Disclaimer: I do not own anything except myself. Mel Brooks, Gary Beach, and the elusive Roger Bart are the ones responsible for bringing these characters to life as well as many others behind the making of the musical whose names I do not currently know. From my all time favorite scene in The Producers, may I present my fan fiction!

Deep within the walls of a brightly lit upper eastside townhouse in greater New York, Carmen Ghia absent-mindedly fingered his Italian neckpiece in front of his antique typewriter. He had been taking advantage of the nearly vacant building, racking his brain all afternoon for a grand idea to write about to post on a little website called . There were so many topics he could drabble upon, but like so many other firsts in his life, Carmen had to cautiously test the water before wading in. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. He crossed his arms in frustration, staring at the untouched machine in front of him.

"Stupid blank paper, how it mocks me," Carmen muttered to himself. How does Roger think up such wonderful fantasies yet to be invented? The most eccentric director who ever lived could muster new standards of imagination in a blink of an eye when he tried. His presence alone could be the difference between a Broadway flop and a hit! "It always came easy for Roger," he mused aloud.

His eyes widened with a sudden epiphany; perhaps he could write about him? About them? His pulse quickened at the thought. The "who" of the story was settled. The question now was "what" to write. Taking a brief glance around his home, Carmen sifted through his memories and found nothing he wanted to change or improve about his life. As far he was concerned, every moment shared with his dear companion had been pure bliss!

RING! The phone on the round table nearby shook Carmen from his thoughts. "Figures; just when I almost had something you HAD to ruin it!" He frowned and picked up the dainty telephone, pinky outstretched. "Good afternoon, you've reached the renowned theatrical director Roger DeBris's elegant upper Eastside townhouse on a remarkably sunny New York day in August. Who may I ask is calling?" Whoever was on the other line took a pause to let Carmen's intro sink in before responding.

"Hi there! Carmen, is it? Would you be a dear and put Roger on? I've been wanting to speak to him about that little fling we had way back when he—". Carmen recognized that voice at once; it belonged to Lady DeJean, that clingy transsexual who had once locked himself in a coat closet with the director at a wine tasting party until he succumbed to his sick demands. Balancing one hand on his hip, Carmen gave the phone a disgusting look before hissing angrily, "Listen, you broken-down old...queen. He was drunk, he was hot, you got lucky! Don't EVER call here again!" He closed his line before the other could retort. That was certainly one night he hoped to purge from his memory.

"Maybe..." Carmen began, smoothing his scattered thoughts into a storyline. "It's a wild idea, but it just might work!" Through fan-fiction, he certainly had the power to revise the repugnant reality that haunted his mind. Instead of a wine party, why not a debutante ball where he and Roger first met over spirited fruit punch? "Ah, sweet memories. This shall be a drama, no...a comedy!" Dramas involved tears, suffering, and lots of fluffy stuff he didn't feel was necessary or uplifting. Quite frankly, they annoyed him to the point of puking up French onion soup—the Twilight fans never forgave him.

Clack, clack clack, sang the typewriter as Carmen began to duplicate his ideas on paper. It was remarkable how uncomplicated writing was once the paragraphs constructed themselves before his eyes. "If you're blue and you don't know where to go to, why don't you go where fashion sits?" he hummed merrily to himself. "Puttin' on the Ritz!"

From the second floor directly above where Carmen was busily typing, Roger DeBris spent the afternoon in his exquisite bathroom, clearly in a fix. Much to his dismay, he woke up from a catnap to find slight wrinkle lines creasing in his middle-aged face. "Th-This cannot be happening to me!" he cried, pouting into the mirror. "I'm much too young to stop being gorgeous!" He took out various creams and foundations and got to work. At a closer look, another wrinkle made itself visible in the corner of his eye. "Oh no; the worry line!"

For nearly half an hour he stood in his mini boutique, struggling desperately to veil his midlife crisis. He paused in the middle of dusting his cheekbone with his ULTA-approved bronzer to notice the faint click-clacking noise emitting from below him. Carmen! For all he knew, Roger was still in bed. Pushing aside his makeup, the director slipped into his fuzzy pink slippers and made his way downstairs.

He found his partner in the study too immersed in whatever he was typing to notice his presence. Roger noted how adorable Carmen looked when he wrote—how the tip of his tongue liked to poke playfully out between his lips whilst in deep thought. He heaved an audible sigh, which he immediately regretted once Carmen looked up from his story. "Oh, Roger, I did not hear you come in. Did you have a nice nap?"

"It was most refreshing, dearest. Thank you," said Roger, curious as to what his friend was writing. He didn't have to ask; Carmen was an expert at reading body language.

"Darling, if you really want to see it, I won't keep any secrets from you." Roger beamed at him lovingly and hurried behind the typewriter. With wide eyes, he scanned the paper thoroughly, taking in every word.

"It's about us," he breathed. Carmen nodded with a smile. It didn't take long before they were both on the floor in fits of laughter. "You made Lady DeJean fourth place in a beauty contest when there were only three of us in it? Carmen, this is drenched with genius!"

"Aww, it's nothing, really. Truth be told, I have no idea how to finish it. After the talent scout scene, my mind gives me the blue screen of death. Writer's block, so I'm told they call it." Roger curled his upper lip in a melancholy expression.

"Does this mean I may never see the ending?" he inquired with a hint of whine.

"I could try messaging someone," Carmen pondered aloud. "Sometimes, a writer in distress can call out to other fans for story advice. In fact, I know of one in particular who might be the answer..."

I examined the handwritten directions in front of me and looked up at the townhouse wrapped around a sunlit hillside. This must be the place! My watch read 4:13 in the afternoon, affirming my late arrival by nearly a quarter of an hour. Clutching my laptop in one hand, I hiked upwards to the front and rang the doorbell. "I feel pretty, oh so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and..." The recording ceased as the door swung open, revealing none other than the man who emailed me about his unfinished story.

"Yessssss?" he hissed quizzically, scrutinizing my appearance and off-guard countenance.

"Hi, I'm CityCat from . I believe we talked earlier about your writing?" His eyes lit up in recognition.

"Ah, yes! You're just the one I wanted to meet! I am Carmen Ghia. Please, do come in."

"Thanks," I replied, following him inside. I marveled at the interior design: elegant, classy and exotic. Carmen skipped ahead in the other room, beckoning me to tag along.

"Oh Roger!" he chirped in a sing-song voice. "We're not alone!"

Author's Note: That's all for now, folks! This is the part where Carmen, Roger, and I swap ideas to finish his story, which I must say is on its way to growing into a beautiful anecdote. Before I invite you for reviews, please take into consideration that this is my very first fanfic on this site. Thank you for taking the time to read my little piece of writing; it is very much appreciated. Constructive criticism is my preferred policy in terms of feedback. Please review!