By hyperleo03 (sorry I'm not renthead010101 or Marksbabe11 ...mostly becuase a-Mark will never have a babe..he's too much like my brother-who's married...um..and b-because if you're 11, it's sick to be Marks babe...or any of the guys from Rent's babe...damn...go take a cold shower or something...geez..)
Oh, yeah...disclaimer part, huh? I'm a bit random, and you know what? Don't care...hah! Disclaimer- I am not dead, nor am I a guy. I am Jewish though. Two out of three still means that I am not Jonathan Larson though. And hey, don't start with the "well, maybe Jonathan Larson faked his death" Tupac-ish stuff...it's creepy.
PS- To all those readers from New Mexico, can you run over to the airport and slap a girl ticket-person from Delta? She had the nerve to argue with me that Jonathan Larson was from Albequerque...
OK, I know...on with the story. I SHALL BEGIN!
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This story is called:
THAT SUCKS-but because fanfiction doesn't allow titles to say a word like "SUCKS"...even though...it's Rent..well, anyways.
The NEW title of this story is:
A cunning look at the in-depth psyche of Mark Cohen-...or something like it.
by me
It is December 24th. 8 PM. Eastern Standard Time. And Mark Cohen is sitting. In an alleyway. In between Avenue A and ...whatever's next to Avenue A. Avenue B, I imagine. How did he end up here on such a glorious Christmas eve, you all ask? Why isn't he indoors, watching the snow fall down like little white cotton balls coming from a sky full of blue...and grey...and a little purple in the horizon...with that dab of black that means that-
Oh, am I rambling? Sorry, didn't notice. So, why isn't Mark nice and cozy, staring at his Christmas tree and all the presents underneath it.
Well, for one thing...Mark's Jewish. No Christmas here. Move on Santa, because you are just trespassing on his ...er...lot.
But for the whole lougning around on the pavement thing..well, boys and girls...for that, you'll just have to ask Mark.
Mark's Point of View...I know, this will be a POV fic...get over it.
I happen to be shooting one of my epic films. It's gonna be amazing. Let me tell you all about it.
No, I won't put you through that torture...actually...I'm not filming at all!
Nope, I am sitting here, lighting those Hannukah Candles...on the hotplate that I got from my mother. Worst thing is, it's not even plugged in...I'm just lighting candles on my mothers hotplate..well...technically, it is mine. See, this is the third hotplate she's sent me in about...2 years. For the past two years-actually...until...yesterday-I was at Brown...but not anymore! Nope, after this...well...something happened. So, I gladly dropped out, grabbed my camera, about five shirts (they're all the exact same thing...kinda like those cartoons on Nickelodeon...those cartoon's rock...), the hotplates, and left. Left for good. I'm not going home-really, don't wanna go back. And I'm definately done with Brown University. What kind of name is that for a college anyways? Brown! Come on, people, at least name it something with a little more flash. Like...fushia! Or Turquoise. I like turquoise. Yeah...Turqoiuse University. A little more pizazz, don't ya think?
Well, anyways, so I moved as far away as I could from the high-life-silver-spoon-three-piece-suit-wearing-fathers-from-leave-it-to-beaver-superbia with their picket fences and their perfect little Jewish girls. I'm really sick of Jewish girls. Get me a German or something, because at this point, Jewish girls do nothing for me. Actually...at this point, girls in general do nothing for me. Hell, I'm thinking of becoming a monk. It's cold outside, and I'm broke. But being a monk would not exactly be "following the faith" or anything...well, I should tell you where I am.
Think of what's the opposite, people...it's really not that hard...got it? Oh yeah, New York City. City of culture and sophistication...and dragqueens...and some guy over there who looks like he's going to kill me for my hotplate.
...Damn, I'm not that far from the truth, am I...oh shit, he's coming towards me.
See, at this point, I should probably run for my life.
But I'm weak and scrawny on top of being Jewish...my life is just a general fuck-up, really.
So, I stay here, in the little corner I've arranged for myself...and proceed to get beaten up.
A punch to the head, one to the stomach...nothing worse than my 5th grade memories at grand old Scarsdale Elementary, really.
...BUT DAMN! OK, is it just me, or does getting hit in the groin hurt more when your nuts have dropped!
DAMN, THAT HURT! Oh yeah...not having children anytime soon...damn...ouch.
After about ...10 seconds more of this HORRIBLE, AGONIZING, pleasant punch to the genitals, I gladly black out.
...fuzzy purple elephants...hehe, so people actually see things when they get hit on the head? That's pretty cool...killer headache, though...OWWW! NOT AS MUCH AS ANOTHER PART!
"Ouch...my poor...damn...what...oh ye...ouch...ok...having kids is out...and it's not like I'm ever gonna adopt, so...no kids for Marky...damn"
"Hey kid...don't dis adoption." What the hell was that? Scary guy still here? I then realize that my eyes are still closed, and proceed to open my eyes. Or at least, one of them. The other one seems to have been glued to my nose...you know, the thing big enough to land an airplane by itself in between my glasses and my retainer-that I haven't used since I was 15.
I look up and see a light...a bright light...hey, am I going to heaven?
Then I pull myself up, look around and realize that I'm still in New York...damn.
"Hey, kid...you alright?" Why do people ask this obvious question. If I'm sitting here...groaning, and bleeding all over the floor...does it look like I'm ok?
"Um..."
"Yeah, I know. Dumb question. Let me help you up, at least." Nice guy? Or is he just going to stab me when he picks me up? Maybe he's a vampire and he's going to suck my blood or something...hey, that's a pretty cool idea for a movie...Dracula-in da City!
Anyways, that's when I get a good look at the guy who just helped me get up and who is now moving me toward a building...or at least, another wall. It doesn't look quite finished yet...but hey, what do I know?
"You're pretty bad off...new in the city, huh?"
"Yeah..." I manage to mumble as I take him in. He's...well...he looks a little like a Ken doll, to tell you the exact truth. Platinum blonde...there's nothing else I can say about him. I mean, I don't usually go around and start describing men off the streets...yes, so Kevin over here is five foot two, brown hair with a streak of red in it and is roughly 215 pounds. Twice the weight of me...well, one and half...but close enough.
"Well, I'll bring you up to my place." You're place...wait, what?
"What" Um...rape? Anyone? Um...ok, I might be new and all, but I really don't think this is supposed to happen...anyone? Hello?
"You in my apartment. Shirt off. All sexy." Shit in a mother fucking cup... For the first few seconds, I seriously think about faliling about until he drops me (he is officially carrying me at this point) until I realize that he's laughing his head off at me.
"Nice guy. You're a real nice guy" I mutter. Bad move.
FLUMP!
"Oww..." I whine, as he drops me on a landing. "Good thing that was a landing..." Don't ask me why I'm playing around with the stranger like he's my best friend. I'm not in the mood to be polite, or serious.
"Oops. Sorry." But he doesn't sound sorry at all.
"You don't sound sorry"
"Eh, it's a New Yorker thing." he says, picking me back up and walking up some more stairs.
"So...stranger...what's your name?" I say, getting more into this 'saved by a knight in shining armour' by the second.
"Roger. And you're...Marky, right?" He says, getting quite an odd look from me.
"How do you..." I ask, wondering how the hell he knows my name.
'"Adoption sucks...no kids for Marky.'" he's mimicking me, but it gets a smile from me-oddly enough. "You were practically shouting it out for all of the state to hear"
"Humph" I...er...humph...as we apparently reach the top, because at this point, Roger starts trying to hold me and get his keys.
Needless to say, he fails miserably as, once again, I'm on the floor.
"Wow, you really suck at this whole carrying thing, don't you." I say, attempting to stand up on my own. Doesn't work.
"You're not exactly a pixie, you know." He says, getting the keys, hoisting me up by my arm and dragging me into his apartment, hurting me more and more.
"Ow, ow, ow, ow" I say as I am dragged in front of a couch. I look around at the apartment and see; a couch, a table, and...a toilet in the kitchen?
"Look what the cat dragged in. Literally." A big black dude says, laughing at us...me...him...I dunno. I don't even know these people.
"Hey. He was hurt. You know me. Sensative soul." Roger replies, being obviously sarcastic with every word he says.
"Please. You want to kick Maureen out by bringing this kid in. Well, it won't work. I'm telling you right now. She has a job and money, something neither of us seem to hold. Therefore, she stays."This man was laughing the whole time. With a joint in his hand. I have to say, my first sight of a pothead and...I like him.
"Maureen got a job?" Roger looks surprised. Uh oh...does this mean I'm on the street again? Personally, I didn't even know I was going to be involved in this 'housing' situation. Come on...I just came from Rhode Island like...three hours ago.
"Yeah...look, Roger, if you are gonna drag a stranger out from the street, at least clean him up and tell me his name..." The cool guy says, lifting me up and putting me on the couch.
"Mark. I'm Mark." I interject, seeing as I don't want to be known as 'Marky' for the rest of my life, "and I might not have much...money, clothes...anything...but I do have a big heart." They are about to start laughing at me and kick me out...I know this, so I grin (attempt to, at least..because I seriously hurt...everywhere.), "I also have this great hotplate!" Down to two hotplates. Random homeless guy took one, you see. But if you do some simple math, carry the one and do the matrix here, you get that I have two left.
"OK, Mark...sit up a bit so we can clean you up, and tell us a little more about you...I'm Collins, by the way." Mr. Cool says, getting a wet paper towel.
Tell you something about me? This should be fun...
Yeah...so, that was fun to write. Was it fun to read? Tell me...please?