Marshall's P.O.V.
Standing up on that stage, all I can see is ants in the back.
I ain't never thought I would ever grow to be this huge but yet, somehow I have.
All these people shouting my name, ain't even gonna lie, it's like a fucking drug and a huge boost to my ego.
" Slim Shady!!"
"Eminem!!"
"Marshall!!"
"I love you!!"
"You are the best!!"
Various shouts come from the crowd as I grab the mic, gripping it tight in both of my hands as I start to rap.
I don't make no eye contact with the audience for a while, just doing my thing and being in this trance like state.
Until DeShaun lightly taps me on the shoulder, breaking me out of whatever daze I was just in. He's on stage here with me, acting as my hype man and shit.
And I know that he's right in what he's trying to insinuate to me. I do gotta connect with my fans, they the ones that made me this big after all.
I smirk and look into the crowd.
Mostly consisting of young blonde white girls.
There some dudes there too, but yeah, ladies really like them some Slim Shady.
My alter ego I had come up with while sitting on a john one day.
Bleached my hair to further that image too.
Now that's all everybody ever wants, they all want Shady, I'm chopped liver.
Oh well. As long as they want some part of me, I guess.
I adjust the white hockey mask on my face and continue to rap into the mic, occasionally picking up the chainsaw prop laying on the stage and waving it at the crowd, causing shrieks and delighted squeals to emanate from them.
I talk about doing drugs, killing sluts, raping my own mother, and the audience just eats it all up.
When I poor a bottle of water over my head, the bitches at the bottom of the stage go crazy, It's really doing it for them, I guess. Something as simple as a motherfucker pouring a bottle of water over his head simply because he's uncomfortably hot from jumpikg up and down on stage all day and needed to cool off. I could have a pick of any of them sluts once the show is over. As long as they are of age, of course.
I've been going like this for years, ever since I blew up. I went from being a nobody, a white trailer park trash to one of the biggest rap superstars, and I should be fucking happy.
Yet, something is missing.
Something is wrong, and I don't know what it is, can't quite put my finger on it.
My life feels artificial somehow, like it's all a dream. A cruel fucking joke, and I have no idea why.
Not to mention, I keep thinking I must be forgetting something. Something real important to me, but what is it?!
"Marshall!!" Kim's, that's my wife, shrill voice in my ear once I'm done with my set and she calls me.
"What is it, Kim?" I sigh. How I ended up married to her, I have no idea. We was done years ago, and yet somehow...
"I need money to get my nails done. And get a new purse," Kim whines over the phone and I can just picture her pouting.
"Aight shit, you already know that I got you," I shrug, hanging up the phone.
"Marshall!!" My manager Paul Rosenberg this time. Walking up to me. "You did a great job as usual kid, and I'm proud of you," he pats me on the back with one of his large hands as I frown.
"Yeah cool, thanks, Paul," I say emotionlessly.
Something keeps nagging me, bugging the fuck out of me, and this time I can't shake the feeling off at all.
"Well. Listen, man. I have some news for you. That pop singer Rihanna that you had reached out to? She's agreed to work with you," Paul announces happily, causing me to frown as I scratch my head.
Rihanna? Who the fuck is that again?!
Rihanna. Robyn Rihanna Fenty.
Robyn...
I keep feeling like I know her. Which, of course I do. She's an internationally know superstar. Just like me. So of course, I'd know who the fuck this chick is.
"Aight, Paul. Cool. Set the recording session up then. At the studio," I wave Paul off, getting ready for my After Party. All kinds of groupies waiting on me to fuck them on there. Ready for me Rock their worlds and shit. Can't say that I'm complaining.
..........
Days later, I'm sat at the studio with my entire entourage, waiting on Rihanna to make an appearance.
She's a pretty girl, I ain't even gonna front.
And her rocky abusive relationship with her ex, Chris Brown, makes her perfect to sing the hook on my song.
But I can't help but feel weird about this whole thing though.
Something about her.
"Hi, Em," she makes her way into the room, smiling brightly.
"Yo," is all I can say. I'm so stunned by her in person it's fucking embarrassing.
Rihanna smiles and gives me a hug. She smells good. And familiar.
"You can call me, Marshall, girl. Fuck the formalities," I shrug, and she nods eagerly.
"Oh okay, cool. You can call me Robyn then. I'm surprised you didn't want me calling you Shady, though."
"Huh?"
"I mean, isn't it your alter ego? Slim Shady?" She smiles.
"No, I..." I start to say, then get hit with the worst pain ever in my head.
It's completely random, but blazing and defeating, and I have absolutely no idea what the fuck is going on.
"Marshall, are you okay?!" Robyn exclaims in a panic, just as I crash to the floor, cradling my pulsing skull in my hands.
"MARSHALL!!"
"SHADY!!"
The lights flicker and my reality collapses all around me.
Bars of the cage I'm being kept in rattling.
My life flashes, the plane that I was supposed to be on crashes...
My eyes blink rapidly as I sit up on the floor of the cage, starring wildly about me.
Eventually, the cage slowly but surely fades away, and I find myself laying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling at first, then into a pair of huge hazel eyes of my girlfriend.
"Marshall," Robyn repeats incredulously. She grabs my chin and studies my face intently. "It really is, YOU. I know this because of your eyes. They are blue again."
Huh?! What the fuck?!
I try to move but I can't.
I'm restrained by something.
The fucking handcuffs.
How the tables have turned, yo...