Tragic Endings (Eminem Fanfic)

Marshall's P.O.V.

Fuck me, when does this shit end?! I think to myself as I sit in the studio next to Dre as I'm being interviewed about my upcoming album.

It's not that I hate interviews but sometimes I just don't wanna be fucking bothered man. But I understand that it's important for promotional purposes and shit.

But sometimes, some of these reporters can really bug me man. Them and those questions they like to ask me.

Like this motherfucker right here, asking me:

"So what do you think of psychotherapy? A lot of people out there think you need it."

I just stare at him for a very long time before I answer. The whole time, I can feel Dre side eyeing me too, giving me that look he be giving me whenever I'm being interviewed, like he's silently telling me that I better not say no dumb wild shit. I honestly have no idea why he be thinking imma flip out during these interviews yo. I know how to conduct myself when I need too.

I lean forward in my chair slightly and reply:

"I think it's bullshit. I don't need no shrink. My music is my shrink, you know? What are you gonna do, you gonna pay a guy to sit there and listen to your problems, and dump your heart out? Let the world do that. The world is my fuckin' therapist. I tell the world my problems, and that's it."

Dre seems to relax a bit, I have no idea what he thought I was gonna say for real. Then the reporter asks me the next question:

"What would have happened if you didn't get the chance to tell the world your problems?"

"I would be either still workin' at that restaurant, Gilbert's Lodge, or I would have gone postal at Gilbert's Lodge."

The reporter then asks me where am I the most honest and what's my biggest fear.

"In the songs. If you listen to them and don't take the words out of context, they'll tell you why I'm saying this or that. Why do I have to sit here and explain myself? Just listen to the fucking songs. They will tell you everything. I'm paranoid as fuck about anything of mine sounding like a track I just did or like anything else out there."

It then goes on like this for a while, and I'm actually not irritated anymore, because this person is actually asking me questions about my music and not nothing about what school did I go to or which hood I grew up in, which always gets on my last nerve when they ask me that.

So I guess this ain't too bad.

Then the usual questions start. How's it being a white guy in a predominantly black music industry, do you wish you were black, did you grow up in an old black neighborhood, were the majority of your friends black.

Being asked shit like this is annoying, but I guess it just comes with the territory.

Another usual tired question: Are you a misogynist, are you homophobic, do you hate your mother.

Then, out of a left field, this reporter wants me to address the rumors about certain famous females I'm rumored to be fucking, or the polite term, dating.

"I'm going to name names; just say true or false," the reporter says, and I just shrug.

"Britney Spears? Christina Aguilera?"

"False, I won't touch neither of them with a 10 foot pole," I deadpan, but it's actually a lie, because I have fucked both of them in the past. I ain't never gonna admit to that though, since I supposed to hate these fucking pop tarts.