2009

’Oh boy,’ You (Eminem) thought. In front of you was the office of Steve Berman, the record executive you had shot almost seven years prior in this very office. He survived the shot luckily but after that, let's just say your meetings with him became more scarce.

His secretary had rang him up, letting him know of your arrival. Even outside the room you heard him let out a huge sigh of annoyance.

“Come in!” He yelled out.

You follow his order and waltz in there, acting as if the last time you truly spoke to him wasn't when you shot him. His face looked worn out, his eyes slightly drooping.

“Steve! Glad to see you.”

“Well look who decided to show his face? I hope you've had fun in the last four years.”

“Steve, I'm sorry that I shot ya— wait are you wearin’ a bulletproof vest?”

“Yes I am! You know, I lost the feeling of my right arm! But that's just water under the bridge, right?” He sarcastically asks. Yeah, he wasn't in the best of moods whatsoever.

“Then after that you go and do what? Hide out? Stay in Detroit for years and let the music industry burn the f##k down? Do you know how many people lost their jobs because of your little ‘paid vacation'?”

Clearly all Steve was going to do was antagonize you. But rather than being aggressive like you normally were with him, you take a deep breath and think happy thoughts.

“Well that's why I'm actually here,” You begin to state, “I've been working on a new project.”

He cuts you off hastily, his voice laced with bitterness, “Lemme guess, another album about ‘Poor me! I’m so famous that it's ruined my rich little life and I'm such a tortured artist, let me make music about it and my tragic love life!’ Am I on to something here?”