Oh my gosh… what I am doing? Another RENT related fanfic? (looks around confused) Well it's YOUR FAULT. You're the ones who asked me to write more RENT related stuff. And here it is.
Title: Declaration of a Rockstar
Rating: T for some language… and, well… it IS RENT, after all.
Summary: PostRENT. Roger, wishing to retake his throne and once again become the Rock god, must first lay down some ground rules about his reign. Warning: Written on a whim! He decides to compose a thorough documentation for the occasion. (Based VERY LOOSELY upon the Declaration of Independence. VERY LOOSELY.)
Notes: Special thanks to XSteponMeX, who doesn't know it, but she is partially responsible for the inspiration of this fanfic. Thanks, girl! You don't know how nice it is to have someone like you who understands EXACTLY how I feel about Roger and RENT in general. (Without sounding like Alexi Darling: KUDOS!)
What's Good: Life. I'm eating a slice of chocolate cake as I type this. And I'm seeing RENT in NYC next week.
What's Bad: Drugs. Don't do them. And um… insecurity. And…. The f word. No-no.
XD
Kay, without further ado, here's Declaration of a Rockstar!
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Declaration of a Rockstar
Composed by the Rock god himself, in the flesh. (Hold your applause)
When in the course of the life of an extremely attractive (You deny it? I thought not.) rockstar such as myself, it becomes necessary to crawl out of the hole you've been digging yourself for the last few years of your life and actually sit down and act remotely intellectual, a document rather resembling this is the result, hereby dissolving the stereotypes of you that have become almost common knowledge now, that label you as a (lovable) slacker without much more than a couple years of a high school education.
Hm. Was that a run-on sentence?
I'll ask Mark.
Damn, the kid's out filming random bums again…
Ah, who the hell cares?
Anyway, before the unworthy and most unnecessary concern of improper grammar entered my highly developed male brain (Ooh, look! Yum! Mark must've left a peanut on the table!) I was talking about reinstating myself into the world as a much more eloquent (That's a fifty dollar word for speaking in fancy-talk, according to Thomas, here.) individual.
I, Roger Davis, wish to disband from any aforeassummed belief that I am a vessel of unintelligentivity, and reestablish myself as Rock god of Bohemia without tarnishing the reputation of my masterfully educated mind.
Firstly, I believe a decent respect should always be bestowed upon me, Rock god, at all times, (preferably in the form of swooning of perhaps an offering of lacy undergarments… sacrificed to me upon the stage AKA my very own Mount Olympus).
Cue Mark's jealous look here.
Seriously though, I'm a god, it is the least you can do. All I want is a little love, is that so hard to give me? Please forward all fan mail to the address at the bottom of this letter, which I will purposefully forget to add in my haste. Just remember to shriek extra girlishly when I come out on stage and shower me with affection after sets, despite any previous thought of me being a surly and slightly (yet adorably) clueless blond guitar-playing emo kid.
(Honestly, I don't know where people get these crazy ideas!)
While I can say that I encourage the free expression of the opinions of mankind, I must also confess that if you happen to have some sort of problem with me… (which is ridiculous)… that you SHUT the (CENSORED: because Roger loves his mini-fans. Hello, tots!) UP and DEAL WITH IT.
Although, in the back of my mind, I can feel only pity toward those who cannot appreciate my Rock godly-ness. (We'll call them… hm… anti-Rogers. Heh, I'm brilliant!) I could probably find it in my heart to (reluctantly) cough up some wise godly advice: Contact Dr. Phil so that he can help you deal with the fact that you are an INCREDIBLY TERRIBLE PERSON who may need a fifty-year isolation period on a distant planet… someplace FAR away, with a TINY, GRIMY, LITTLE HOLE for you to sit in and THINK about what you did wrong.
Alas, I'm rambling. (Mimi says I tend to do that.)
Backtracking a bit, let us readdress my main purpose for writing this document.
When examining the universe as the stunning green go-weak-at-the-knees eyes og the Rock god see it, we hold onto one truth above all:
All rockers are created equal. (With the obvious exception of Roger Davis, the Rock god, himself, who is incalculably sexier, rocker-y…er, and erm… better than the rest.)
All rockers are also, upon birth, endowed with certain irresistible talent and looks, and the Rock god simply got all the good stuff. Think of it this way, he's the kid with the fastest reflexes after the piñata's just broken. Yeah, you're jealous. I can smell it.
With this in mind, we must also remember that, in accordance with the awe-inspiring Rock god's Creator himself (A.N.: THANK YOU, Jonnie Larson!) Roger Davis is entitled to specific rights, that are not at any point in time to be denied to his Majestyfulness, without the incurring of severe punishment i.e. feeling the wrath of Roger, ANGRY Rock god, himself. Among these rights are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Mimi.
To secure these rights, his Divineness may, when he finds such behavior appropriate, remove by force any obstacle that could stand in the way of the ladder to Rockstardom (which he WILL climb). This includes the right to drive his most holy knuckles into the nose of any man found in the vicinity of the Catscratch Club during the shifts of one Mimi Marquez.
Not only is it necessary for the Rock god to defy the stereotypes of many in creating this document (Don't I sound smart?) but it is most important that Roger the Great lay down the foundation for his rise to ultimate godly-ness on several guiding principles, herby organizing the power (effectively and unquestionably) in his own hands forevermore. Should anyone object to the awesome power of Roger Davis, may they speak now or forever hold their peace.
For I would like to make it quite clear that after words of objection leave the mouth of said fiend, he may well never speak again for I will render him mute by means of connecting my divine fist into the offending jaw until it hangs loosely, so that one may mistake this objecting being for a pug.
Or better yet, a bulldog. Insert Benny joke here.
Above all, I shall be allowed to dish out whatever pain and suffering that I fancy to, should anyone jeopardize my Safety, Happiness, Guitar, Girlfriend, or most notably, my Sacred Golden Tresses of Rockstar Proportions that lay in bountiful (though untamed) masses upon my saintly head.
Let it also be known to all (especially squeeing teenage girls) that each and every person is entitled to their own means of worshipping the Rock god, with the exception of kidnapping the Rock god. Should any individual be found guilty of neglecting to worship his Highness, they shall only be punished (and severely) if found to be discreetly obsessing over his Gruesomeness himself, Benjamin Coffin, the THIRD. (Henceforth known as He-Whose-Name-Must-Never-Be-Uttered.)
May no human being who wishes to live dare disturb the commonly occurring angstfests of Roger, who may well be wailing his lungs out… AGAIN. (GLLLLOOORRRRRYYYYYY!) For may it be stressed that I, Roger Davis, despite my undoubtedly tough-looking exterior (especially when I'm standing next to his Scarfiness, Mark Cohen.), am as soft as a creamy soft serve ice cream cone (Now I'm hungry… ooh! Another peanut! Score!) when it comes to the heart, and am also constantly plagued by the heaviness of all my baggage.
I'm really trying to learn to pack LIGHT.
Such has been the patient sufferance of Roger Davis, (sigh), which brings into sharp relief my need to alter my former system of living and lay down some ground rules.
(Which reminds me: Mark, no awakening the Rock god from his beauty-caressing slumber before at least 1:30 PM EST, and Collins, please, for streaking in the street outside the loft before 9:00 PM EST. May daily rooftop angstfest usually ends at around 8:50 PM EST after a most unappreciated and unnecessary view of your drunken, stark-naked silhouette!)
Lastly, let the reader finish this document knowing that Roger Davis has only composed it out of his concern for mankind (and their potential decline in the absence of their Rock god) and that in his ascent to godly-ness, he intends to preserve his relations toward his "peeps" as they have always been: Enemies only on April Fool's Day, and in the absence of any Irritating Situation (as defined by the Roger Davis Code of Conduct, passage twenty-four)…. Friends.
Therefore, I, Roger Davis, appealing to the nature of the universe as it should (and will now) exist, do, in the name of all things Musetta, and by the authority of my unmatched hotness as Rock god, solemnly publish and declare that I am, and of right ought to be, the Supreme god of Rock and Fangirls.
If anyone's sticking it to the man, it is going to be ME.
With this mighty title comes the immediate request that I be absolved from any previous allegiance I may have been involved in or coerced into (with or without the influence of alcohol) regarding the following persons, contracts, associations, and/or plots: Mark Cohen's Seven-Step Foolproof Plan to Get Himself a Girlfriend and Fast, I Love Lucy Fan Club (Mimi says my addiction is unhealthy.), Tom Collins' Unbeatable Super Cereal of Fun Plus Anarchy! Company (good luck with that, though, buddy, Lucky Charms ain't got nothing on anarchy), and also Angsty Hermits of America.
I've already ripped the "Hermit and Proud" bumper sticker from my window… but might I add that a bumper sticker is meant for cars and displaying such pride toward your organization properly is a blatant example of hypocrisy?
Any connection I may have had with the aforementioned is and ought to be totally dissolved. As an independent rocker, I now have the full and holy power to smack you upside the head as hard as I desire should such an idea tickle my fancy or should you lay a finger or think of laying a finger upon my instrument of Rock godly-ness, which resides in the oddly-shaped case labeled "Fender".
I also, form this point forward, have the power to do all other acts and things which rockers of my caliber (there are none besides me) may of right do- including ALL that crap you hear on TV about Tinseltown.
And if I should want to, (and you never know, such an idea might excite me), I should be permitted even to clip my holy toenails within the immediate area of the kitchen. In which case MARK should be honored that I would grace the table with my godly feet as I prop them up so as to properly survey his activity… and not by any means force me to relocate under the threat of putting me through unusual yet painful harm with a ladle or other kitchen utensil.
To conclude this declaration, with a firm and stubborn mind relying (perhaps blindly) on the protection and support of my fellow Bohemians as I move toward retaking the throne, I, Roger Davis, pledge myself as Rock god forevermore.
And may I only from this point be high upon my own exalted rockstar life.
Signed,
Roger Davis
P.S. Save my signature… it'll be worth something someday… coughcough… by tomorrow.
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Imagine that tacked upon his bedroom door! LOL.
So what did you think? Kinda weird, but my muse is refusing to leave Roger's side lately. (I think it is starting to annoy him.)
Since Roger "purposefully forgot" to leave his fanmail address, he'd appreciate that if you have any words of praise for this fic, you press that purplish blue button and submit a review.
Thanks!