ECOPOCALYPSE CH.6 - CALL IT QUITS

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.6 - CALL IT QUITS By

“You got that right,” Sneedon says. “Artie is out baying for blood. Your blood.”

“What do you mean?” Madge asks before you can even formulate the question yourself.

“My man at the West Wing says China, Russia and the entire Arab nation wants your head on a platter. They’re having their own problems and the only way they can placate their citizens is to ask for your public execution.”

You gulp.

“Oh… uh… I can understand that.” You stand up. “Well in that case I’d better head over and give myself up.”

Madge stares at you. “You serious?”

“I… well… um. I did cause it…” You smile uncertainly. “I’ll pop over to the White House and do it publicly.”

Madge begins to stand up. “I’ll come with you.”

You shake your head. “No, you stay here, sis. You’re safe here and you can help get the changes rolled out. I’ll zip over in my ‘copter.”

Every one in the room stares at you and you slide out the door like a slug from a lettuce; slowly and carefully, looking around to make sure no one is following you.

As the door shuts, you hear Sneedon say: “What’s he up to?”

“I don’t know.” Madge replies. “Before today I would have said that he was going to run away, but after what I’ve seen him doing to fix this catastrophe today, I think he might just do it.”

You sigh with relief and head up to the roof.

As you take off, you try to think what you are actually going to do. You can’t go and hand yourself in, that would mean you’d end up… at best… in jail for the rest of your life. At worst, the new president (being the bastard that he is) would probably hand you over to the Middle East for execution.

“I’m too young to die.” You murmur, heading north as slowly as you can. “Why should I die for something that wasn’t my fault? It was the board’s money pinching that caused all this…”

A sudden blast of air pushes the ‘copter to one side and you see a pair of jets coming round to flank you. The radio crackles.

“ECOGen One. You are instructed to keep pace with us. We will land at the Airforce base where you will be taken into custody. Over.”

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! What do you do now? There’s no way this little helicopter can outrun F16’s.

Experimentally you weave a little and predictably, the radio crackles into life again.

“ECOGen One. Do not try to resist arrest. We have orders from the president to shoot if you run. Over.”

Damn. You’re dead either way. How on earth do you… an idea occurs and you take a deep breath, slapping the radio button on the joystick.

“ECOGen One to escort. I’m low on gas and I can’t keep up with you. Over.”

You let your airspeed drop and the jets slow as well. Now what speed was a stall for this helicopter? Oh, that’s right… Now if you can just bring her to rest somewhere safe and get away from the jets before they can react.

“ECOGen One. We will keep pace with you. Keep moving forward. Over.” The pilot seems more than a little pissed off.

A field bounded by a large wood appears and you let your airspeed drop further, feeling the craft shudder and the nose tip upward. Now, if you just…

A whoosh of air on both sides of the helicopter buffets it from side to side and the resulting turbulence  knocks the pitch of the blades awry.

“Thanks Escort, that was a great help…Not!” you snap into the radio as you fight to keep the craft level. You speed up a little, but the turbulence from the low flying, circling jets as well as the wind scrables your pitch further and…

Shit! Not  retreating blade stall, anything but that, you’re too close to the fucking ground to…

The helicopter tilts left.

Time slows.

You drop the controls hoping that the autocorrect will kick in, but the tilt continues and you watch the advacing blade bite into the soft earth of the field. It ploughs into it deeply and you fight with you harness, hoping to get free of the helicopter before…

The blade snaps.

The suddenly freed rotor spins faster and the second advancing blade follows the first. The helicopter cartwheels and the tail rotor comes into contact with the ground. The tail snaps off, there are sparks and a sudden plume of fire heralds the fact that the fuel line has bought it.

Your harness lets go and you tumble out of the craft, a sudden flare of hope making time speed up again. As you hit the grass and turn to try and run, the helicopter’s body is catapulted toward you by the fire from the tail.

“Oh shit…” you moan.

* * *

“Well that was anticlimactic.” President Gantly says having reviewed the pilot’s footage of the air accident. “I was looking forward to listening to the idiot’s explanation of his company’s antics in this matter. Besides, I wanted to shoot him myself.”

He turns to an aide. “Was there anything recovered?”

The aide nods. “We have his head. It was apparently chopped off by a stray piece of rotor, long before the helicopter actually hit him.”

Gantly smiles, a red glint showing in his eye. “Did Doctor Skin take it?”

The aide looks faintly sick. “Yes, Mr. President. He’s working on the process now.”

“Good.”

You wake up.

You’re vaguely aware that the sun has risen. Shades of pink paint the inside of your eyelids, while the memory of last night is a blur of fire and dirt coloured nightmare. You just want to sleep it off, but your eyes are forced open by insistant fingers.

“Welcome back. Although I’m not sure how welcome you are going to be.” A face with a surgeons mask and cap appears in your eyeline.

“Where am I?” Your voice has a vaguely artificial sound. “Why can’t I feel anything?”

“Good, he’s awake.” President Gantly’s braying baritone brings you fully awake. “Turn him so he can see me.”

You are turned and liquid swirls in front of your eyes. “What the shit?”

“Shit is right. You’re in it.” The president stands and moves up close. He looks a little green and you realise this is because you are in a glass vat of green liquid.

“I appear to be in water.”

“Shut up. You didn’t survive intact, but Dr Skin is a genius when it comes to brains and revival. You shall pay for your crimes… more than once.”

“What?” Gantly is right in front of you so you can’t see what’s behind him. “What on god’s green earth are you talking about Arthur?”

“This.” He steps aside and you blink in astonishment. Behind him, in shackles stand rows and rows of you.

“You cloned me? Why?”

“I wasn’t about to let you get away with dying cleanly in an air accident. Every single country of the world has a grievance against you…”

“What, even Taiwan?” you quip, feeling more worried by Gantly’s smile than the clones. “Wow, we’re a good looking bunch, aren’t we. Ladies beware.”

“Enough. Each Clone is wi fi’d into what is left of your nervous system,” He picnches the clone closest to him. You wince, feeling the sharp pain. “you will feel the pain that the clone is put through.”

“But…”

Gantly plows on relentlessly. “As you have been sentenced to death in every single country of the world, you are going to die one hundred and ninety six times. I hope you survive, because after that, I am going to make your afterlife hell.”

Oops...Return to Chapter 6

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.4 - IMPROV

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.4 - IMPROV

By Tomara Armstrong

You grab your prepubescent member and scream like the quasi-girl you’ve become.

“You will get used to it, my dear,” Dr. Skin smiles.

“No! I want my soul back.” You snatch at the jar in his grip, but he pulls it out of your reach.

“Sorry… no refunds or exchanges. You agreed to these conditions.” Your eyes widen as he plays the recording of you nodding your head in acceptance to the photo of Justin Bieber—a crazed smile on your face.

You struggle to rise from the bed, but restraints snake over your body. Dr. Skin places a firm hand on your shoulder and instantly your mouth seals shut. “You need your rest.” You're trapped tightly to your bed. Your eyes dance wildly. The nurse shoots you with a syringe and the lights go out.

The doctor’s blood red eyes permeate your dream state, floating in and out of focus. In the jar clutched to his chest, your soul flickers like a thousand fireflies. He laughs and laughs as you feel your body expand and contract inside your Justin Bieber skin. You’re almost certain you’ll explode at any moment… but you don’t.

Sunlight tickles your toes and you sleepily open your eyes, blinking. You’re alone in a hospital room—strapped to your bed. Balling your fists, you grind your teeth. How am I going to get out of this one?

You close your eyes and scan your repository of acting roles. What can I use? You’ve played an invalid, a school teacher, a love-sick yoga instructor, an android sex fiend, a psychic pizza delivery person, a cat, comic book super villains, a ninja assassin, and a computer. You smile—glad you were never limited to romantic comedies. What can I use? you ask yourself again.

Outside your door, you hear footsteps, the ruffling of papers, and a heavy hand on the doorknob. You slink into your sheets, fake sleep, and wait for the turn of the knob and the footsteps to near your bed.

“Good morning.” The nurse/receptionist nudges you. “How are you?”

Your eyelids flutter open and you exaggerate a yawn. “Better, thanks.” You smile. She looks at you suspiciously. I shouldn’t have smiled, damn it. You look away and shake your head. “What did you give me?”

She busies herself at the workstation on the other side of the room. “Oh, just something to take the edge off. I am sure it’s difficult to accept the change, at first, but you will get used to it. Are you in any pain?”

“No… how come I am not in any pain?”

“Recovery time is hard enough without having to deal with the pain of the procedure…”

“What’s hard if there is no pain?” You ask with a laugh.

“Your body could reject the new you,” she turns to you in all seriousness.

Your jaw drops open, “Reject?”

“Oh yes, so we want to monitor you for several days --”

“For several days?” You’re trying to remain calm and channel your inner “lovesick yoga instructor," but you feel the sides of your mouth twitch and your jaw tighten.

“Yes, to watch for signs of rejection.” Your head is spinning now, but she continues. “First there is sagging at the eyes, mouth, and around the ears. Then it turns to drooping and gaping, like the skin is trying to slink off the body altogether.”

“What happens if my body rejects it?”

“Oh, no worries dear. We will replace it.” She smiles at you. You attempt a smile back, but don’t want to overdo it.

“These restraints are very tight. Can you please loosen them for me? My foot keeps falling asleep and it’s driving me crazy.”

She hesitates momentary, and you do your best to appear non-threatening. “Sure,” she smiles.

The restraints drop away, and you sit up, stretching your arms. “So much better, “ you say, pointing and flexing your feet, warming up your muscles. This new skin feels pretty good.

You channel your inner “ninja assassin” so well, you aren't even sure when you begin. The body of the nurse now lays on the floor, out cold, and you are standing on top of your bed waiting for the cameras to flash a perfect ninja still.

You quickly jump down, push the door open, and tiptoe out into the hallway. There are other recovery rooms like yours, but you pay them little attention. Down the hall, the door labeled “Skin Lab” is cracked, emitting a light pink glow.

You waste no time entering the lab and slowly lock the door behind you.

In the room, tubes stretch from floor-to-ceiling. Most are empty, but a few contain a thick pink liquid and trapped air bubbles.

You stare open-mouthed and run your hands over the warm tubes that weirdly resemble an old lava lamp you used to own as a kid. As you make your way to the back of the room, you notice a door marked “Vault” that emits a yellow glow—much like your soul in the jar Dr. Skin was holding.

You rush to the door and press your hands against the latch. It’s locked. The tube closest to you immediately grabs your attention.

Your old skin is floating in the pink goo in all its imperfect glory. Dark holes for your eyes, nose, and mouth cause your new skin to crawl and a great uneasiness overcomes you.

Near the bottom of the tube, a small computer screen is illuminated:

Celebrity HAS BEEN full body skin

Item Condition: USED in fair condition

Time Left: 10d 3h 42m

Bid history: 0 bids

Starting bid: US $2,000,000.00

Your max bid: US $

Shipping: $250.00

Delivery: Get in time for the holidays!

Estimated between Tue. Nov 30 and Mon. Dec. 6

Returns: 3 day money back, buyer pays return shipping| Read Details

You gasp as you see the picture from the other night’s paper is attached—even more shocking—there are no bids.

You’re furious. Trying to regain your focus.

You decide to...

A. A. Turn your back on all of this “skin-level” nonsense and save your soul?

B. Bust out your skin and attempt to find a way to get back INTO the “old” you?

C. Begin a bidding war with any/all bidders and win your skin back via eBay auction?

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.2 - WHO IS DR. SKIN?

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH. 2 - WHO IS DR. SKIN?

By Mandy Ward

How did she know? You wonder, managing to make an indistinct grunt of acknowledgement.

“He will call on you first thing tomorrow morning.” The receptionist tells you and hangs up.

Blinking, you look at the phone in your hand. What just happened? Did I really call his office?

The next morning, you go for your run and do a hundred lengths of the pool, wondering if you dreamed what happened yesterday. After a luxurious shower and your favourite breakfast of eggs and bacon, you sit back in your recliner on the terrace and sip the first coffee of the morning.

“I do hope you’re enjoying yourself,” A voice says from behind you.

Startled, you bless the fact that your mug was only half full as the steaming liquid slops against the sides of your mug. “Who’s there?”

A figure walks round into view. “You should have been expecting me. My receptionist told me that she’d spoken to you yesterday.”

The man in front of you is tall, slim and handsome. His black hair is thick and luxurious and his blue eyes sparkle in the Californian sunlight. Biting back a surge of jealousy, you smile and sit up. “Of course. I’m sorry, I’d almost forgotten; post premiere party last night and too much champagne… well, you understand.”

“Have you not seen the papers this morning?” he sits on the chair across from you and snaps his fingers. A paper appears in his hand and he passes it across.

On the front page is a huge image of you walking away from the party. Behind you, the doorman is looking embarrassed as he retrieves his clipboard and the other paps are laughing. The caption – Hollywood Hero becomes Hollywood Zero. Licking your lips, you feel the bile rise in the back of your throat and your temper explodes.

“Flippin’ Doorman! All he had to do was let me in and I would have slipped out through the back. But no, he has to make a scene and in front of the paparazzi, no less.”

The paper goes flying into the pool and your coffee mug crashes to the ground, brown liquid flooding toward the gutter at the edge of the pool.

“Calm yourself. You did the right thing calling me. I’ve been helping aging celebrities for well over a hundred years.” Dr. Skin settled back into his chair.

“What are you? A magician?” you snort, then ring the bell for your maid.

She looks at you strangely when you ask for two fresh cups of coffee and a plate of pastries, then she shrugs and heads back into the house.

Dr. Skin smiles. “As far back as I can remember, every person I’ve helped has said a version of that phrase. No, I’m not a magician, just a surgical genius.”

He carries an air of calm command and you feel yourself relaxing. “So, how much is this going to cost me?”

“That depends on you. I have three techniques I can use to make you look, feel and stay young.” He gives you a searching stare as the maid brings out a tray with the coffee and pastries.

“You didn’t answer my question; how much?” you pick up a cup of coffee and gesture toward the tray. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you. The matter of cost is up to you. All I ask is that you allow me to perform one of the three techniques on you, filming at the same time. At the end of it, you pay me what you think the surgery is worth.” He takes the other cup and a raspberry turnover.

“Why do you film the procedures?” you feel a little suspicious.

“For my research. I am on the brink of a breakthrough that will end the battle against aging forever, but I have to have evidence of my work.” He smiles. “That’s another question everyone always asks. The next one is usually, How long…”

“…before I am working again? I need to keep my reputation intact.” You slip a strawberry tart from the plate and savour the contrast between the sweet crème patisserie and the sharp, fresh strawberries.

“See? I am always correct.” Dr. Skin smiles again. “Each procedure takes ten days to recover from. You will need another week or so to regain your strength, then you can work again.”

“I won’t look like…”

He interrupts me. “No, you won’t. Now, shall we talk about the procedures?”

You shut up and nod. There’s a strange glow in his eyes that creeps you out and you suddenly feel that you don’t want to upset this strange man.

Dr. Skin eats another pastry. “The first technique is the traditional face lift. I have perfected it so that the scars don’t show at all. I also use a method of body fat transferral that stops that drum skin look.”

That doesn’t sound so bad, you think. My body is okay, I just need my face to look younger.

“The second procedure is a whole body lift that allows me to remove unwanted body fat and tighten any sagging areas.” The doctor finishes his coffee. “The third is a brand new, untried procedure. The majority of my clients have opted for the first one and often come back for the second one ten or so years later.”

Hmm. I wonder…

“Just recently I saw both your latest co stars. Miss Amber had the first procedure and Mr. Stone had the second.” Dr. Skin smiled. “I confidently predict they will be begging for my help again soon.”

You look at him, stunned to silence by that little snippet of gossip. Those two have had surgery? I wouldn’t have guessed it.

“Why haven’t you tried the third procedure?” you recover your voice with a swig of lukewarm coffee.

He shrugs. “When I describe it, most people opt immediately for the first. Despite the many test subjects I have been successful with, my clients seem to think it’s a step too far.”

“What is it?” leaning forward, you feel curious about this new technique.

“It is the reason that I do not look my age. My assistant has performed it on me and I have performed it on her three times since we invented it.” he smiled and you look him over again, the perfect tan, sparkling eyes, white teeth and trim figure.

“Tell me about it.” You feel like you’re on the verge of something tremendous. “I want to know.”

Dr. Skin sighs. “They always say that as well.” He takes a deep breath. “I remove your skin, adjust anything underneath as required; body fat and the like. Then I replace your old skin with one grown from one of your own stem cells. As it is brand new skin, there is no sagging or scarring and the hair that grows on it will be as thick and lustrous as a teenager’s.”

You are intrigued. It sounds like something out of a science fiction movie. Didn’t they do something like that in “Fifth Element”?

“Well, I must return to my clinic. I’m seeing several ladies in need of the first procedure this morning. When you have made your decision, just call my receptionist. She will organise everything from there.” Dr. Skin stands, places his mug on the tray and smiles at you. “Thank you for your hospitality, I look forward to meeting you again.”

You stand up and shake his hand “Thank you for your time, Dr. Skin. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Word for word, you’ve just repeated how every A-Lister has ever said goodbye to me on the first meeting.”

He walks towards the garden gate, still laughing. Then in broad daylight, he disappears with a snap of his fingers.

You blink.

The maid returns to take the tray. Both mugs are empty and the plate doesn’t even have any crumbs on it. She looks at you suspiciously.

“What?” you snap, wanting to be left alone to think.

“Nothing. Your PA has called three times this morning. Something about the papers.” She tells you, picking up the tray.

Damn paparazzi. Always poking their nose into your business. Sighing, you move out of the sun and into your suite. The three full length mirrors in your dressing room taunt you with their presence, so you strip off and examine yourself carefully. Hmm, I definitely need the facelift. I didn’t realise I had a belly though! Middle age has caught up with me; that’s the second procedure. You turn and catch a glimpse of the thin spots in your hair, the age spots appearing on your back, and the scars from doing your own stunts too many times. Maybe I should go for the third procedure?

Lying down on your bed, stark naked, you consider your options.

Do you...

A. Call the receptionist and ask for the first procedure, reasoning that your body is just about okay?

B. Call the receptionist and ask for the second procedure, thinking If Amber and Stone had it done and nobody noticed, then I can get away with it?

C. Call the receptionist and ask for the third procedure, deciding that your old skin is rubbish and you would prefer a brand new one?

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.1 - HERO TO ZERO

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.1 - HERO TO ZERO

By CM Holst

Cameras flash like rapid fire as you walk down the red carpet. You revel in the attention. You’ve become so accustomed to the bright lights that you stopped blinking decades ago. Fans clamor for attention and beg for an autograph. Photographers shout. You oblige them and stop, striking a pose and flashing your award-winning smile. As a seasoned Hollywood veteran, you possess more poise and grace than any of the ‘up and comers’ you’ve been forced to work with. Why, you’d act circles around them, and have. Your body of work has received a Cecil B. Demille award, for fuck's sake. You laugh at the idea of any of these fools landing such a prestigious honor. You stand still, waiting for the photographer to thank you for the picture. You wait. And you wait. Your lips quiver. You’re struggling to hold the pose.

“You’re blocking the shot!” the photographer shouts and waves you away with a sweep of his hand.

The pit of your stomach boils as you look over your shoulder at the latest crop of tinsel town’s "flavor of the week," and are disgusted by the way the industry has lost its sense of credibility and allows anyone these days to step in front of a camera. All that’s required is a young face, tight ass, and rippling muscles.

You complete your walk down the aisle and take one last glance back out at the crowd. Not one called your name or asked for your autograph.

“Everything okay?” your assistant asks.

You sigh and nod. You’re not about to tell anyone you suddenly feel like a relic.

“Shall we?” The assistant points to the theatre where your latest movie is premiering.

You smile weakly and vow to get through this and on to the after party. Yes. That’s it—the after party. That will take your mind off things. Besides, after parties are nothing without you.

You suffer through the feature. The credits roll and you leap from your seat, appalled by the horrendous acting of your fellow co-stars and that fuck-wit director you didn’t want to work with in the first place. Your heart races and you run up the hall, busting through the doors. Photographers snap to attention and raise their cameras, but quickly lower them when they realize it’s just you, and not the fresh-faced couple Traywen Amber and Drevor Stone.

“Traywen and Drevor,” you say, and chuckle beneath your breath. “Who the hell names their kids Traywen and Drevor?”

The photographers return to their conversation and are no longer paying you an ounce of attention. With all the poise and grace of the Hollywood icon that you are, you offer the group your middle finger and walk to your waiting limousine. Your driver jumps from the car and reaches for the door, but you wave him off.

“Don’t worry,” you say. “I can handle it. Just take me to The Venue.”

Your driver nods and slips back into the car. Immediately, you raise the divider. You’re in no mood to be patronized by your chauffer tonight. You pull down the vanity mirror and inspect your face, scrutinizing every fine line, freckle, and even your hair.

You hiss at your reflection and shove the mirror back in place, hoping it shattered into pieces so you wouldn’t feel tempted to continue over-analyzing nonexistent wrinkles.

The driver slows to a stop next to the curb. You look out your window at the long line of waiting photographers. Your door opens to flashing cameras and you step out, smiling and waving.

“Hey! This way!” a voice calls from the crowd.

You happily turn toward the voice and smile wider.

“How does it feel to be a has-been?” The photographer lowers his camera and laughs.

The smile on your face melts into a scowl. Cameras flash like lightning. You consider approaching the photographer and giving him a black eye or at the very least a swift kick in the nuts, but you think better of it and walk on.

Despite the bile backing up in your throat, you greet the doorman with a smile. He returns the gesture, but holds out his hand, blocking your entrance.

“Is there a problem?” you ask.

“I’m sorry, but you’re not on the list,” the doorman says, apologetically.

You laugh at the absurdity. “That’s not possible. How could I not be on the list?”

The doorman shifts nervously. “I know. I’m sorry, but you’re not. Here—look for yourself.”

You snatch the guest list from his hands and scan the names. It’s true. You’re not on the list and you’re outraged, but remain calm. “An oversight, I’m sure.” You hand the list back to the doorman.

“Of course,” he says. “What else could it be?”

You stare at the doorman. “Well…are you going to let me in?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry. Can’t.”

You slap the bottom of the doorman’s clipboard. It flies from his hands and you simply walk away, making sure you leave your footprint on the paper.

You plod back down the aisle, taking a walk of shame through the amused photographers who greedily snap your picture. You imagine the cover of next month’s supermarket tabloid. You’re picture splashed across the front and over your face, the caption reads: FROM HOLLYWOOD HERO TO HOLLYWOOD ZERO.

You’re not ready to call it quits. You still have so much to offer, but you’ve been backed into a corner. You jump back into your limo and slam the door. With trembling hands you pull out your cell phone and dial the numbers you swore you’d never dial.

The phone on the other end rings. Deep down you hope there’s no answer. You swallow hard.

“Dr. Skin’s office,” the perky receptionist answers.

You open your mouth to find you’ve lost the ability to form words and quickly close it.

“Don’t worry,” the receptionist says. “Dr. Skin’s been waiting on your call. He’s ready for you.”

Will you...

A. Vow to save your career, take the appointment and go under the knife?

B. Accept you’re getting older and decide to age gracefully?

C. Go home and eat gallon after gallon of ice cream?

SEASON 2 HAS A STORY!

You've made your choice.

Now it's up to us to write it.

The story for our second season has been given a name and that name is...



Trailer coming soon.