The bathroom smells like stale vomit and chemicals and it's colder than anywhere else in the whole fucking building, but he stays and takes a piss anyway. The smell of the urinal brings the acidic taste of bile to the back of his throat and he thinks it's fucking disgusting, so fucking repulsive that people like him, people like fucking Eminem, should have to hang around in shitholes like this. The tile floor is vibrating in time with the shitty bar music, which shouldn't be so loud in the first place, since it's just a bar, for fuck's sake.

The door swings open just as he's zipping up, bringing in the acrid smell of sweat and people and filth, and he doesn't bother to look, because who the fuck cares. Just another fucking fag (the place is full of them) who would probably die happy just knowing he looked his way. Fucking fags, he thinks, all the fucking same. You just fucking wish.

But then he -- whoever the fuck it is -- says something, and it sounds something like, "oh, look who it is," and he has to look up. And he has to flinch, because what the fuck is he doing here, the motherfucker. He sees hard brown eyes and can't meet them (what the fuck?) and tries to shove past as rudely as he can, which he figures has got to be pretty fucking rude, with all the practice, because there's no way he's staying to talk to the fag.

It's not gonna be that easy, though, because he says, "hey, I'm fucking talking to you," and grabs the back of Em's jacket and wrenches him backwards, and since when the fuck did shit like that happen?

"What the fuck, asshole," he says, and turns, hand formed into a fist before he's even all the way around. Chris motherfucking Kirkpatrick is fucking staring at him, lip curled in a sickening smirk and he wants to rip it right the fuck off his face. "What the fuck do you want, you fucking piece of trash," Em says, and he thinks, calm calm calm, don't fucking touch him 'cause he's gonna expect it, asshole. His whole arm is shaking, muscle contracting all the way down to his wrist, from the fucking effort not to break his god damn ugly face in.

"Yeah," Chris says, and releases him, and shoves him back (again? what the fuck?). "You gonna try something on me, kid?" That's fucking rich, coming from Chris, like he's so much older and more experienced, the stupid fag. Like he knows shit about shit.

"Don't fucking push me, you fucking fag," he says, gritting it out between his teeth. "I'll fucking kill you." And Chris just smirks at him again, tilting his head up a little so he can look down infuriatingly, and Em thinks, fuck you, if I hit you in the dirty little face right now, right up the fucking nose, you'd fall so fucking hard you wouldn't have a fucking chance.

"You could try," Chris says, and Em's gonna say, yeah, I will, but then Chris has got his fucking hand (his right, the fucking stupid fag) wrapped into the front of Em's shirt and pulling at him roughly. Fucking disgusting, he thinks, like Chris is gonna try something with him (you fucking sick bastard) like touch him or grab him or whatthefuckever. He rearranges his fist, he's got time (press forward, right against the base of the thumb, sharp little knuckles, fucking quivering tendons, oh shit, is he gonna get it) except then he doesn't.

Because Chris has a fucking staggering left hook.

You fucking, Em starts, because he can see it coming, kind of, just out of the corner of his eye, but he can't do anything because this piece of shit is fucking fast. The taste of blood explodes in his mouth, curling slick and viscous over his tongue, and okay, yeah, fuck, he's taken off-guard but it's not like this is new. Just new from one of these fags, because they aren't fucking supposed to fucking hit.

"You asshole," he says, and he really says it this time, and tears out of Chris' grip. Just like these fucking nancies to fucking hold and punch, 'cause they can't do it any other way. Piece of shit. He can feel spatters of blood dripping on the front of his shirt, just little flecks, but it's still fucking disgusting.

The fucking fag's gonna get it for that.

And it's easy, because Chris is smaller than him, no fucking surprise. Fist to the ribs (oh yeah, you fucking gasp, you sick bastard, I bet you like this) and fingers twisted around a brittle throat (bend bend break, oh, isn't that too fucking bad) and grip, tighter, tighter, just like that.

"I'll fucking kill you," he says again, and he likes the way his bloody saliva flicks against Chris' cheek. Close up, Chris smells like makeup and greasy soap and it makes his stomach turn, mixing blood with bile and shit in his mouth, and oh fuck is Chris just fucking revolting. Rip his fucking throat out, dig blunt fingers in around the larynx, listen to that pitiful little fucking choking noise, fuck, this is good. The lump of throat contracting and closing and that's it, the end.

Chris brings his knee up suddenly and fucking hard and oh shit -- knuckles connect with cheek again, so hard that he bites his fucking tongue. He has to close his eyes because he doesn't want to see that fucking smirk, as he draws himself away from Chris and curls in on himself. He touches his cheek lightly and brings back blood on his fingers, little droplets that pool in the crease of his knuckles. More blood in his mouth and stinging in his gums and his tongue and since when the fuck did he let fags beat him up.

He fumbles blindly and finds a sink, one of those nasty little things with mildew around the drain, and he spits. Which he realises is a fucking bad idea.

"That's real bright," Chris says, and he sounds right behind him (shit). "Fucking stupid. You don't spit blood, fuckwad." He grabs Em by the back of the neck (fuck) and hauls him up, forcing his back straight against his will.

"What the fuck do you care," Em sneers, turning his head as much as he can. Motherfucking fag. He struggles a bit, but what the fuck's the use, he thinks angrily, since motherfucking Chris has already gotten the fucking better of him. Just fucking get out get out get out, stop fucking touching me, I'll fucking leave you alone.

Chris lets go of him, but he's still touching him (fucking queer), dragging his fingers over his neck and up, so he can force Em's jaw open. Em flinches at the stretch of the broken skin of his cheek, and elbows sharply, catching Chris on the shoulder. And Chris doesn't even do anything, but he says, "Wouldn't want you to ruin that pretty little cocksucking mouth of yours."

"Oh, you motherfucking sick fag," Em gets out. He shoves Chris away with the flat of one hand, and follows it up with a straight hit, curved knuckles meeting the soft cartilage of Chris' nose. He feels the crunch, probably not hard enough to break (it's the kind that just bend bend bends, but doesn't break) and it's good and clean and at least it's going his way now. He could almost laugh as Chris gingerly touches his nose, and as he watches fresh blood (not Em's, this time, motherfucker) trickle out of one nostril, beading on Chris' upper lip. Too bad it wasn't at the right angle, because then it would be bye bye bye, Chris Kirkpatrick.

Chris looks up and meets his eyes (why the fuck aren't you looking away?) and the smirk's gone, replaced that familiar (bullshit) look, like he's really gonna kick Em's ass. "What," Chris says, and wipes his nose uselessly with the back of his hand (still fucking bleeding, now there's just a bright oily smear running down to his wrist.) "You gonna tell me now that you're not, you fucking lying piece of trash?" Unconsciously, Em's forming a fist again, but he can't even get his fingers curled before Chris grabs his wrist (with the fucking bloody hand, oh shit motherfucking hell what if he's not--) and twists so hard Em feels a crack in his elbow.

"Don't fucking touch me," he says, and fuck, he sounds kind of shrill. He's spitting blood when he talks and he can taste it, taste the coppery mucus burnstingscratch on his tongue and it's fucking disgusting. "You fucking fag, don't fucking touch me, what the fuck you talking--" He stops, because now Chris is fucking bleeding on him, long stringy tracks of blood on Em's forearm and curling around his wrist by Chris' hand. He tries to pull away, but Chris only holds tighter, blunt fingers digging in and bruising at the delicate skin on the inside of his wrist (fuck fuck fuck, what if he breaks the skin.)

"Shut the fuck up," Chris says, and shoves him back, forcing him up against the grimy sink. The edge digs at the small of Em's back, and he has to reach back and grab the faucet to balance himself. And then, shit, Chris is pressing right up against him, thigh between Em's legs, pinning him in place. Em wants to say, you motherfucking sick fucking bastard, but that would just make it worse, so fucking worse (like it can get any fucking worse than a fucking fag about to fucking grope you) so he stays shut up.

"Oh, you easy little whore," Chris hisses, and his hips twitch against Em. Em cringes and turns his head, 'cause he really doesn't want to look at that ugly bleeding face, especially because of the blood -- he doesn't want that near him. Chris laughs low in his ear and lets go of his wrist. He feels Chris brace himself against the sink, against him, and Em swallows thickly. At least now the bleeding's slowing a little.

Chris's breath is loud and heavy and hot in his ear, and Em wants him off right fucking now, but instead Chris shifts, and his hand is pressing between them, palm warm (but the fucking clean one, thank fucking god) against his crotch, turning his stomach. So fucking disgusting, fucking fag, it makes him sick. "Such a fucking coward," Chris says, and his lips are slick and bloody and too god damn close to Em.

"I'll fucking kill you," Em says. His muscles are straining against Chris, wanting to get the fuck away, to fucking stop this (motherfucking dirty queer) but he's fucking trapped. (How the fuck did he let this happen?) He turns his head thinking, yeah, I'll fucking show him (what?), and he's gonna bite off words and get the fuck out and go the fuck home, but it doesn't really turn out that way. As soon as the angle's right, Chris is fucking kissing him, with rough and bloody tongue and that's motherfucking it.

Chris' blood is mixing with his own in his mouth and he can feel the fucking difference, feel the seeping dirt and filth and whatever the fuck else. He tears his mouth away and there's a broken string of blood between them (oh how fucking appropriate). He thinks, he can hit Chris or he can just push him off or he can just leave or he can, he can, he can what? Chris is looking at him and Em thinks, yeah, you got your fucking vindication, you fucking fag.

"You make me fucking sick," is what he ends up saying, and Chris just smiles at him. Fucking smiles.

So Eminem smiles back when he pushes Chris out of his way, wiping the blood from his face. Next time, he thinks, next time, it's gonna be real fucking different.

but it's just me
I'm just obscene