WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.3 - THE BEIBER FAN CLUB

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.3 - THE BEIBER FAN CLUB

By Lael Gardner-Stalnaker

As your scream wails up and down the sonic spectrum, your horror climbs even higher. He gave you that teenaged/tweenied-fanned toddler’s voice too. You have become an identical copy of Justin Beiber. Your brain is shuddering in your skull as you try to assimilate to your new situation. Never in the most evil of your nightmares had this possibility ever arisen to chill your blood and cause your heart to skip beats.

Dr. Skin’s gleaming emerald eyes crinkle at the corners and you can tell he is smiling behind his surgical mask. The thought of his self-satisfied smug grin behind the mask jolts you enough to end your scream and bring your fury to the fore. Your soft teen hands curl into fists as you prepare to plant some loving attention on that insufferable face that you now hate.

“As promised, you now have the body that will get you the attention you desire. You will be able to go on to do whatever you choose. With the experience you already have behind you, you have an incredible head start on recovering your career. Sadly, the old you shall be found dead at your home. All legal matters will properly point to you as your own heir. No, don’t thank me, it’s part of the service.

“You should choose your new name and we will have all the proper documents ready for you before you leave today. Again, all part of the service. As a client that chose the third option, we aim to make that choice as smooth as possible and fuss free.” Dr. Skin’s eyes pierce your haze as you listen in stunned disbelief.

“Why the hell did you give me the body and appearance of that crooning infant? Why?! How is this going to help my career and get me back to the respect I earned? I was a legend, and you made me into a nobody!” You growl through tightly clenched teeth as you once more stare down at your nude body.

“You really don’t understand, do you? I haven’t just changed your body. I have transplanted your mind into his. You have all of his tender years ahead of you. Justin Beiber is no more. His soul and mind are gone. You are he now. As far as the world knows, Justin Beiber has disappeared forever. I altered his dental and finger prints just enough that they will no longer match.”

“This is not what you led me to believe would happen!” you cry in your new high pitched girly voice.

“I admit, I didn’t give you many specifics. Still, you have many possibilities now that you didn’t before. Plus an extension on your life. You weren’t exactly a spring lily, were you? Are you dissatisfied? Do you wish to reneg on our deal?” The doctor’s gleaming eyes make you think you better not back out on this deal. He might change you out into Brittany Spears… or god forbid, Richard Simmons. You shake your head frantically. You feel instant relief as the doctor pulls down the surgical mask and smiles again.

You just wish that Justin Beiber’s manhood were actually worthy of you. The tiny member snugged up against your groin is looking suspiciously like a turtle with its head pulled into its shell. In another words, not much more than your average infant would show. You had no idea that Justin was a micropenis sufferer. So much for an actual sex life from now on. Hell, you’ll feel lucky if you can get two fingers around it to get some relief.

The receptionist hands you some appropriately sized clothes as you finally swing your legs off of the table. You dress quickly, appreciative that they are at least high end and won’t embarrass you. As you finish pulling the shirt over your head and settling it down your torso, you try to figure out what the hell you’re going to do now. In your pre-occupation, you fail to notice when the good doctor and his girl leave the room.

You look around and finally realize you are alone. You head for the door and find that the outer office is empty. Not just no one there, but empty! No furniture, no décor, nothing but a yellow legal envelope lying in the middle of the floor. You walk over, slightly distracted by the strange feminine sway of your hips that shouldn’t go with a young male body. This was going to take some getting used to.

You pick up the envelope and open it. Inside are the promised legal documents that give you a new identity. You are relieved that they say you are twenty-one even though you look twelve. Clutching the papers, you look around, bewildered. The strangeness of all of this is really starting to get to you. Vague dreamlike memories about the operation and ‘payment’ swirl through your mind.

On a hunch, you try to go back into the other room. It too is empty. That is the final straw. You are getting the hell out of this place and now! Life should be simple and direct: you get what you want and everything else doesn’t matter. You head for the outside door at a run. Time to get out.

You hit the sidewalk and begin looking at everything around you. It all seems fresh and new. Your eyesight is improved, your reflexes are perfect and you have a flat stomach again. Hell, taking a deep, deep breath doesn’t make you want to break into a crackling gagging fit of coughing any more. This might not be so bad after all. You can live with a micro-dick if everything else is this good.

You turn the corner and stumble. Ahead of you is the Beverly Center; throngs of people mill around, going about their lives. As you continue walking, people begin noticing you. Oh shit. You don’t have a hat or sunglasses on. In celebrityville, that means you want to be recognized and approached. The crowd gathers around you as girls and older men gush longingly at you.

The press of the crowd is getting a bit out of hand. Someone knocks into you and you stumble. The mob of people gasp in horror and dozens of hands try to catch you. Like dominoes, those closest fall as they over balance. Panic is spreading. You feel horrific pain as your leg twists under the press of bodies.

An overweight man lands on your face and you feel your head crack sharply against the cement sidewalk. That hurts like a bitch. Worse, your face is right in his ass. Specifically, his ass crack. You try to draw a breath and find that between the slightly ripe cheeks pressed hard against your nose and mouth and the bodies sprawled on your chest, you can’t breathe at all. Spots dance before your eyes in bright flashes of light. Blackness crowds you.

Your final thought as you suffocate to death: “Great! Five minutes as Justin Beiber and I have my face buried in a guy’s ass!”

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 2