a/N: Oneshot. Odd.
Disclaimer: No own.
Mark, Never Move to Vegas
"WHAT WE ARE NEVER CHANGES, BUT WHO WE ARE NEVER STOPS CHANGING!" Tom Collins yelled, turning a corner to dash down the next aisle.
Mark nearly fell over backwards from laughter as the anarchist ran down the aisles of the local Wal-Mart yelling philosophical saying at the top of his lungs. Last week, Roger had bet Collins that their rendition of "Santa Fe" on the subway would get them a permanent ban from public transportation.
It had.
Recently, the East Village had found a new hobby: betting. It had soon become a big thing among the bohos, and had resulted in some interesting consequences.
Maureen, after losing to Angel in a bet about who could make out with their significant other for longer without breathing, had mooned forty-two random passerby in Times Square.
Benny, after being totally owned by Mimi in a game of Scrabble, had held a memorial Mass for Evita in the middle of a busy highway.
And Mark, who turned out to be horrible at the "betting game" had sung Yellow Submarine for thirty minutes during a Life Support meeting (courtesy of Joanne,) tried to order a "Diet Water" at the Life three times (courtesy of Angel) and had submitted a segment to Alexi called "Butts of Bohemia: The Significance of the Rear End in Modern-Day Culture" (courtesy of Collins). He had sworn off the "betting game" for good.
Or so he thought.
Having finished laughing his head off at Collins, Roger turned to his filmmaker friend. "Hey Mark, wanna make a bet?"
Mark turned pale at the thought. "No, Roger."
The songwriter smirked. "If you win, I'll prank call your mother pretending she has been mandatorily moved to the Scarsdale Insane Asylum on order of the government."
Mark gaped. That was too good. Maybe, just maybe…"And if you win?"
Roger smirked. "You have to go up to the person you love in public, shout 'I LOVE YOU!' and kiss them on the lips."
"What's the bet?"
"You can't go 24 hours without cursing."
"You're on."
(23 HOURS 50 MINUTES LATER)
"BOO!" Mimi popped up behind Mark.
"Da…rn!" he started, but managed to save himself at the last minute.
The dancer pouted. She and the other bohos, eager to find out who Mark liked, had been trying such stunts on him all day, with no success.
"Mark, Alexi called to say you're fired cause you're not pretty enough!" Maureen told the filmmaker from her position beside him.
"Sh…tinkermuffins!" Mark yelled. Joanne, Angel, and Collins, who were standing a little farther ahead, all frowned along with the drama queen.
He checked his watch. Just three more minutes to go…He could do this.
Suddenly, he felt something tugging at the strip of striped cloth around his neck. A moment later, the cold New York breeze touched his exposed neck.
SOMEONE HAD STOLEN HIS SCARF!
Oh no they di'ent…Not his precious Marky Scarfy….
Totally forgetting the bet, he yelled "DAMN YOU ROGER DAVIS!" at the top of his lungs.
Turning around he saw the songwriter, smirking, with that evil I-win look in his eyes and his fingers pointing at the timer on his watch, which read 1 MINUTE REMAINING .
Mark had lost.
Five pairs of inquisitive eyes turned on his face, eager to see the results.
Closing his eyes, Mark steeled himself, turned around, walked two paces forward…
…and yelled "I LOVE YOU" at the top of his voice before kissing Roger heatedly on the lips.
Five gasps echoed from five throats as the other bohos watched the scene unfold.
Roger backed away, many emotions evident in his eyes. Mark gulped, certain he'd screwed up MAJORLY this time…
But before he could turn and run out of the alleyway to go move back in with his parents, Roger put a hand on his shoulder and spoke five words.
"Mark, never move to Vegas," the songwriter said before pulling Mark in for another kiss.
