Title: Threatened

Author: Granitite Stone, granitite@yahoo.com

Summary: What do you do when everything you believe about yourself is threatened?

Web Address: www.angelfire.com/weird/cobalite/index3.html

Rating: Hard R

Warning: This story contains descriptions of suicide, and may be disturbing to some readers. Viewer discretion is advised.

 

"He's been out there a long time."

 

"I know." Pete eyed his balcony. "He sober?"

 

"Far as I know." Harry set down his bottle. "I'm just gonna make sure he isn't passed out on the concrete."

 

"Go for it."

 

He opened the sliding doors and froze. When Harry finally spoke, it was barely a whisper. "Pete. Get over here."

 

Pete dragged himself out of his recliner and looked outside. "Fuck."

---

Flashback

 

"Marshall! Open the god damn door!"

 

"Go the fuck away, Kim." He opened the medicine cabinet and took out a prescription bottle. "It's my life."

 

"It's *our* life. You cannot do this to me, you bastard! You aren't taking the easy way out! Things aren't this bad, baby. Open the door."

 

"You'll be fine without me." He drew a glass of water from the tap. "You will. And then you can find someone that can actually take care of you."

 

"Fuck that, Marshall." Kim kicked at the door, digging into her purse for something to pick the lock with. "Don't, okay? Just *don't*. I love you, baby. You can't do this to me! We can find you another job."

 

"Yeah, right." He swallowed a handful of pills. "This is rock bottom, Kim. So, you take good care of my little girl and I'll see you in hell."

 

"Don't you fucking *dare* take those pills!" She shoved her nail file into the cheap lock and twisted. It snapped open, and she found Marshall on the floor. "Men. They're all so fucking weak." Semi-conscious, Kim pulled him to his knees and positioned his head over the toilet. Then she shoved a finger down his throat and made him vomit the pills up. She waited until he was done and flushed the toilet. "You don't get to leave me, understand? We're in this together. Get your act together."

 

Marshall clutched at his stomach and collapsed back to the floor. "I don't want to do this anymore! Can't you let me go?"

 

"Not a chance in hell." Kim yanked him to his feet and they stumbled towards the bedroom. "Now sleep it off, and if you survive, you're going back to that restaurant and getting your fucking job back."

 

"Go to hell."

 

"We're living it, baby. Things can't get any worse."

---

It's a lesson he's learned since then. Things can always get worse. That's why right now, Marshall was standing on a ledge over looking Detroit, getting ready to jump. "Go back inside. Right now."

 

"No fucking way!" Pete slid the door closed behind them. "No way you jump from my apartment."

 

"Marshall, man, what the hell are you doing?" Harry was used to his friend doing weird shit, but this was a little extreme for Marshall.

 

"I'm reenacting the video to 'The Way I Am.' Shit, you ain't that stupid." He stared into the Detroit night. The sky looked as dirty as he felt.

 

"What the hell brought this on? You fly home, come over, say you want a smoke, and decide to kill yourself? At my apartment!"

 

"Something like that." He was in fact smoking what he believed to be his last cigarette.

 

"Go call Dre. He flew back with Marshall." Pete pushed Harry back into the apartment. "Okay, man. You need to come down. It's just us now. Whatever's wrong with you, I'll take care of it. I don't wanna scrub you off my parking spot."

 

"You can hire someone to do that. You got money now. And this ain't something you can beat up for me, man. So, go back inside and leave me alone."

 

Below, a car screeched into said parking space. 'Dre.' If anyone could talk Marshall down, it was Dre.  "Come on inside. Ain't nothing we can't beat up for you. I can get the boys to chip in on a fucking hit man, just get off the ledge."

 

"No chance in hell, Pete. And, if you think *Dre* is going to be able to fix me, you are sadly mistaken." He flicked some ash down onto the car. "Fuck this. I'm done. Let me finish it."

---

Flashback

 

He took a sip and passed the bottle. "Seriously. It's good."

 

"You're lucky I'm buzzed, or you'd have no face right now." Marshall took a moment to consider his drinking companion. "I usually come pretty close to killing guys that hit on me, but I gotta know. You mean all that shit?"

 

"Every last word." He took the bottle, rolled it between his fingers like a promise. "Interested, Marshall?"

 

"Maybe." He'd always been to curious for his own good.

 

"I promise I won't tell anyone." He leaned forward, and tasted the alcohol on Marshall's lips. "And I'd put money on you liking it."

---

"You ain't doing this to me! I'm not watching another friend die."

 

"I'm not asking you to. Go back inside, Pete. Send Dre away, and let me do this."

 

"Too late for that." The door opened. "I have never been so happy to see you, man."

 

"Shit. Slim, get the hell down from there. You trying to send me to an early grave?" Dre had thought Harry was exaggerating. "What the hell are you on?"

 

"I'm not on anything! I want you all to leave me alone. I'm done. Game over." He took a last drag off his cigarette. "Now go inside, and call whoever you need to call." Marshall didn't turn around, just took a deep breath and got ready for the plunge.

 

"Yeah, like I'm letting you jump." Dre grabbed the back of Marshall's t-shirt and pulled. He tipped backwards and landed on the concrete floor. "You fucking nuts?"

 

"Damn it!" He tried to get up and Pete stepped on one of his hands.

 

"Lay still, you fucking idiot." Pete was careful not to use his full weight and crush Marshall's wrist. "Now you get suicidal? Things going to well for you?"

 

"It's my life, damn it! Why the hell can't you people get that?"

 

"Shut up, Slim." They hauled him to his feet and dragged him inside.

---

"This isn't about Kim, alright? For once, my dear ex-wife has nothing to do with it."

 

"So... you were planning on scarring Pete and Harry for life because your record is selling so well, and the women in you life have finally stopped suing?" They'd tied Marshall to a chair, and the Doctor was at work.

 

"No."

 

"Then what the *fuck* is this bad?"

---

Flashback

 

He sucked on his finger, then pressed it inside. "See what I mean?"

 

Marshall's head fell back and he stared at the ceiling. "Yes." It came out strained.

 

"No one has ever done this to you before?"

 

"No."

 

"Dude. You need to get a better class of girlfriend."

---

"You wouldn't understand."

 

"Ain't nothing new in this game, Marshall. I just want to know what the hell is wrong with you."

 

"You can't tell no one, understand? Not Pete, not Harry, not Denaun, Rondell or Swifty. They don't need to here this shit."

 

"Whatever you want, man."

---

Flashback

 

He pressed a hand over Marshall's mouth. "I knew you'd be loud. Just stay still for me. Let it flow."

 

Marshall breathed deeply and reality started drifting in. 'You're actually doing this. This is happening.'

 

He took his hand away and pushed deeper. Marshall's eyes flew open in shock. "Yeah. I knew you'd like it."

---

"Fuck."

 

"Exactly." Marshall worked on his bonds a little. "So, let me out."

 

"No way. You aren't offing yourself, not over this. You have a tour to do. It ain't worth it."

 

"Fine, I'll do the fucking tour! Will you untie me now?"

 

"Yeah, just a minute." He headed back into the living room where the sane.... er.... saner portion of D12 was waiting. "You're going on tour with him. We can't leave him alone now. There's some stuff he's got to sort out, and we have to keep an eye on him while he does."

 

"We'll take care of him." Swifty flicked his lighter. "He ain't having a bad trip, then?"

 

"No, nothing like that." As far as Dre could tell, the problem actually seemed to be good sex, rather than the bad trip they'd all been expecting.

---

"I don't need a suicide watch."

 

Harry laughed. "Yeah, and I'm the queen of fucking England. We don't need a dead front man right after the first concert."

 

"I told Dre I'd do the tour. Ya'all can stop babysitting me. It's annoying, a'right?" Marshall flipped channels on the tv. "You can't watch me forever. Eventually, you're going to have to leave me alone."

 

"I sorta like this group the way it is. Burying *another* friend ain't on my list of things to do." Harry grabbed the remote. "Sides, man, you'll be stuck on a bus with everyone soon."

 

"Fuck, that alone could drive a man nuts."

 

"You're already crazy."

 

Marshall's cell phone rang. "Yo." There was a moment of silence. "Who the fuck called you? Yeah, well that little birdie better watch his ass."

 

Harry leaned closer, intent on eavesdropping, but he couldn't hear the other side of the conversation.

 

"It seemed like a good idea at the time, a'right? I haven't had a minute of peace, thanks to my overprotective friends, so I don't need this shit from you." Marshall sounded extremely pissed. "I swear to god, man, you fly out here, and I'll fucking kill you. We can talk at MTV."

 

Who was Marshall talking to? Who had Dre called?

 

"Yes, I'm actually planning to show up at the VMAs this year. No, I'm not telling you who it was. Begging ain't gonna help. It doesn't suit you. Yeah, just remember to stay the hell out of Detroit. Night, man."

 

Now... the question was... who the hell had Dre called?

---

It was about a week later that Marshall stopped answering his phone. Rondell was the one on Emsitting duty at the time. He wasn't really paying attention since his video game was more interesting than Marshall writing lyrics he'd never show them.

 

"Yo." He set down his pen and picked up the phone. A moment later, it clattered to the floor.

 

"You okay, man?" The battery had snapped out and turned the phone off, so he couldn't see the caller id number.

 

"Yeah." He slid the phone into his pocket. "I'm cool. You got anything two player with a lot of violence?"

 

"What don't I have like that?"

 

After that, it became impossible to get Marshall on the phone.

---

Accessing Voice Mail:

 

Message One: //Slim, turn on your god damn phone! I'm sick of this shit. Deal, change your number, do something, but this is fucking ridiculous.//

 

Message Two: //Marshall, our daughter has been calling for six hours. Where the hell are you?//

 

Message Three: //You can't avoid me forever. Eventually, you'll have to talk to me. I refuse to be ignored like this.//

 

Message Three Deleted

Autodialing: Hailie

---

"Someone is fucking with him. That's the only answer." Denaun threw his luggage down and collapsed into a bunk.

 

"Why ain't he told us then?" Rondell switched on the TV. "The whole not answering his phone thing is stupid."

 

"And damn annoying. What the hell happened to him in New York?"

 

"Ain't sure." Rondell pulled out his rolling papers. "They keep calling, whoever they are. That's why he's screening his calls."

 

"The man's no pussy. We made sure of that. So whoever's messing with him has gotta be one bad ass motha-fucka."

---

Flashback

 

"You alive?"

 

"M'sleeping. Go away."

 

"Illest rapper ever, reduced to a sleepy kitten. I am *very* pleased with myself."

 

Marshall looked up and met the other man's eyes. "Fuck."

 

"Yup." He slid on a shirt. "That about sums it up. Hope you had a good time, Marshall, cause I gotta bail." He paused and kissed a mouth frozen in shock. "I'll call you. Promise."

---

She rubbed his back. "Poor baby. You're all tense."

 

"You bet, baby. Keep doing that." Britney Murphy. An actress with a taste for playing psychos, a woman with magic hands.

 

She poured some oil on his shoulders and worked it in. "Be happy, Marshall. You have *no* reason to be this tense anymore."

 

Marshall bit back a remark. "I don't want to talk 'bout it."

 

"So..." Britney pressed her lips to his ear. "I answered your booty call. Now tell me why the Kuniva is still camped out in the living room."

 

"I'm on suicide watch." God, this was embarrassing.

 

"What?" She pulled away. "Why the *hell* are you on suicide watch?"

 

"You ever done something that seemed like a good idea, but turned out to be the stupidest thing you could possibly think up?" He leaned back and stared at the ceiling.

 

"I'm not sure. The movie hasn't debuted yet." Marshall's eyes narrowed and she laughed. "I'm just kidding! So, what did you do that was so horrible?"

 

"I'll never tell." Britney slapped him. "Seriously."

 

"Whatever did happen, you seem okay now."

 

"Tell Rondell that."

 

"Maybe I will, because we're not fucking while he's here."

---

"You got a letter." Pete dropped it on the coffee table. "Time to move again, man. If one knows, they all will in a couple weeks."

 

"Fuck." He set down the bottle of bleach and wrapped his head in a towel. "Read it to me, man. Shit's burning my eyes."

 

He tore open the letter.

 

Marshall,

            No one gets to ignore me like this. You think your crew is bad? I've been doing this a hell of a lot longer than you, and my pals aren't all harmless kittens. I always get what I want, Marshall, but then, you already know that.

            You answer my damned calls, or I'll be forced to resort to more drastic measures. I know where you live, I know where you work. Don't fuck with me, Marshall. It was your choice, now deal with it, and answer your damn phone!

 

There was no signature. "Well, what does the obsessed teeny want?”

 

Marshall, you just tell me who this guy is, and we’ll take care of it.” Peter threw the letter on the table. “This is some scary shit. What the hell did you get mixed up in New York? Mafia?”            

 

“No, and you can’t kill this for me, Pete. I gotta deal with it on my own.” He was Eminem. He couldn’t be afraid of some prissy pop singer forever.

 

“What’d you do to this guy?”

 

“I didn’t do anything!” It was what he’d allowed to be done to him that was the problem.

-----

Accessing Voice Mail:

 

Message One: //Daddy? Momma says I can watch you on tv tonight. Go’luck. Bring me a moon man!//

 

Message Two: //Mr. Mathers? This is MTV. We’re just calling to confirm your rehearsal slot. Please call us back.//

 

Message Three: //I’ll be there, and so will you. You can’t avoid me forever. You know… I can take no for an answer. Tell me to stop calling, and I will. But I can not stand being ignored.//
-----

“How’d you meet him?”

 

“I was in New York for some promo thing with Dre. Stopped at a bar, and an ad comes on the tv for this Six Flags Upstate. And that girl, the Britney Spears wannabe one hit wonder, she was in it. Someone pitched a shot glass at the screen. He missed, but I can respect him.”

 

“Why?”

 

“After what she did to him? Fuck, at least Kim never roughed me up.”

 

“How’d the two of you end up in bed?”

 

“They kicked us out at two am. We were still trashing the exes, so we went back to my room. Eventually, he told me he’d sworn off women completely.”

 

“You’ve never done that?”

“I never fucked guys when I did!”

 

“Until now.”

 

“Maybe I was curious, or something, okay? He said he’d show me.”

 

“So… he let you-“

 

“No.”

 

“No? Ah. That’s why you went off the deep end.”

 

“Yes, you bastard. Are you happy now? All that time I spend with you must be corrupting my brain, because I let a pop idol fuck me.”

 

“It’s not the end of the world, Marshall.”

 

“Says you. You can’t understand what this is like for me, to have everything you think about yourself turned on it’s head.”

 

“I’ll have you know I had my sexual identity crisis a few decades back. Here.” He slid a glasses case across the table. “These are for you.”

 

“I don’t need anymore sunglasses. You have warped taste.”

“Open it.”

 

Fuck. The rose tinted star glasses. “Yo. No way am I wearing these.”

 

“Just hang on to them.” Elton stood. “You better get ready.”

 

“Yeah, whatever. Thanks, I think.” Marshall stared at the glasses. “I’m still not queer.”

 

“I know, I know.” Elton closed the door behind him.

 

He considered the glasses again, then shoved them into his pocket. It was time to face reality.

-----

“How the fuck did he get past you?” Dre scanned the crowds.

 

“I was talking to this real fine lady, a’right?” Pete was barely keeping up. “He isn’t going to off himself at the VMA’s.”

 

“Like he wouldn’t jump off your balcony? We gotta find him.”

 

“Man, you have no faith in me at all, do you?”

 

Dre turned around and saw Marshall leaning against a wall. “Where the fuck have you been?”

 

“Was talking to Elton.” He flashed the sunglasses. “It’s cool. I’m good now. Call off the dogs.”

 

“You sure?” Dre hadn’t been able to fix Marshall, so he’d called the one person who could.

 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Marshall laughed. “I got it sorted out now. Cancel the Suicide Watch. I have a show to do.”

 

“You’re just letting him go? What could Elton John do that we can’t?”

 

“That ain’t none of our business.”

 

“Now what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

-----

The door to his dressing room opened. “You going to call Security on me?”

 

Naw. I’m in a good mood.” Marshall used the mirror to stare at his pursuer. “You can come in.”

 

“You tried awful hard to avoid me.” He closed the door quietly. “Your friends hiding in here, waiting to jump me?”

 

“It’s safe.” Marshall turned around in his chair and they were eye to eye. “You just don’t give up, do you?”

 

“I wouldn’t be where I am if I did. Neither would you.”

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be a dumb blond?”

 

“Maybe.” He grinned. “Congrats on the four wins, but why am I here?”

 

Marshall fished a plastic card out of his pocket. “Catch.”

 

“A room key.” He raised an eyebrow. “I see.”

 

“I’m not a fag.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Don’t fucking patronize me.” Marshall leaned back. “Decided to throw myself off a building a couple weeks back.”

 

“Sorry I scared you, or scarred you. Whatever. We going back to your place?” He ran the edge of his thumb along the card. “Since we’ve already trashed our ex-girlfriends, I figured you could give me some advice on this whole balancing a solo act and group thing.”

 

“Rule number one. Do not ignore or alienate those who know where you sleep.” They headed into the crowded hall. “Rule number two. Do not overdo the guest artist thing. Makes it a bitch to do live concerts.”

 

“Take that, Justin.” He was grinning, not noticing the eyes on them.

 

“Is that who I think it is?” Pete was sure he was hallucinating.

 

“Yeah, man. That’s gotta be Nick Carter.”

 

“That’s fucking sick.”

 

“I know.” Harry lit a cigarette, ignoring the signs to the contrary. “I would have gone for Timberlake, myself. At least he’s fem.”

 

Marshall never did have good taste.”

End

 

 

For those of you not familiar with D12, here’s a cast list.

 

Bizarre as Peter S. Bizarre

Kon Artis as Mr. Denaun Porter

Kuniva as Rondell Been

Proof as Derty Harry

Swift as Swifty McVay