Disclaimer: I don't own the genius that is RENT. That's all Jon, baby. :)

Warning: Foul language.

Hey guys! I'm back! I'm sooooooo sorry I took forever with this next chapter. I hope people are still reading. I have two more chapters after this one. ENJOY!

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You know, loathing is a funny thing. Loathing is more than just not wanting to be around someone. Loathing is that, burn in your stomach when you seem them, wanting to find the nearest bathroom so you can puke over their face, wanting to beat their brains out just for existing, kind of feeling. Loathing comes when you least expect it, too. It hits you like a small mosquito bite at first; it's annoying, but it's not enough to bother you to an extreme. Then, all of a sudden, cruel fate steps in. That damn fate shoves you together at every possible moment, trying to pull out some entertainment from watching the loathing bubble and almost spill over into a full fledged ass-kicking.

We all know someone that we loath. No matter if you're the nicest person on the planet; you loath someone. Even if it's just for a passing second that you see that person on the street. You might hear that person talking to someone else in a restaurant, and something they say makes you want to turn around and give them a good hit to the face, just for being a rude, nasty piece of human. Even if that person would be considered completely innocent because they have no idea who you are and what you believe is rude to begin with.

Of course, I have had this feeling. I'm only human, you know? I mean, I've had passing loathing, sure. But I've also had that kind of distaste and anger that makes you do something very stupid. Something against that horrible person that changes your relationship all together.

And this is my story of how I destroyed my ex-friend's car. I'm Roger Davis, by the way.

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. You think I'm crazy and that I should be in jail for blowing up a car. I mean, I could have really hurt someone, right? Well. Here's the deal. See, this guy was—is—a prick. He's a rich, snobby, arrogant, inconsiderate, impassionate bastard. I hate the guy. He makes me physically nauseous every time we make eye contact.

The weird thing is, we used to be friends. Before Mark, Collins, and Reen, he was the guy I called my best friend. The kind of best friend that when you get married, both of you tell the other one that they're gonna be your best man, and it's true. You meant it with your whole entire heart. You're best friends after all, right?

Well, not anymore. Benjamin Coffin the Third will never be my best man, even with our history.

--

"Hey, Ben!" I yell through my bedroom door. Even though the loft we had just started living in was a shithole, it was still pretty big. You had to be loud in order for anyone to hear you.

About 30 seconds later, I get a response. "What, Davis?" He was in my bedroom doorway now. He didn't like yelling across the loft all that much to begin with. I had always been a loud person.

My head was stuck in the closet. My damn ass was stuck out along with my long, jean clad legs; my feet were bare. I heard Ben laugh at how stupid I looked. I ignored him. "Where the hell are my cigarettes?"

"Why are you looking in the closet?"

I pulled my head out of the closet and rolled my eyes at him. "It's the only place I haven't looked in yet, duh."

"You sounded like a teenage girl just then."

I turned my head to the side, looking like a lost puppy. "Huh?"

"Duh! That, man." He was laughing at me. His huge, white smile cracked across his dark face.

I shrugged. "I'm still cool. Even as a teenage girl." I heard him chuckle deep in his throat. I stuck my head back in the closet. "Now where the hell are they, Coffin? Help me. They help me shake off the nerves before a show. I have one in an hour." I pulled my head back out to yell at him for not helping me look.

Something hit my head and landed on the ground. It was something with corners because one of them hit my cheek. I looked down.

"Hey! There they are!" I got up from the ground, smiling. "Thanks man."

He hit my upper arm, smiling too. "No problem. They were on the couch where you threw them last night." His smile was still glued to his face.

I pocketed my cigarettes. "That is why you are my best friend. Keeping my messy mind in order; you're really gonna go places one day, Coffin."

--

Little did I know how right I was in my prediction. Two weeks later, he walked out of our lives headed for marriage and a huge paycheck in real estate. The bastard.

I was never his best man. He married Allison, and his best man was some dick named Gerry that worked with Ben.

The next week, the guy came back to the loft to apologize. He I told him to go to hell, and he said he would be at the Life; he wanted to meet there to 'work all of our problems out'. Ha. That would take more than a few hours at the Life.

I watched him drive over to the café with his big fancy Mercedes, a silver little number which is only one step down from a mid-life crisis car; it was a wedding present from Muffy. I growled in the back of my throat. I thought long and hard. I had to do something; he destroyed our friendship, turned his back on his art, and became what bohemians hated most—a yuppie.

I grabbed my leather jacket, and headed out the door. I had the plan all in my head. I would mess with his precious car. I didn't know how at the time, but I was going t do something that was going to make Benjamin Coffin regret ever leaving me behind.

I finally reached the café. I saw his horrible silver car sitting in the sun near the sidewalk, perfectly parallel parked. I wanted to puke.

I felt that growl in the back of my throat again. The taste of bile and disgust bubbled in my mouth, my stomach on fire with rage. I couldn't take it. I hated him. I loathed his car. I loathed his wife. I loathed his wedding. I loathed his life. He was everything in life I hated. He was every putrid thing that I wanted wiped from the face of the earth.

I found a rock on the ground. It was a pretty good size. I played baseball in high school, so I could throw pretty damn hard. I was the star player.

I threw that rock at his driver side window. All my anger and frustration was heaved at that damn car. It shattered the glass. I laughed.

I wasn't done yet, though. I took a fairly large rock next. I carved yuppie scum, love Davis into the driver's doors. I destroyed each and every window, despite that I had started to bleed from the scraping of the glass across my hands.

I opened the front. I tore out every valve, tube, and piece that I could out of that car. My hands were covered in gas and oil. I was panting and my face was blood red. My deed was done. The car was a pathetic heap of silver junk. It was just how I saw my friendship with that scum.

He walked out of the café, his jaw dropped in rage and surprise. I crossed my arms and laughed in his face.

I walked up to him. His jaw shut, clenching tightly in anger. I smirked and got right in his face. "Solves my problem." I punched his jaw, sending him to the ground. "Congrats on the wedding by the way, buddy." Buddy was lined with malice and hate.

I walked away from him. It was over. I hated him.

Human loathing.