The Parasite | Eminem

47

- Marshall's Perspective -

It was complete bullshit.
Complete, pussy shit.
I couldn't believe it.
Steely Dan?
Seriously?

It's all because of the fucking protesters.
They wouldn't have given one fucking shit if no one was saying shit bout me.
They don't really care.

"It's all cause they was scared of the controversy! Two-faced fuckers! You make me perform for your show and then rob me like that?" I scoff angrily.
Marlow seemed at least disconnected and at most completely aloof.
Her eyes were wide but in that strange way I'd never seen before.

"None of this matters. The Grammys is shit. None of this is real. It's all a scam. Everything's a scam." She emitted before falling into another stint of silence, staring up at the large black ceiling.
Marlow's currently got the consistency of a molesting priest.
She's all over the place, high and low.

"There's two-hundred people out protesting against you right now. They couldn't afford to give it to you." Dre tells me, leaning against the vanity in my dressing room.
"But yeah, they clean robbed your ass" he grunts before looking over at Marlow as if he's expecting her to say something.
He can't really see what I see in her.
He don't got the vision.
Maybe he thinks she'll finally say something prominent and impactful.
I hope she will.
It's in moments like this that her cynical motivation is always very much welcome.

"What?" She asks curiously, looking around at all of us "You want my opinion?" She questions further, whipping a piece of lavender out from her bra.
What the fuck.
She inhales the scent of the dead plant before looking back up at us.
She surveys our expecting looks, raising an eyebrow.
I don't even know what I'm expecting from her, but I want her to spout her tone-deaf words of comfort.

"Forget about it. We all die. We're all decaying matter. You won the best rap album, but the maggots that are gonna feast on you won't give two shits. You can't bring your accomplishments to the grave with you." She tells me in a calm statement.
There's Marlow.
The Marlow that's been gone for months.
She's back and as horrible as ever.
This time, she's sniffing a piece of lavender in place of chain smoking.
"The Grammys are absurd. Everything is absurd."

"Jesus Christ" Dre sighs, his eyes coming to mine.
He gives me that perplexed look, the one that asks me what my deal is.
What's up with your taste in women?

"Well, you changed since the last time I talked to you" I scoff lightly, letting out a bitter laugh.
Marlow can make decisions on a dime.
You know when you're that type of sad when you wish you could just snap out of it?
Marlow can actually snap out of it.

"I am enlightened." She simply hums passionately, continuing to inhale long breaths of the flowered plant.

"I just know all them news outlets are gonna be talkin' bout it." I grumble, tossing my head back against the wall I'm pressed up against.

"Man, you ain't need to sweat those faggots" Dre tells me before looking down at his Rolex.

"People who write those magazines are lifeless drones for Capitalism" Marlow tells me, sinking into the small brown velvet love seat.
"They... wear their tie-die tub tops or their band tee-shirts and talk about how much they aren't like other people... but they aren't enlightened."

"Sure yeah, what she says" Dre mumbles, giving out to an awkward look as he watches her play with the little spry of Lavender in her fingers.

"Are you good?" I question, directed at the woman who's currently laying on the couch and playing with a dead plant.
Where'd she even get that?