Author: DJRocky99

Description: I'm a sarcastic, cynical, occasionally humorous person who enjoys making fun of other things…Moulin Rouge was good, but not good enough to escape my wrath…

Disclaimer: Sadly, all Moulin Rouge characters are owned by Baz.

Chapter One: Whoriffic Whorehouses (haha get it? It sounds like "horrific" but it's not…I'll stop now.)

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There was a man

A frighteningly enchanted man

They say he hitchhiked very far, very far

Thankfully, not near me

Somewhat shy with a lazy eye

But almost wise was he

One unfortunate day

One unfortunate day he passed my way

While we spoke of many things

Spools and strings

This he said to me…

"The greatest thing you'll ever know

Is not to pay to see this…show!"

[Christian, as narrator]: The Moulin Rouge. Some people called it a dance hall. Others referred to it as a bordello. But I, for one, know what it truly is: a whorehouse. No, no, not a warehouse…that's something entirely different. It was ruled over by Harold Zidler, one of THE absolute scariest men in all of Paris. This was the place where the ugly and stupid came to play with the diseased and kinky creatures of the underwear world. Yes, they all pranced about with their knickers in the air. But the most beautiful of all these creatures, which isn't really saying much, was the woman I love. Satine, a courtesan (French for "hooker") sold her body to men and her soul to the devil. They called her the "Diamond in the Rough". The woman I love is…asleep. But who can blame her?

I first came to Paris one year ago. It was 1899, the summer of tuberculosis. Err, of love, rather. I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge, Harry Zidler, Satine, or musicals with bad plotlines and horrible endings. My life was a lot better that way, too. But I'm not bitter. Anyway, the world had been swept up in the Bohemian Revolution. I had traveled from London to be a part of it; silly me. I arrived in the village of Montmartre, which is located on a hill near Paris. I had arrived in hopes of being this village's idiot. It was not as my father had said:

[Christian's bearded father]: A law-abiding, peaceful, crime-free village with lakefront property, nice homes, neatly trimmed golf courses, and newly built schools.

[Christian narrating again]: It was the home-base of the Bohemian Revolution…full of artists, musicians, bums, slobs, cheats, robbers, prostitutes, and people living off of daddy's monthly allowance. They were known as "Children of the Revolution". Yes, I had come to live a penniless existence. How, or why, I wasn't sure of…but I had. I had come to write about truth, beauty, freedom, and that which I believe in above all things…free refills! Oh, and love.

[Christian's father once more]: Always! This ridiculous obsession with love! And passion fruit, too! And don't even get me started on this one time when the only thing he'd listen to was Olivia Newton-John's "Hopelessly Devoted to You". I mean, I'd walk into his room, prepared to tuck him in at night, and he'd be curled up in the fetal position, sobbing quietly to himself. And…

[Christian, cutting his father short]: Shove it, Pops!

[Djrocky99, narrating]: Realizing that he was wasting copious amounts of time with pathetic flashbacks into his very twisted childhood, Christian whipped out a brand-spanking-new Palm Pilot and looked up his schedule.

[Christian, after accessing his schedule]: Damn it! I have a hair appointment with Jean-Claude at four…and I've been on his waiting list for three months! No WAY am I going to miss this! But I still haven't fallen in love. Woe is me!

[Djrocky99]: Christian flailed a melodramatic arm. He knew he had to get this story over with, and quickly…because it was already noon! At that precise moment, however, the one thing his therapist told him would never happen, did: a midget dressed as a nun crashed through the roof.

[Christian]: What the hell?

[Djrocky99]: "What the hell" is right, because no more than 10 seconds later, a narcoleptic Argentinean kicked open his door, and tangoed in with a cross-dresser named Audrey who was sporting purple hair.

[Narcoleptic]: Sorry to dizturb you, ve ever jus—oh screw it. I'm not from Argentina, and it's pretty damn hard to talk with a fake accent. Let me try again.

[Djrocky99]: The un-Argentinean Narcoleptic cleared his throat and tried again.

[Narcoleptic]: Sorry to disturb you, we were just rehearsing a play upstairs, when Henri-Marie-Raymond-Toulouse-Lautrec-Montfa crashed through the floor…or, through your roof, rather. Hope we didn't cause too much damage. Sorry if we did, because we're living a penniless existence and we can't pay for anything. Haha!

[Djrocky99]: Then, the Narcoleptic stuck his tongue out at Christian and righted the upside-down midget, who'd been caught by his habit on a spot of plaster that jutted out from the once-solid ceiling. The midget brushed himself off and proceeded to explain.

[Toulouse, the midget…or something]: It's set in Switzerland!

[Djrocky99]: Christian, who was in a bit of shock from this sudden appearance of a plot, stared blankly at the midget.

[Christian]: Pardon? What's in Switzerland?

[Toulouse]: The play! It's something very modern, called "Horrific Horrific!"

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A/N – Well, that was surprisingly less painful than the first time around! And a bit more put together, too. Please…R/R if you haven't yet. I'll love you forever and ever and ever and ever and the day after tomorrow, too! Thank you kindly.