The Eminem Show

Track 1 - White America

[America!! Hahaha! We love you!How many people are proud to be citizens of this beautiful country of ours?
The stripes and the stars for the rights that men have died for to protect
The women and men who have broke their necks for the freedom of speech
the United States government has sworn to uphold..
(Yo, I want everybody to listen to the words of this song) ..or so we're told] 

Marshall watched as the crowd’s energy grew tenfold, the air sizzled with the electricity of the hype, the anticipation coursing through the audience.  The intro started to fade out, and he scuffed onto the stage.

His eyes rounded briefly as the crowd enormity hit him in the gut; it was huge, hands were already in the air as the song’s beat carried the energy higher and higher.  On automatic, his head bobbed as the bass was turned to maximum volume; it reverberated through the arena, thudded against the ground—shaking and running through it.  Like an earthquake exploding beneath everyone’s feet, meshing with their own bobbing and weaving, their own jumping and stomping as the song progressed.

[I never woulda dreamed in a million years I'd see
so many motherfuckin’ people, who feel like me
Who share the same views and the same exact beliefs
It's like a fuckin’ ARMY marchin’ in back of me]

It always amazed him as his lyrics touched the ears of his audience; the truth of it hitting exactly where he wanted it to—people were unquestionably changed because of his presence, his lyrics, his truthful experiences—his storytelling.  The media crushed him, criticizing him until nothing was left but the truth; the very thing they hated him for exploiting, but the driving force behind everything he did.  Every movement, every thought, and every written word.  His voice didn’t make millions because of its sound, but the strength of his convictions.

[So many lives I touched, so much anger aimed
in no particular direction, just sprays and sprays
And straight through your radio waves, it plays and plays
'til it stays stuck in your head, for days and days
Who woulda thought; standin’ in this mirror bleachin’ my hair
with some peroxide, reachin’ for a t-shirt to wear
that I would catapult to the forefront of rap like this?]
 
Insanity – that’s what his show was about.  The insanity within his own mind; that bit of instability that crept over his consciousness, that brought the dangers of his subconscious to the forefront.  Brought those deep inner thoughts to the surface and onto the blank pages of a notebook that stared at him, taunting him, and challenging him to write something harder, better, with a larger impact than everything done before.

He lived between his daughter and his music; unable to decide which gave him more strength.  Sometimes his daughter.

But sometimes his music won over her.  Not always, but there were moments.

He hated himself for enjoying the attention, all the drama his music created with uptight parents and rebellious teenagers.  The media’s attacks and lawsuits drawn against him.

[How could I predict my words would have an impact like this?
I must've struck a chord with somebody up in the office
Cause Congress keep tellin’ me, I ain't causin’ nothin’ but problems
And now they're sayin’ I'm in trouble with the government - I'm lovin’ it!
I shoveled shit all my life, and now I'm dumpin’ it on]

Who’d have thought? a voice in his mind screamed.  He knew his success was based on a man riding a lucky streak longer than hell’s stairway.  The further he got, the bigger his footsteps were.  He left people hanging, begging, and desperately seeking more and more.  And he’d give it to him.

He’d bag on his ex-wife, he’d love his daughter, and he’d give the world one more ounce of his mind.

He’d lose himself in the crowd, in the energy, and in the music.  

[White America! I could be one of your kids
White America! Little Eric looks just like this
White America! Erica loves my shit
I go to TRL; look how many hugs I get!]

He thought of all the girls that adored him; the women who flashed their breasts at him, lifted their shirts so easily, just begging him to take more than a glance at them.  For him to be amused by their cheap antics; but he’d steeled himself from those kind of tricks.  He’d had his share of tricks.  Marshall would smile on occasion, hug his fans, and pretend to be enthralled with their adoration.  But their adoration was misplaced—it was dangerous sometimes.  

[Look at these eyes, baby blue, baby just like yourself
If they were brown Shady lose, Shady sits on the shelf
But Shady's cute, Shady knew Shady's dimples would help
Make ladies swoon baby (ooh baby!) Look at my sales
Let's do the math - if I was black, I woulda sold half
I ain't have to graduate from LincolnHigh School to know that]

The crowd grew restless as the song filtered through the hot, stale air.  His voice carrying to over to the very depths of the crowd and back into his own ears.

I’m just a white man who made it good.  I ain’t nobody special, but somebody gave me the fifteen minutes to be somebody.  And I did it, he thought as he approached the edge of the stage, knelt down to shake hands with the fans pressed to the gates as security watched over warily, murderously.

[But I could rap, so fuck school, I'm too cool to go back
Gimme the mic, show me where the fuckin’ studio's at 
When I was underground, no one gave a fuck I was white 
No labels wanted to sign me, almost gave up I was like
Fuck it - until I met Dre, the only one to look past
Gave me a chance and I lit a FIRE up under his ass
Helped him get back to the top, every fan black that I got
was probably his in exchange for every white fan that he's got
Like damn; we just swapped - sittin back lookin at shit, wow
I'm like my skin is it startin to work to my benefit now? It's..]

I owe it to Dre, he reminded himself.  But he owed it to his life.  To all the shit that had trampled over him, to the people who used and abused him—from loved ones to his foes.  He owed it to them, but he’d never tell them how vital their part in his life was.  His songs did enough as it was.  He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

[See the problem is, I speak to suburban kids
who otherwise woulda never knew these words exist
Whose moms probably woulda never gave two squirts of piss
'til I created so much motherfuckin turbulence!]
 
The stage shook as the bass beats drummed through the platform.  From the speakers it thundered into the crowd.  They absorbed it, flowed with it, acted as if it was their very life source as their hands swayed and lighters flicked on and off from the start to finish.

[Straight out the tube, right into your living rooms I came
And kids flipped, when they knew I was produced by Dre
That's all it took, and they were instantly hooked right in
And they connected with me too because I looked like them
That's why they put my lyrics up under this microscope
Searchin with a fine tooth comb, it's like this rope
waitin to choke; tightenin around my throat
Watchin me while I write this, like I don't like this (Nope!)]

There was satisfaction in knowing that the words he spit into the microphone penetrated the youthful minds in the crowd; that those lyrics repeated through them.  He watched their mouths sing the lyrics, rap them, feel them.

His adrenaline raced and rushed through his system, coursing violently as he moved with the music.

[All I hear is: lyrics, lyrics, constant controversy, sponsors working
round the clock to try to stop my concerts early, surely
Hip-Hop was never a problem in Harlem only in Boston
After it bothered the fathers of daughters startin to blossom
So now I'm catchin the flack from these activists when they raggin
Actin like I'm the first rapper to smack a bitch or say faggot, shit!
Just look at me like I'm your closest pal
The posterchild, the motherfuckin spokesman now for..]

He stumbled around the stage, acted as his stage persona permitted.  He staggered and he fell to his knees.  This was what performing was about—reaching heights never given by anything else, and falling to lows beyond thought.  Marshall put everything into his performances; mind, body, and soul from the first chord to the last drumline.  He incorporated himself into the very core of a concert.

[So to the parents of America
I am the derringer aimed at little Erica to attack her character
The ringleader of this circus of worthless pawns
Sent to lead the march right up to the steps of Congress
and piss on the lawns of the White House
To burn the {flag} and replace it with a Parental Advisory sticker
To spit liquor in the faces of this democracy of hypocrisy
Fuck you Ms. Cheney! Fuck you Tipper Gore!
Fuck you with the free-est of speech
this Divided States of Embarassment will allow me to have
Fuck you!]

“I'm just playinAmerica, you know I love you,” he said and retreated off the stage to recuperate for the briefest of seconds before entering the next phase of the phenomenon that built the man, that made the man, and succeeded the man by the name of Eminem.

Chapter 2

Author: zines@aol.com

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These stories are for entertainment purposes only.  They are completely fictitious, and the authors mean no harm to EMINEM, his family, friends, or anyone else that may have been depicted as a 'real life' character.  No money was made on the fiction here, either directly or indirectly, i.e. paid advertising. In other words - it's just a bunch of shit we wrote for fun. Please don't take it seriously.