. "Hey Mom," he grumbled.

"Thank goodness you picked up Mark," Mrs. Cohen said, "Well, I was looking through some old photo albums, when I came across a picture of your Great-Uncle Max."

Mark mentally groaned. Not more family. "What about him?" he asked.

"He'd always talk about him wanting to see one of my children," Mrs. Cohen began and Mark could tell it would only it was only going to go downhill, "I don't want to bother Cindy, her having to be with the kids and all. But Great-Uncle Max lives in New York City…"

"No," Mark protested weakly, "I'm not going."

"Please Mark," Mrs. Cohen begged, "Just try and find him. It would mean a lot to me. Count it as a Chanukah present. You wouldn't even have to pay for it. Please?"

Mark pondered for a moment. "What's his name?" he finally said, giving up.

"Maxwell Bialystock," Mrs. Cohen answered, "He's a producer."

Producer? Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.

Break Here

"Max Bialystock," Mark muttered to himself, leafing through a phonebook, "Max Bialystock. Here it is! Maxwell Bialystock, Broadway Producer."

Mark picked up the phone and dialed the number, twisting the cord around his finger nervously.

"Bialystock and Bloom," a female voice answered, probably Finnish or Norwegian or something like that Mark guessed, "How can Ulla help you?"

"Is Mr. Bialystock there?" Mark asked.

"No, he's not."

"Well, can you tell him that his nephew, Mark Cohen, called?"

"Okee slash dokey." Ulla answered before the line went dead.

Mark hung up the phone, a bit flabbergasted. What kind of person was his great-uncle anyway?

"Hey Mark," a voice said, startling him, "What's up?"

Mark looked up into Roger's green eyes. "I found out I have a Great-Uncle Max who's a Broadway producer and has a foreign secretary. My mom is making me visit him."

"Cool," Roger replied like his friend's answer had been completely normal, "So where are you gonna go visit?"

Mark sighed and put on his jacket and scarf. "How about now?"

Break Here

Mark slowly walked up the steps to his great-uncle's apartment and office. He wished Roger was there and recalled the conversation they'd had earlier.

"Please come Roger," Mark begged.

"Mark, this is your uncle, you'll be fine," Roger insisted, "Anyway, he should get to know you first before you drag along friends."

Mark pondered his friend's advice. "Alright. Well, talk to you later then."

Mark tentatively knocked on the door that read 'Bialystock and Bloom' and some other stuff Mark didn't take the time to read before he knocked on the door. A stout little man with a ratty mustache answered.

"Hello?"

"Yes," Mark said, "Hi, I'm Mark Cohen. I called earlier. The secretary picked up."

"She didn't say anything about it," the man interrupted, "Hey, did you say your last name was 'Cohen'?"

"Yes."

"I think my niece got married to some guy named Cohen," the man mused, "What's your mom's name?"

"Patricia Simons-Cohen," Mark answered.

"Simons aye?" the man said, "That'd be her. My sister's daughter. Good old Patty. How's she doing?"

"Fine."

"Good, good. Come on in Mitch,"

"It's Mark."

"Of course it is."

Mark followed the man into the apartment, which was stark white and made his eyes hurt. A boyish man sat at a desk, talking to a tall blonde.

"Miles," the man said, "This is my partner and my secretary."

"It's Mark," Mark said, "And nice to meet you both. I'm Mark Cohen."

"Leopold Bloom. Or just Leo." The man answered.

"I am Ulla Inka Hanson Benson Yanson Tallen Hallen Swadon Swanson." The lady answered.

"I think we met on the phone," Mark said, "What's your first name?"

"That IS my first name."

"Right. Well, I'll just call you Ulla."

"Smart move kid," the unnamed man said, "Anyway, I'm Max Bialystock and probably the person you came here to see."

"That's right," Mark said.

"So Mr. Cohen…"

"Mark."

"Mark," Leo continued, "What brings you here? Got a play you'd like us to read?"

"No. I was sent here by my mom because she wanted me to see my Great-Uncle Max for some reason."

Leo stifled a laugh. "I wonder why," he muttered, "Hey Mark, what do you do?"

"Well, I don't really have a steady job, but I'm a cameraman."

Max's eyes lit up. "A cameraman?" he asked mischievously, "Oh Marshall, it's a good thing you stopped by."

"It's Mark."

"That's what I said."

"Well Mark," Leo said, "You're welcome here any time. Why don't the two of us go out to lunch, my treat?"

Mark smiled. "Sure."