The Parasite | Eminem

07

"God, I wanna throw up..." I grunt, slamming my fist on the table before gripping at my throat.
Part of me wishes it would all just come out already.
I get to make a huge mess of an L.A. bar.
That might make this all less boring.

"Go to the fucking bathroom, don't throw up on us" Marshall chuckles, tossing back a shot of tequila.
His face is flushed, his body lazily strewn about the booth.

My dad doesn't look like he wants to be here, only sipping on two total drinks, keeping a keen eye on his drunk client.
I know I suggested this, but all I want is to go to bed.

Marshall wraps his arm around my shoulders and lifts a shot glass to my lips.
"If you're gonna throw up, at least get your money's worth first."
I'm covering the alcohol tonight.
Bad idea, considering how much Marshall wanted to order.
It's fine, I can cut down on my book budget for a while.

"Marshall, please get off my daughter" Paul grunts, watching us from the other side of the booth.
He looks generally displeased in most moments.
He knows I can speak my own mind, obviously, but occasionally he still gets protective over his menace of a child.

"Fuck you Paul, you're fuckin' fired, you fat fuck, you're fired!" Marshall shouts, leaning in further and resting his face in the crook of my neck.
Ok, thanks but no thanks.
I bring my palm to his head, gripping at his short hair and pulling his head back.
He lets out a hiccup, giving me a droopy and delusional grin of intoxicated happiness.

"I'm fucking leaving" Paul threaten.
He doesn't, but he always pretends to when Marshall claims he'll fire him.

"Open wide... Here comes the airplane..." Marshall sings, letting out cooing noises, moving the shot glass through the air before pressing it to my lips.
Suddenly murder doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

"I'm going to smother you in your sleep." I grunt, grabbing the shot glass and placing it back on the table.
I'm getting tired of this man.
This man who's three years older than me yet acting like a sixteen year old.

"Mmm, that's fine." He giggles, grabbing the shot for the second time, this time downing it himself.
Yeah, add even more alcohol into the equation, just what we need.

I could use him to my advantage if I wanted.
Have him make a scene, get him kicked out.
He's easily moldable when drunk.

"Hey Marshall..." I whisper, leaning in to his ear.
I glance at my father quickly, watching him raise an eyebrow.
"I heard that guy over there call you a bitch."
The effects are instant.
Chaos.
I'm the world's dangerous leech.
I'm the world's multiplying virus.

"Bitch? Bitch I'll fucking kill him! Let me out! Let me fuckin' out of the fuckin' booth! This motherfucker's the bitch!" He shouts, pushing me out and casting me aside, heading up to the complete stranger who did not call Marshall anything.
Perfection is made in moments like this.
Pure evil perfection.

Pushing the dude from behind, this stupid little white boy in a polo top turns around and gives out a look of complete shock.
Perfection.
"You fuckin' pussy! Won't call me a bitch to my face?! You fuckin' little bitch, I'll fuck you up!"
Perfection.

"What the fuck did you do, Marlow?" Paul's words don't matter now.
It's already done.

"What? I didn't say-" The dude attempts to clear things up. Futile.
Marshall knees him in the nuts.
This is my ecstasy.

"Oh I'm sure you didn't ya little punk!" He shouts, taking full advantage before he's stripped away by my father.
Everyone's looking.
This is perfection.

"You, come with me now." my father shouts, glaring daggers at me.
Aw.
He's never any fun.

Oh well.
I got my dose of adrenaline for the day.
I can sleep peacefully.