Title: Metronome (Chapter 2/?)

Rating: R for language and adult content (for entire story)

Summary: From hence emerge the prior stories of our heroes. Pre-RENT.

Disclaimer: You know they're not mine; I know they're not mine. I promise to clean them after I use them. I make no money from this. I apologize if I have stolen or caused any sort of bodily harm to anyone through the production of this written material.

SEMPTEMER 8TH, 1991, 1:26 AM, EST. Roger Davis.

There is nothing in the world like a nice long piss after an awesome set. No, decided Roger; actually, there was: a nice long piss after an awesome set in a bar when you were finally twenty-one and didn't fucking care about getting carded. He stared at the bricks in front of him and was glad for this tiny little almost-alley. It didn't even smell as bad as he'd thought it would. Now all he had to do was zip up and manage the poorly-lit walk back into the bar and enjoy all the perks that come from being a rock god who's young and talented and invincible, now that his bladder's empty.

Except that all of a sudden, there was someone breathing in the dark next to him, and some scrawny little Mexican kid was shoving something in his face and whispering "Gimme all your fucking money, maricon, or this gets ugly." Roger thought about laughing at the kid, he thought about tackling him—he had him beat by over a foot—and then he thought about where he was, about how CBGB's wasn't in the greatest neighborhood at this time of night, and about how even though this kid was probably just packing air under that sweater, maybe he wasn't. Fuck, thought Roger. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

And then, from Roger's other side, the sound of crashing metal cans. Obviously, someone had had a similar idea, but was unable to navigate the exit quite so smoothly. The scent of garbage mingled with the stranger's muttered curses, and when Roger turned back the kid was backing away, looking pretty horrified. The stranger walked right back into the can he had just righted, and swore violently, although Roger thought he sounded more annoyed than aggressive. Whatever the case, Roger's would-be mugger had heard enough, and took off into the jungle of the night. Roger had to laugh aloud.

"Shit," the stranger said, adjusting his glasses before peering at Roger a bit myopically. "Did I interrupt, um, something important? I was just looking for the bathroom and somebody said..."

"Yeah. This is the informal one," Roger agreed, gesturing around him, careful to sidestep his own recent addition to the place. "By the way, you totally just scared off some little fucker who thought he could take my cash and flee. For saving me the trouble of beating the crap out of him, I owe you a drink." Roger grinned, and the stranger suddenly grinned back, animating a face that seemed to be scrutinizing him.

"I'm Mark," he said, holding out his hand. "Did I see you on stage before? With the...um, the really loud band?"

"A fan!" declared Roger. "Well, bless my soul. Maybe we should make it two drinks." He took Mark's hand. "Roger Davis, singer and guitarist with the Well Hungarians. A really loud band." He thought Mark might have blushed a little, but the lighting was really crap out here.

"Well, if you're going to be formal—Mark Cohen, film maker and nuisance-at-large."

"Especially to trash cans," said Roger pointedly, wondering if Mark would blush, wondering how he'd manage to spend the time it took to buy a drink with some kid who blushed all the time. But Mark just grinned defiantly and ran a hand through his hair.

"Yep. They're my specialty." Roger laughed. This was more like it.

"You come here a lot, Mark? I haven't seen you." Mark laughed.

"I'm pretty miss-able, especially to rock stars like yourself. But, no, I'm not here very much. I was supposed to meet some girl here, but then she called and canceled, and I thought I'd just come anyway and see if I could get any good footage, but they made me check my camera at the door, which is total bullshit, by the way."

"Uh-huh."

"Um, and then...I don't know. Do you guys play here a lot?"

Roger shifted his feet. "Not a lot, like a lot a lot, but we've been here a few times. Played a bunch of places—bunch of no-named shitholes in Pittsburgh, before the few remaining members resettled in this fine town. So, yeah, we're around. Around enough for me to know how to piss out back without re-creating that time-honored classic, Dances with Garbage."

Mark smiled. "Don't you, like, owe me a drink, or your first-born, or something? For saving your life?"

"My life? Don't fucking push it, Mark. I was nanoseconds away from making that kid wish he'd stayed on his own side of the border."

"Sure, sure. So just a drink. Shall we?" asked Mark, sweeping his arm grandly towards the door.

"Didn't you wanna...you know?"

"I think," said Mark slowly, "that I'd rather chance it on the real bathroom. Maybe you can teach me the finer points of pissing on a wall after you buy me a drink."

Roger laughed. This kid was okay. Mark held the door for him as they re-entered the raucous, smoky, dim little bar Roger was already falling in love with. Maybe, he considered, if you have someone to go with you, peeing outside is a little less eventful.