A: We open on a stage devoid of life. All the usual trappings of a production of RENT are there: tables, chairs, tree, platform, band section. But there are no actors. Suddenly, an ominous voice fills the theater space.

Random announcer (April): Attention. Tonight's performance of RENT will begin momentarily. We seem to be having trouble locating an actor. Or two. Please hold on, we will begin shortly.

Suddenly, an actor rushes onstage. He is breathless, but holding a camera and it is clear he is to play Mark.

Mark: Sorry for the delay, folks. We had a little bit of an incident backstage. Seems some of our…uh…actors don't get along too well. Anyway, let us just finish getting ready. We'll start in five minutes.

-Five minutes later-

All of the actors rush on stage, to find their positions. Roger climbs onto the table, back pointedly to the audience, and Mark goes to the front of the stage.

Mark: We begin on Christmas Eve with me, Mark, and my roommate, Roger. We live in an industrial loft on the corner of 11th street and Avenue B, the top floor of what was once a music publishing factory. Old rock 'n' roll posters hang on the walls. They have Roger's picture advertising gigs at CBGB's and the Pyramid Club. We have an illegal wood burning stove; its exhaust pipe crawls up to a skylight. All of our electrical appliances are plugged into one thick extension cord which snakes its way out a window. Outside, a small tent city has sprung up in the lot next to our building. Inside, we are freezing because we have no heat. Smile!

Roger flips him the bird, the goes back to his guitar. He shudders as he forces himself to play a wrong note; this guitar is his baby.

Mark: December 24, nine pm, Eastern Standard Time, from here on in I shoot without a script. See if anything comes of it, instead of my old shit. First shot Roger, tuning a fender guitar he hasn't played in a year

Roger: This won't tune

Mark: So we hear. He's just coming back, from half a year of withdrawal…

Roger: (laying the guitar aside.) You know what? Fuck this. What the hell are we doing here, Mark?

Mark: You could be more willing to do this. We're getting paid for this.

Roger: Fuck the paycheck. This is stupid. I'm out of here.

Roger storms offstage. As he exits, a slowly forming black eye is visible to the audience. Mark sighs.

Mark: Sorry, folks. He's a little touchy right now. Let me deal with this, and we'll get this show back on the road. Um, Mo? Could you…?

Maureen: (from stage right) Oh, right. Sing something. Got it.

Mark: No…I meant…oh, never mind. Just keep you-know-who over there.

Mark exits after Roger. Maureen comes onstage to lead a rousing chorus of Joy to the World, and is quickly pulled off by an annoyed Joanne.

April: Sorry, folks. Looks like we're gonna need a few more minutes. Just hang tight. Roger'll be back soon.

Audience: (mostly mutinous murmuring, though one or two people or catching on…)

A/N: The stage is quiet again, but listen closely, and the audience can just barely make out Roger screaming at Mark… and that's where I leave you all, my devoted readers!