They can never love! (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} _peapod) wrote,@ 2005-05-31 00:37:00 |
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draco/(eminem) part 5
longer this time. r for language.
Draco spends the limo ride to the stadium staring out of the window at the low, grey sky and trying to ignore the rap music blaring out of the speakers. At the other end of the car’s mile-wide seat Ramone is on the phone to, apparently, a Doctor. Maybe Draco is mistaken, though: it’s difficult to hear above the rhythmical bellows of a rather angry man who’s “still got love for the streets”.
Marshall is hiding in the mini bar.
--
At the stadium, Draco is bundled out of the limo and into the building as quickly as possible. There’s already a large crowd of people hanging around outside the main entrance. Most of them are wearing baseball caps. Three huge men with walkie-talkies and too much gold jewellery hold the crowd at bay as Ramone pushes Draco through a side door, shouting “no autographs, a’ight!”
Then he’s shoved into a dressing room with a gold star on the door and told to wait until the Sound Guys are finished setting up. Rehearsal has been scrapped because, as one of the men with walkie-talkies explained, “We wasted too much time already, motherfucker. Anyway, you don’t know yo’ shit by now, ain’t no hope for you.” Excellent, thinks Draco. Truly fantastic.
The dressing room is a sizeable room with a full bottle of Jack Daniels and three tumblers on the table. Draco helps himself to a small shot, and then a larger one. Then he has one more for luck.
Jermaine and Ramone took off looking harassed once they were safely inside, and Big D hasn’t been around all day. Draco sits back in a director’s chair (it has Marshall’s name on the back in blue letters) and wonders if he has time to drink himself into a stupor before somebody comes to haul him on stage. As he considers his chances, a mist appears in the middle of the air and coagulates into Marshall.
“Yo. Stop drinking, dog, you got a show to go to.”
“I am trying,” says Draco with great dignity, “to numb the pain of my existence.”
Marshall runs a hand over his hair. “We all been there, man.
But I told you, you got to do this for me, a’ight? So you just gonna have to deal with it.”
“But I don’t know any of your songs! I don’t even sound anything like you. Do you really think I have an ice cube’s chance in hell of pulling this off?”
“Whoa, leave Ice Cube outta this, dog. But shit, you right. I forgot you don’t know my shit.”
“You really didn’t think this through properly, did you?” Draco helps himself to another Jack Daniels. His pinkie finger has started to shake uncontrollably.
“Nope. I been a bit preoccupied with bein’ a ghost, you know?”
“I still can’t believe your friends haven’t noticed I’m not you. I mean, we might look pretty much identical, but I have an English accent, for God’s sake!”
“They ain’t spoke to you much, dog. They too busy running yo’ life to do that shit.” Marshall is staring enviously at Draco’s half empty tumbler. “I wish I could have a fuckin’ drink, man.”
“Sorry.” Draco puts the tumbler down and tries to stop his leg twitching. “Seriously, Marshall, how am I ever going to pull this off?”
Marshall screws up his face in concentration. “Hold on. I’ll be right back, I got a idea. Get dressed meanwhile, a’ight. Oh, and cut yo’ hair, you look like a fag.”
He disappears with a faint pop. Draco glances at the portable wardrobe. It contains a pair of oversized dungarees and a white hockey mask, to which is attached a label that says “EMINEM”. Nearby, on the dressing table, there’s a pair of nail scissors, along with a box decorated with a drawing of a marijuana leaf (which Draco recognises from one of Longbottom’s more popular experiments in Herbology) and a framed photograph of a little girl wearing a pink dress and an enormous baseball cap. Draco gives it a funny look and turns his attention back to the nail scissors.
He can’t cut his hair. It’s out of the question. His hair is his pride and joy, and – he risks a peek in the mirror. His hair is a mess. He’s too drunk to care. Draco picks up the scissors and blindly starts to cut.
--
Marshall reappears to find Draco swathed in the dungarees, strands of blond hair covering his lap and an empty bottle of JD in his hand.
“’Sup?”
“I hate you. I hate everything. My life is a fart. Farce. My life is a farce. I hate you so much. And you know, you know who else I hate? Harry Potter. I really really hate Hairy fucking did you see I cut my hair? It’s all gone.” Draco upends the bottle of Jack Daniels and looks mournful when nothing comes out. “It’s all…gone.”
“You are one wasted motherfucker.”
“Yep. Hey, who’s the picture of?”
Marshall’s face goes pinched. “That’s just. That’s my daughter. Look, dog, you got to sober up. I just spoke to a friend and he give me an idea but it ain’t gonna work if you fallin’ all over the place, a’ight?”
Draco attempts to focus and ends up staring in the mirror. His hair is uneven, close to the scalp in some places and sticking up in little tufts on others.
“Yo, dog, over here.”
“Who’d you speak to?”
“Dog called Biggie. He helping me out with this death shit. S’why I ain’t gone crazy yet and started throwing shit around all poltergeist-y. Okay, he says there’s this thing we can try, but -”
Marshall is interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Yo, Em, we ready for you now, dog. You better be ready in there!”
--
On the walk to the stage, Draco is accosted by a man Marshall tells him is his manager Paul Rosenberg, three young women who appear to be high on some sort of drug, a group of black men whom he has known “from the start, dog,” and a twelve year old boy with leukaemia whose lifelong dream it is to meet Eminem. Draco pats him on the head and feels like a fraud. The audience can be heard even from the maze of corridors between dressing room and stage.
The stage is dark and the auditorium is vast. Draco wants to be sick. There’s no support act, Marshall tells him, because “People pay to see me, dog, not some C-list motherfucker with A-list ideas”. Instead, there’s some sort of MC on stage warming up the crowd, who are about 190 degrees already. Draco tries not to listen to him.
“You got yo’ cue?” Ramone is sitting just offstage, a scantily clad girl with enormous breasts perched on his lap. Where did she come from? Draco glares at her and she pouts at him with collagen-enhanced lips.
“Uh, yeah. I know.”
Marshall is standing right by him, a damp mist against Draco’s shoulder. “You do exactly what I say, dog, you gonna be fine.”
He doesn’t sound so sure. There’s a sudden explosion from in front of them and the stage fills with smoke. Marshall nudges him. It’s like being rained on by a very small cloud.
“That’s yo’ cue, dog. You got yo’ chainsaw?”
Draco waves it weakly aloft.
“Ok, good. You ready for this?” Marshall doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead he steps sideways, into Draco, and it’s like drowning in fog. The next time Marshall speaks, his voice echoes inside Draco’s head.
“Fuck, it worked. Okay, step forward.”
Draco obeys unthinkingly. Dazzling lights hit him in the face and his eyes start to water.
“Rev the chainsaw. You doin’ good, dog. Now grab yo’ balls.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Draco’s voice booms out of the speakers that frame the stage.
“Shut the fuck up! You got to let me do the talking, a’ight? Now grab yo’ balls.”
Feeling slightly foolish, Draco complies.
“A’ight, you ready?” Draco’s goes to answer but it isn’t him speaking. Instead, Marshall’s voice comes from his mouth and fills the stadium.
“Hi,” he shouts, “my name is what? My name is who? My name is –“
Draco Malfoy, thinks Draco.
[part six]
coming up: harry meets eminem and draco meets elton john. stay tuned!
longer this time. r for language.
Draco spends the limo ride to the stadium staring out of the window at the low, grey sky and trying to ignore the rap music blaring out of the speakers. At the other end of the car’s mile-wide seat Ramone is on the phone to, apparently, a Doctor. Maybe Draco is mistaken, though: it’s difficult to hear above the rhythmical bellows of a rather angry man who’s “still got love for the streets”.
Marshall is hiding in the mini bar.
--
At the stadium, Draco is bundled out of the limo and into the building as quickly as possible. There’s already a large crowd of people hanging around outside the main entrance. Most of them are wearing baseball caps. Three huge men with walkie-talkies and too much gold jewellery hold the crowd at bay as Ramone pushes Draco through a side door, shouting “no autographs, a’ight!”
Then he’s shoved into a dressing room with a gold star on the door and told to wait until the Sound Guys are finished setting up. Rehearsal has been scrapped because, as one of the men with walkie-talkies explained, “We wasted too much time already, motherfucker. Anyway, you don’t know yo’ shit by now, ain’t no hope for you.” Excellent, thinks Draco. Truly fantastic.
The dressing room is a sizeable room with a full bottle of Jack Daniels and three tumblers on the table. Draco helps himself to a small shot, and then a larger one. Then he has one more for luck.
Jermaine and Ramone took off looking harassed once they were safely inside, and Big D hasn’t been around all day. Draco sits back in a director’s chair (it has Marshall’s name on the back in blue letters) and wonders if he has time to drink himself into a stupor before somebody comes to haul him on stage. As he considers his chances, a mist appears in the middle of the air and coagulates into Marshall.
“Yo. Stop drinking, dog, you got a show to go to.”
“I am trying,” says Draco with great dignity, “to numb the pain of my existence.”
Marshall runs a hand over his hair. “We all been there, man.
But I told you, you got to do this for me, a’ight? So you just gonna have to deal with it.”
“But I don’t know any of your songs! I don’t even sound anything like you. Do you really think I have an ice cube’s chance in hell of pulling this off?”
“Whoa, leave Ice Cube outta this, dog. But shit, you right. I forgot you don’t know my shit.”
“You really didn’t think this through properly, did you?” Draco helps himself to another Jack Daniels. His pinkie finger has started to shake uncontrollably.
“Nope. I been a bit preoccupied with bein’ a ghost, you know?”
“I still can’t believe your friends haven’t noticed I’m not you. I mean, we might look pretty much identical, but I have an English accent, for God’s sake!”
“They ain’t spoke to you much, dog. They too busy running yo’ life to do that shit.” Marshall is staring enviously at Draco’s half empty tumbler. “I wish I could have a fuckin’ drink, man.”
“Sorry.” Draco puts the tumbler down and tries to stop his leg twitching. “Seriously, Marshall, how am I ever going to pull this off?”
Marshall screws up his face in concentration. “Hold on. I’ll be right back, I got a idea. Get dressed meanwhile, a’ight. Oh, and cut yo’ hair, you look like a fag.”
He disappears with a faint pop. Draco glances at the portable wardrobe. It contains a pair of oversized dungarees and a white hockey mask, to which is attached a label that says “EMINEM”. Nearby, on the dressing table, there’s a pair of nail scissors, along with a box decorated with a drawing of a marijuana leaf (which Draco recognises from one of Longbottom’s more popular experiments in Herbology) and a framed photograph of a little girl wearing a pink dress and an enormous baseball cap. Draco gives it a funny look and turns his attention back to the nail scissors.
He can’t cut his hair. It’s out of the question. His hair is his pride and joy, and – he risks a peek in the mirror. His hair is a mess. He’s too drunk to care. Draco picks up the scissors and blindly starts to cut.
--
Marshall reappears to find Draco swathed in the dungarees, strands of blond hair covering his lap and an empty bottle of JD in his hand.
“’Sup?”
“I hate you. I hate everything. My life is a fart. Farce. My life is a farce. I hate you so much. And you know, you know who else I hate? Harry Potter. I really really hate Hairy fucking did you see I cut my hair? It’s all gone.” Draco upends the bottle of Jack Daniels and looks mournful when nothing comes out. “It’s all…gone.”
“You are one wasted motherfucker.”
“Yep. Hey, who’s the picture of?”
Marshall’s face goes pinched. “That’s just. That’s my daughter. Look, dog, you got to sober up. I just spoke to a friend and he give me an idea but it ain’t gonna work if you fallin’ all over the place, a’ight?”
Draco attempts to focus and ends up staring in the mirror. His hair is uneven, close to the scalp in some places and sticking up in little tufts on others.
“Yo, dog, over here.”
“Who’d you speak to?”
“Dog called Biggie. He helping me out with this death shit. S’why I ain’t gone crazy yet and started throwing shit around all poltergeist-y. Okay, he says there’s this thing we can try, but -”
Marshall is interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Yo, Em, we ready for you now, dog. You better be ready in there!”
--
On the walk to the stage, Draco is accosted by a man Marshall tells him is his manager Paul Rosenberg, three young women who appear to be high on some sort of drug, a group of black men whom he has known “from the start, dog,” and a twelve year old boy with leukaemia whose lifelong dream it is to meet Eminem. Draco pats him on the head and feels like a fraud. The audience can be heard even from the maze of corridors between dressing room and stage.
The stage is dark and the auditorium is vast. Draco wants to be sick. There’s no support act, Marshall tells him, because “People pay to see me, dog, not some C-list motherfucker with A-list ideas”. Instead, there’s some sort of MC on stage warming up the crowd, who are about 190 degrees already. Draco tries not to listen to him.
“You got yo’ cue?” Ramone is sitting just offstage, a scantily clad girl with enormous breasts perched on his lap. Where did she come from? Draco glares at her and she pouts at him with collagen-enhanced lips.
“Uh, yeah. I know.”
Marshall is standing right by him, a damp mist against Draco’s shoulder. “You do exactly what I say, dog, you gonna be fine.”
He doesn’t sound so sure. There’s a sudden explosion from in front of them and the stage fills with smoke. Marshall nudges him. It’s like being rained on by a very small cloud.
“That’s yo’ cue, dog. You got yo’ chainsaw?”
Draco waves it weakly aloft.
“Ok, good. You ready for this?” Marshall doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead he steps sideways, into Draco, and it’s like drowning in fog. The next time Marshall speaks, his voice echoes inside Draco’s head.
“Fuck, it worked. Okay, step forward.”
Draco obeys unthinkingly. Dazzling lights hit him in the face and his eyes start to water.
“Rev the chainsaw. You doin’ good, dog. Now grab yo’ balls.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Draco’s voice booms out of the speakers that frame the stage.
“Shut the fuck up! You got to let me do the talking, a’ight? Now grab yo’ balls.”
Feeling slightly foolish, Draco complies.
“A’ight, you ready?” Draco’s goes to answer but it isn’t him speaking. Instead, Marshall’s voice comes from his mouth and fills the stadium.
“Hi,” he shouts, “my name is what? My name is who? My name is –“
Draco Malfoy, thinks Draco.
[part six]
coming up: harry meets eminem and draco meets elton john. stay tuned!
