WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.3 - PLOT REVENGE
by John Elrod II
Your screams descend into pure panic and hysteria. Attempting to stand, you realize you're quite weak and strapped down, no less. Your eyes jot back-and-forth as you feel your heartbeat chasing itself. Just before foam emerges through your lips, the nurse jabs you in the chest with a very long and very sharp needle; you feel nothing in your state. You're calming, however. It must have been some sort of sedative. As the racing heartbeat slows to a crawl and your eyelids begin shuttering in time with its rhythm, you hear Dr. Skin boast to his nurse "I told you this one had more fight than the others."
And you're out.
Thirsty. You've been rendered a soulless teenybopper, and all you can think about is your massive thirst. You haven't awoken in a pool of your own sweat in some strange hotel room in a long while. Wait, this is the Treeside Mossy Inn; you've stayed here before. Why had Dr. Skin abandoned you here, without so much as a "Dear John" letter? At least the television is on. Never mind that. You stink, and you're thirsty.
After seven bottles of $12 sparkling jasmine water from the mini-bar and an ice-cold shower, neither your thirst has subsided nor has your temperature decreased.
"What is up with this piece of shit body they've left me with?" you angrily bark at the sink, after minutes of staring and examining yourself in the mirror.
Meandering your way out of the bathroom, you notice a sweat-lathered envelope wrinkled into the bed--you must have been lying on it before. You gingerly remove the letter from its envelope, unfold it, and begin reading Dr. Skin's apparent message to you:
"Congratulations on the success of your surgery," the first line reads, in all its impersonal form-letter glory. "I'm sure you have many questions, and I'm sorry I could not be there to answer them all for you. Rest assured, we will speak again in the future. For now, there are merely a few guidelines I have for you in your time of recovery."
God, I hate this fucking guy so much, you think, while lowering the letter and rolling your eyes toward the hum of a ceiling fan above.
The letter continues, "First and foremost, you must get your rest. Stay in bed. Your body is healing, and it needs time to do so. You will also need to constantly hydrate. Your body needs that water to properly heal."
"'Your body' this and 'your body' that. I know about my body, you bastard. What about my life? What about my fucking soul?" You're disgusted at everything about this letter. Its typeface can eat shit, for all you care.
More of the letter: "This, by far, is the most important thing you have to remember--"
Your reading is interrupted by something on television, "Hot, young Hollywood stars Traywen Amber and Drevor Stone!" It's the Teen Fallopian Awards. You're filled with rage; the rage you always felt toward them, but were able to control. Nothing inside you is consolable now. You shove the letter into your pocket and bolt through the doorway.
Arriving via taxi at the Kodine Center, where the awards ceremony is being held, you anticipate having to sneak your way in. However, you're spotted by a crowd of tweens and they unwittingly usher you directly inside.
Staring out over a crowd of celebrities and seat fillers, you realize Amber and Stone are still on stage; they seem to be paying tribute to... you? That doesn't matter, now. Your anger is boiling over. You charge the stage. The entire ceremony has come to a standstill.
"Sure, you act like you give a shit, after I'm dead!" Your indignation is met with puzzled looks. They don't recognize you--nobody does; nobody can--at least not as you.
"I think Justin's had a little too much to drink," Amber says, attempting to defuse the situation.
"Maybe he'd like something else to drink," Stone interjects.
Just then an ear-splitting siren sounds, and the crowd holds their breath in anticipation. They know what is coming, but now you are the one with the puzzled look on your face.
A massive amount of viscous slime pours down over you.
"You got gooooooooo'd!" Everyone exclaims in unison, followed by laughter.
Your anger has returned ten-fold, but before you can use it, a security guard rushes on stage with a tazer. He tazes you, bro.
While the crowd continues their laughter, the guard attempts to manhandle you off stage, but loses his grip on your gooey arm. You manage to regain your footing, but there's something... off, which is saying something considering the day you've had. You begin wiping the goo from your brow, and the crowd lets out an audible gulp. You've wiped your brow, alright, directly off your face. Not realizing what has occurred since his previous attempt, the guard again grabs at you. This time he slips, but he brings the skin of your forearm with him. The horror on his face speaks volumes, as yours has began melting toward the ground.
You look at your hand, only to see its covering ooze between the bones of your fingers. You rip Dr. Skin's note from your pocket and struggle to read its final line, as the front of your face peels off of your skull.
"This, by far, is the most important thing you have to remember: avoid, at all costs, electricity." Your heart sinks, quite possibly in the literal sense.
The crowd empties from the arena, as the "new and improved" you excruciatingly pours onto the floor--your last sight being filled with a black-and-white photograph containing the old image you threw away.
I really looked like shit; they couldn't find a better picture?