Sunday night’s alright for shit fan fiction.

After another hedonistic weekend of indulging in all of the pleasures this fine city has to offer (snorting cocaine off Daryl Somers' salty man boobs), I’m usually too burned out to be creative on Sunday nights.

Because of this, I hereby declare Sunday nights to be shit fan fiction night. Here's a Moulin Rouge/Rocky Horror slashy for your reading pleasure. It even comes with the following disclaimer: I do not own Rocky Horror, and I'm not making any money from this. I am losing money by writing stuff like this rather than getting a real job.


Does everyone else think this



after reading that disclaimer?

There was a boy.

I had only just arrived in Paris two days ago, yng, foolish, full of beans. I didn't have a place to stay, nor did I know anyone there, but I had to escape my father, who was always criticizing me for my belief in love, and for my desire to be a writer, instead of something more stable and secure, such as a lawyer, or a banker. I quickly found a place to stay at a small, decrepit apartment building and set up my typewriter. I sat for hours a day, wracking my brain, but unfortunately getting no more inspiration here---in the city of love---than I had back home. But today, as fate would have it, someone dressed in a black suit and a gold and pink party hat crashed through my ceiling and landed right on top of my typewriter (with quite an impressive crack I might add). Then, just as suddenly as this all occured, my door swung open, and a man with a hump on his back, and long blonde hair (though was bald on top) barged in.

"Oh, so sorry. We were just rehearsing our play, and it seems Rocky got a tad bit too excited. Do forgive us." He said through his nose.

"Erm. ...Sure..." I sputter out, not quite knowing how else to respond. For one thing the deed had been done, for another this dude was freaking me out.

"Pardon me." he said as he stepped past me and bent over the person that had fallen through my ceiling. "Oh he's dead," he lamented, looking up through the hole in the ceiling at a muscular man with blonde hair and a tan. "You've killed another one Rocky, you bad, bad boy!"

"Ugh!" was all the blonde man responded with.

Then a woman with a sickly pale face, and impossibly frizzy red hair appeared in the hole alongside the blonde man

"So now how are ve going to finish rehearsals if Rocky keeps killing the main actor?" she deadpanned in an accent I didn't quite recognize.

Then all three turned to look at me, as if I of all people could help them.

"Won't you come up and have a drink? I think there is a little favor you could do for us." The freak said.

Against all shred of common sense I had, I went ahead and went up with him...not that I had much of a choice since he had taken me by the wrist and dragged me to the stairs before he could even finish his sentence. He pushed me through their apartment door and slammed the door shut behind us. All in all there were five of them: of course the freak, the red haired woman, and the muscular man with blonde hair and a tan, but there was also another girl with red hair, but hers was short, and impossibly straight instead of frizzy, she wore multicolored sparkly shorts, a sparkly gold jacket, and a top hat to match, and she was tap dancing to music being played by the fifth person, who was an old German man in a wheelchair. The girl with the sparkly outfit she saw me, and danced over to me.

"Hi! I'm Columbia! What's your name?" she said in a voice that not only grated on my eardrums, but on my nerves as well.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you over your outfit." I said, though I didn't mean to and I suddenly felt like a pompous goat. But apparently all was well because she just laughed (momentarily making me wish I had offended her afterall.)

"I know it's a bit loud... it's my costume for the show we're putting together. Anything for the sake of showmanship!"

"I mean I think it's neat..." I fibbed, "it's very, erm, er..ummmm...eye-catching."

She just laughed again, and backtracked to where we were before her shorts interfered. "Your name?"

"Oh, sorry. My name is Christian."

Just then the freak came over with a bottle of green liquid and escorted me over to their set they had put up for rehearsal. He introduced himself as Riff-Raff, and the redhaired woman as Magenta, his sister and girlfriend. I already knew Rocky's name from moments earlier, and the man in the wheelchair was called Dr. Scott. They then dressed me in a corset, knickers, stockings, and garters and resumed practicing their show. For awhile I didn't know what to do, or why I was there, or how it had come to pass that I was a 25 fucking year old man standing in a room of strangers wearing women's lingerie. Not to mention the fact that I had no idea how to discreetly dislodge a killer wedgie...


I think that there is something in that for all of us.