WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.6 - STEP UP

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.6 - STEP UP

By Lael Gardner - Stalnaker
Indecision grips you hard as your mind races with the horrible possibilities. You snag your lower lip in your teeth and wear the cutest expression on your smooth baby face as you concentrate.

Okay, so be it. Usher has to die.

You might manage through a sing off, but a dance off just won’t work. You are getting pissed though, almost as angry as when that little bastard at laser tag got in your face and called you a faggot.

Wait… that happened to Bieber, not you! Ack!

His experiences are bleeding over into your mind. You really don’t want to know if the little twerp is actually into mansicles; you frankly don’t care.

What is important is getting your soul back. It is obvious that now that you have tried to reneg on the deal, Justin Bieber’s mind and soul are coming back to occupy his stolen skin. Usher is playing sly and hoping you won’t notice that attack as he distracts you.

Okay, that’s it. Usher has to die.

This weak little body notwithstanding, you are going to prevail. Damn it, if you have to live out your days in this skin, by the God you don’t believe in, you will have your damn soul!

“Ok, a dance off it is!” you yell to cover the noise of the tween herd thundering down the pavement toward you.

Usher grins evilly at you. As the herd approaches ever closer, you are desperate to keep the maker of your woes from catching on. You march straight up to Usher, throw your arms around his neck, stand on tiptoe and smash your lips onto his. Just to really drive it home, you shove your tongue in his startled mouth before he can resist or protest. While you aren’t attracted to the guy, it is kind of a turn on that you can’t help notice the twitch from the sadly proportioned anatomy below that you wish was bigger.

Usher finally reacts and shoves you so hard that you practically fly and land on your ass almost ten feet away. The tweens shriek in rage from right behind Usher. His eyes widen as he finally catches on to what you were really up to. The enraged pubescent estrogen horde slams right into his back, knocking him down in a picosecond. Feet slam into him over and over, keeping him from rising. The horde is so vast that they press up against each other, surrounding you in a wall of cooing girls (with the odd male in the mix) as they try to help you up.

Usher is a broken pulp before the horde disperses with your dulcet encouragement and thanks for their concern. You watch in feigned horror as the blob of flesh that was Usher is revealed. Then, turning away, you pull out the bottle that holds your soul trapped. With a final cry of rage, you slam the damned jar to the ground. This time it breaks into glistening shards. Your soul becomes a mist that surrounds you and then enters your nose, mouth and eyes.

By god, it feels wonderful to be whole again!

Now that you have that most important piece of yourself back, you can try to piece together a new life. Maybe you’ll actually learn to sing, perhaps not. You will, however, make wiser choices than you have in the past. For better or worse, you are stuck with this body, so you will use it. It can’t be all that bad, given a ready-made fan base to work on and years ahead of you.

THE END

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.5 - A MATTER OF SIZE

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.5 - A MATTER OF SIZEBy Mandy Ward

You saunter over, trying your best to look casual. “Hi Traywen.”

“Hello yourself,” she purrs, completely ignoring the idiot on her arm.

Screams temporarily deafen the two of you as a horde of teenage girls run over, mobbing you and forcing the bodyguards to hustle all three of you into a black limo. You sigh happily as you sink into the soft, butter-coloured leather seat. This sort of life is too good to give up for the inconvenience of a soul. You can do without it!

Traywen snuggles up to you, stroking your cheek. “I’ve been a fan of yours forever, Justin.”

You smile and kiss her, ignoring the angry hiss of the prat on the seat across the limo. Your hands wander, stroking her hair, her back, her hip and leg.

“Oh no you don’t!” Drevor snaps and hauls you off Traywen.

“Go fuck a groupie, Stone. You’re a has-been anyway, you say. You’re rather proud of the way you slip into the younger man’s shoes.

Traywen giggles and nibbles on one of your earlobes. “You tell him, Tiger.” You shrug Drevor off and turn back to kissing the beautiful starlet.

“I said you are not having my woman!” Drevor growls and bangs on the limo partition three times. The limo screeches to a halt, throwing Traywen into your lap. The two of you collapse in giggles. “Right, Bieber, I want to settle this properly, like men.” Drevor says and gets out of the car.

You look at Traywen. Her eyes are alight with excitement and she almost pushes you out of the limo. “I’ve never had two men fight over me before.”
You fall onto the other seat and Traywen scrambles out. “Come on Justin, if you want me, you’ll have to fight for me.”

You are in the middle of the promenade. All around the limo, curious people are gathering. One or two older women point at Drevor and whisper excitedly. When Traywen emerges, several young guys call out for her to look at them or give them a kiss. She just waves.

The screaming starts as you step out of the limo. “JUSTIN! Over here, look at me! I love you Justin!” Several girls faint and a couple more jump up and down.

Drevor stands there arms folded. “Come on, ickle baby boy. Prove you are a man.”

“What do you want, Drivel?” you ask, standing with one hip cocked. “You’ll never lay a finger on me, coz you’re too old.” Drevor roars and rushes at you. You dance nimbly aside and smile at the swift reactions of this new you. “What’s wrong old man?” you ask, laying one hand on his shoulder and spinning him off into the open limo. Several people laugh. There is a large crowd by now and amongst them you can see the huge lenses of the paparazzi, all flashing away at the action. Turning, you smile and pose for them. Flashbulbs go off all around you and you change to a different pose.

Drevor has clambered out of the limo and is snorting and puffing like a bull. Pulling your jacket off to expose your toned body, you wave it like a matador at Drevor. “Come on then. Hey! Toro! Ole!”

“Don’t you mock me, you half baked, pimple faced pop nobody!” Drevor reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flick knife, popping it up to show a shining, eight-inch blade.

You laugh, bravado overcoming the fear that rose in your throat like bile at the sight of the steel. “Is that why you think you’re a man, Drevor?” You sneer. “I bet you have size issues.” He paces towards you, death in his eyes and blade held point out.

“He does you know… have size issues, I mean. His dick is the smallest I have ever seen!” Traywen confides loudly to the crowd.

Several people laugh and Drevor’s head whips round to stare at her. “You bitch. Just for that I am never going to go south on you ever again.”

You can see a reporter scribbling notes of the conversation. An idea occurs to you. I can become the hero of this if I’m careful, you think. Taking advantage of the other man’s distraction, you circle around him and grab for the knife, one arm wrapping around his throat. ”Come on now, old timer. Drop the knife so that no one gets hurt, alright?”

“Yeah, I’ll drop it… in your body!” Drevor puts one hand on your arm around his throat and folds forward, throwing you down to the ground in front of him.

Landing with an “oof”, you lie on the ground and watch as the blade heads down for your chest. Time slows and even as several people rush forward and you attempt to get up again, Drevor plunges the flick knife into your chest, sliding it expertly between your ribs. As the pain and blood erupt with equal measure out of your mouth,

Drevor’s eyes flicker from blue to green to brown and back to blue. “I win, I always win.” Dr. Skin’s voice whispers out of Drevor’s face, before he pushes the blade deeper and you feel your heart burst.

Why did I go to him? You wonder as everything fades to black.

THE END.

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 5

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.5 - DANCE OFF!

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.5 - DANCE OFF!

By CM Holst

Usher grabs your skinny adolescent arm and pulls you away from the screaming gaggle of girls approaching. You wince like a girly-boy and follow him to a back alley behind the coffee shop. A homeless man curled beneath a blanket shifts and chuckles while keeping a steady eye on you as you walk by in your stupid skinny jeans, and your stupid sneakers meant for a twelve year-old, and your stupid helmet hair.

“Where are you taking me?” you ask in your pubescent voice. Wondering if your testicles have descended, you take a peek down the front of your pants to make sure your junk is as it should be only to discover you have no junk at all. “What the fuck, Skin! Usher! Whoever the hell you are…what’s the meaning of this?” You point to your pelvic region.

He laughs. “I made you exactly in that little shit’s image.”

“What?” You take a step back, confused. “Are you telling me the real…” you swallow hard. You can’t bring yourself to say his name. “He doesn’t have anything? At all?”

“That’s right. Come on. This way.”

Usher walks up a flight of stairs and unlocks a door while you wait on the landing.

“What is it?” you ask, noticing the frightened look on Usher’s face. “What’s wrong?”

You slowly turn around and find yourself staring down the barrel of a gun being held by the homeless man you just passed.

“Get that thing out of my face, old man.” You swat at the cold steel and the homeless dude laughs, smiling a toothless grin.

“I wanna see you dance, boy,” he says, his voice deep and raspy.

“Go to hell,” you say.

“Uh, that’s probably not a good idea,” Usher finally pipes in.

“Fuck off! This is all your fault! If you didn’t make me look like this, we wouldn’t have this problem, now would we?”

The homeless man raises his gun and presses it hard against your forehead. “You don’t like the way you look, boy?”

You struggle to find your voice. “Not exactly. Why are you doing this?”

He laughs again. “I told you. I wanna see you dance.”

“Okay. Fine. I’ll fucking dance for you.” You snap your fingers and move your feet to a rhythm only you can hear.

“You suck, boy. Try harder!” The homeless man shouts.

Beads of sweat dot your brow as you shuffle your feet. “Maybe if I had some music,” you squeak.

“You’ll be hearin’ harps soon if you don’t start showin’ me some dancin’. Now move!”

You shuffle your feet faster and gravel crunches beneath your children’s size 5 shoes. Your heart pounds and your lungs struggle to pull in enough oxygen. “Usher,” you pant. “Usher, aren’t you going to help me?”

The homeless man watches with wide-eyed anticipation as your feet move faster, and faster still until they’re nothing but a blur.

“I don’t understand,” you beg. “Why are you doing this? What do you want?”

“It’s working,” the homeless man says, and laughs beneath his breath. “It’s working.”

“What’s working? What’s going on? I don’t understand. Jesus! God! I can’t stop dancing. Oh my God, I can’t stop dancing. Please, sir. Please. My feet. They’re…they’re burning!”

The smell of smoke wafts through the air and into your nostrils.

The homeless man’s shoulders bounce with laughter. “It’s working,” he yells at the top of his lungs. The old man stands up straight and tosses his dirt covered blanket to the ground. It’s Elvis.

Dark clouds cover the sky and between the peals of the old coot’s maniacal laughter, you hear a distant rumble of thunder.

“That’s it,” Elvis says. “Dance…dance…dance until you die!”

“Who the hell are you?” you demand as you gasp for air.

“You’re tellin’ me you don’t know how I am?” he asks. “What the fuck are parents teachin’ their kids these days if you don’t know who ELVIS-FUCKING-PRESLEY is?”

“I know who Elvis is you twit! I’m not who you think I am! Please, I don’t want to die,” you say as you gasp for air.

“Sucks to be you then, huh?”

“Nooooooo,” you cry out, but no one can hear your screams over the rolling thunder. The friction from your feet started a fire, and at once your entire body -- your young, fit, and junk-less body -- is engulfed in flames.

The End

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 5

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.5 - O.M.G.

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.5 - O.M.G.

By Debbie Davis

You twitch your neck to stop the blinding fury that is racing through your veins, but you only succeed in making your hair fall perfectly into place. Skin’s ass is mine, you think to yourself -- until you realize there is no time for anger. Your soul is hanging precariously in the balance, for God’s sake!

Forgetting you’re nothing more than a frail teen pop phenom, you hunch down as if you were a linebacker, and barrel toward the vault which holds your soul. The pain you feel on impact makes your blinding rage turn to blinding stars as you fall to the ground, stunned. That wasn’t like the movies at all.

You debate a second run at it but the throbbing in your shoulder stops you. You pull yourself together and stand to ponder your options. The damn neck twitch is back, but this time you notice the door is ajar -- but only slightly. You twitch again, and it opens a little more. Yes! You think. Yes! It’s all in the twitch! You twitch and twitch and twitch and finally the door opens completely.

The jar which contains your soul is placed on a podium about fifty feet ahead. Red laser beams are everywhere, like in Mission Impossible -- only you know it is, indeed, possible. You’ve played a cat, a comic book villain, and a computer in your career. This is the first time since you woke up that you’re grateful for Bieber’s mini size. Easy as taking candy from a baby…

In minutes, you possess what you covet the most, your soul. You twist the lid on the jar, but it won’t budge. You place it gently back on the podium and bring your hands to your mouth to blow on them. Retrieving the jar again, you try a second time. Nothing. You can’t throw it in here, or it will trip the beams and set off alarms, so you make your way back outside the vault.

Once you’re safely in the lab, you throw the glass jar to the floor with all the strength you can muster, but it does nothing more than bounce like rubber. Damn it! You’re about to kick it when a loud buzz begins to ebb through the room. You cover your sensitive ears as you see a hologram take shape.

Skin appears before you. “I knew you’d try and steal what’s mine,” he says.

“The soul is mine, Skin,” you reply through clenched teeth. “This soul belongs to me.”

Skin looks pensive. “I believe we’ve been over this. No refunds, no exchanges.”

“I want my soul back!” You scream, your voice cracking with each word.

“I am a fair man,” Skin replies. “A fair man indeed. I shall give you an opportunity to get your soul back in due time. A car awaits you outside. You will be taken to your new home. You can spend the night there. At dawn, meet me at Rodeo Plaza for further instructions.” The hologram begins to fade.

“Skin? Wait! Skin?”

But he’s gone.

“Skin!” You shake a fist in the air.

You take the jar and tuck it into the crook of your arm. When you get outside, just like Skin promised, a large black sedan is waiting. As you get in, you think you hear someone scream “Justin!”

You slide into the leather seat of the car and try to relax as the driver starts the ignition. In what seems like only moments, you pull up to a large mansion. Is this where I live? You thank the driver, because it’s the polite thing to do, and go inside.

You spend the night dreaming of Kim Kardashian and Reggie Bush going at it like pigs, and at 5AM you change into skinny jeans (that look like they’d fit a five year old girl) and an Ed Hardy hoodie with some crazy purple shoes. It’s time to reclaim what’s yours! As the car pulls into Rodeo Plaza, Skin, the bastard, is seated at a bench with a coffee and a paper. As you approach, he lowers the paper and you notice his once very green eyes, the same eyes that haunt you, are now brown.

You squint to make sure you’re seeing it right. “What the fuck is wrong with your eyes, Skin?”

He smiles his evil, sadistic grin. “How…observant.”

You don’t want to play his games anymore, but you also notice his hands, previously white as paper, have a beautiful dark color to them. “Skin,” you say, pointing, “your skin. It’s changing color.”

Skin begins to laugh the kind of cackle you’d hear in the most horrific of nightmares and transforms before your eyes. His bones crack and his face distorts and when it's over you scream--again.

“Oh my God, Usher!” You don’t know if you should run, punch him, or call 9-1-1.

“Who else would I be?” He smirks.

“Uh, Dr. Skin?” You raise an eyebrow like the answer should be obvious.

“Not so. Little brother, I am Skin and Skin is I.”

You’re suddenly courageous and move toward him, giving him a hard shove. For some reason, your eyes are welling with tears and you feel as if you’ve been cheated on. “B-b-b-but why, Usher? Why? I thought you were his friend! My friend!”

“Yeah well JB is a fame whore. He needs to be brought down a notch.” He shrugs. “Sorry you happened to get in the way.”

“What did I ever do to you, Usher? I even bought your album!” You exclaim.

“Right, well, this is Hollywood, baby, not the romper room.”

“I want my soul, you horse’s ass!” Your scream is loud, but it’s faded by a pack of wild preteen girls screeching in the distance. They are approaching with as much force as a herd of buffalo. Your eyes flicker and you say Traywen and Drevor sipping lattes in the plaza. Perfect. The day couldn’t get any better.

Usher crooks a finger at you. “Like I told you. I’m a fair man. I will give you the chance to win your soul back.”

You want to focus on what he’s saying, but the screams are just getting louder and Traywen is making googly eyes at you, right there in front of Drevor. You can’t help but smile and flip your hair. You think maybe you even wink.

“Pay attention,” Usher scolds.

“What?” You hiss. “How can I win my soul back?”

Usher gives another Cheshire grin as you clench your fists. You really want to knock his teeth out. “I said I challenge you to a dance off.”

“Fuck off.” You tell him. It’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard.

“A dance off.”

“No.” You shake your head. “I said fuck off.”

“A dance off.” It’s like he’s one of those dolls you pull the string on that do nothing but repeat themselves.

“Fuck off.”

Usher makes a face. “Whatever man. It truly is your loss,” he turns to leave.

“Wait!” You hold out your hand to stop him. “Can I kick your ass instead?”

“You can try, but I might warn you, I’m a third degree black belt.”

“Fuck off.” You say again. You can’t dance. You might be eight thousand times more limber in this body than your old one, but it still can’t give you rhythm.

“It’s the only way. You either need to win or I need to die. That’s the only way your soul will once again become your own.” His fingers are steepled as he awaits your response.

The pack of girls starts to sound like they are milliseconds away. You need to think—fast—or you might be the victim of a skirted stampede, which at this point, might not necessarily be a bad thing. But you can’t dance!

The screams get louder. Only seconds left…

Do You...

A. Accept Usher’s challenge to a dance off and pray to the God you are positive isn’t real that you can win

B. Allow the herd/pack of girls to rush forward and trample Usher in the process, thereby releasing your soul for the taking

C. Forget about your soul for now and go show Traywen what she’s been missing this whole time. Size doesn’t really matter, does it?

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.4 - BIDDIN' WAR!

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.4 - BIDDIN' WAR!

By Jason Campbell

“No bids?! My best years may be behind me, but what the fu-” your voice cracks with impending puberty.

Oh god no! Not puberty again, you think to yourself, I can’t go through this again. Anger, desperation, and frustration all wage war within you, leading you to drastic actions. A worn leather chair sits at the next cubicle over. You slide the chair over to the computer with eBay pulled up and sit down in front of the computer. Drawing again on your vast array of acting knowledge, you begin to channel your inner “hacker."

How hard could this be to hack? His password has to be something like soullessbastard or shallowcelebrity. Neither of those work. On the off chance you type p-a-s-s-w-o-r-d. The screen flashes and you have access to Dr. Skin’s personal eBay account. That was way too easy, you think. Undaunted, you push forward, scrolling through some of the evil doctor’s other auctions: a Baywatch actor, a has-been or two, and look! here’s an actress with multiple adopted kids. That sure explains the newly anorexic-looking body… but, yours isn’t there!

You logout and go back to the first page displayed, the one that had your skin for sale. There is no name on the auction, no registered seller. Sneaky bastard, Skin! The only way it seems that you are going to get your skin back is to bid on it. There is no way you can hide here for ten days to bid on it though. Using your own eBay account, you put in a bid for two million and one dollars. That done, you head towards the door, preparing to look for an exit. It is time to find a safer place to bid. As you reach for the door, you hear the computer ding behind you. When you get back to the desk you find that there is a competing bid for three million.

You’re a little shocked someone actually wants your skin as you enter your new bid for a dollar more. Seconds later it dings again, four million. Again you enter a dollar more which is the top bid for a millisecond, until the bid increases to five million.

“What the hell?!”

At this rate you will have used all of your last big paydays in just a couple more bids. You look for who your competition is. The account name says DWTSBergeron. The name sets off alarms in your head. Dancing With The Stars? Aren’t they always looking for washed-up has-beens trying to reclaim their former glory? Why would he need my skin? Does he have a host for it?

Ding – eight million.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Eight million and one dollars. You are nearing your last bid.

Ding – nine million. A couple quick key strokes and it’s nine million and one. You have nothing left if it dings again. One minute, then two, then five pass. Relief washes over you as you realized you’ve done it! You stand and head to the door again, but just as you step out into the hallway, you hear it, the sound of your skin being sold to someone else.

You want to drop to your knees and scream in wretched defeat, but with your new hormones, anger takes over and you storm out of the building, channeling your ninja assassin on more than one occasion to deal with the guards. You walk out of the front of the building, forgetting for a moment who you look like until you hear: “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, it’s Justin!”

“Oh fuck,” You shout as it dawns on you that you have just stepped into public looking like the most recognized face for girls under the age of 15. As if it was a call to arms, teenage girls pour out of every store, house, and vehicle in sight, and they all have their sights set on you. Like a knight riding over the horizon, a yellow taxi appears at the corner ahead of you. Using your new found youth, you sprint to the taxi; throwing open the door, you dive in, screaming at the cabbie to lock the doors.

“Quick, take me to CBS Television Studio.”

“Yes, right away Mr. Bieber. Oh just wait until I tell my daughter who I picked up today. She will never believe me!” The cabbie responds.

“Sure, sure, just get me out of here and I will sign autographs and take pictures.”

You look into the rearview mirror as the cab pushes its way through the mob of girls. It’s then that you notice that your ears are not perfectly even anymore. One sits a little lower than the other. The same thing has happened on your hand. Your middle finger is sloughing away from the bone. The cabby catches you fingering him and slams on the brakes. You are catapulted into his safety glass.

“I do not appreciate that, Mr. Beiber. I don’t think you want to walk -- Oh my God! What is wrong with your face?” The cabbie asks. His face is curled into a grimace. You look into the rearview mirror. Half of your face looks as if it is melting away.

“Nothing, just get me to that studio!”

The rest of the trip to the studio is a blur as you pull at your skin, trying secure it back into place, trying to make it look normal. When you arrive at the studio you look as if you have aged fifty years in the last ten minutes. You throw a wad of bills at the driver and storm into the studio. The Dancing With The Stars stage is to your left. You don’t make it more than two steps when you feel your nose slide right off your face. Michael Jackson has nothing on you as more pieces start to slide off your body. By the time you reach the doors to the stage, there is very little left holding you together.

The door swings open as you reach for the handle. There in front of you stands Tom Bergeron. He shakes his head at what is left of your body.

“You should have listened to the nurse,” he says.

“What? How do you know about the nurse?” you gasp as you fight for breath.

“Where do you think I find most of my clients for my little side business? All the has-beens and wannabes want to be on this show.”

“Dr. Skin?” You ask, just before the blackness engulfs you.

THE END.

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 4

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.4 - BUSTIN' LOOSE!

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH.4 - BUSTIN' LOOSE!

By James McShane

What the hell? you think. Where do these guys get off with auctioning your skin? They have no right. Bastards! Isn’t stealing your soul enough? Dr. Skin and whoever else he has on his team are messing with the wrong Legend. This far, no further. A line has been drawn in the sand and pity the poor fool who crosses it. You feel empowered by your inner strength.

Then you look down at what Skin gave you and collapse into a heap of teenage angst. You cry for your mother, and she appears to you in a weepy dream.

"Get off your ass and take back what God gave you," she says. "It serves you right for thinking the grass was greener on the other side, child of mine. I AM on the other side, and trust me, there ain’t no green from where I’m standing. It’s all dark and cold...and evil. Oh Lord – here he comes again. Don’t let him take me! Not the pit bull! Please, no – not the pit bull..." She screams loud enough for you to stop your bawling.

That’s my mother, you think; as full of motivation as she was of Jim Beam. But deep down you realise she’s right. You must get back into your own skin. But how? The doctor hasn’t left you any obvious ways in which you can do this. No copies of “Skin Grafting for Dummies” anywhere. You look around and suddenly you spot what just might be your way out of there.

Dr. Skin has had the electricians in. There is a tool box beside a busted socket. You scurry over and rifle through its contents. You pick out a screwdriver, some double-sided sticky tape, a small hammer and packet of cigarette papers. You wonder if you have any weed at home. You may need a massive spliff once you get back. This has been one mother of a day. And it’s not over yet.

You reach the tube that holds your skin and bang on the glass with the hammer. You remember a part in a film where you played a member of a chain gang and channel your inner convict. You’re not so much Cool Hand Luke as Feck-All Use Justin, but you give it your best shot and eventually a small crack appears in the tube. You use the screwdriver to wedge it open. In a matter of seconds the pink goo that was protecting your skin seeps out. The crack opens wider and you reach in to grab your real skin. Now you’re holding it like a comfort blanket. "My Boobie," you say as you stroke your skin. "I’m sorry I mistreated you. Let’s skip this joint and get you back on me. I’ll find a real doctor who will do a proper job. Then we can go back to having threesomes again. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Boobie?"

Now you think about how to get your soul back. You throw your skin over your shoulder and secure it with the sticky tape, so it won’t come loose. You head to the vault that contains your soul and introduce the latch to your new friend, MC Hammer. You break it open easy enough and enter the vault. Once inside you’re inundated by the voices of imprisoned souls, each crying out for freedom. They fill your head until it’s about to explode. You cover your ears, but that’s no use. You look for your own soul, but can’t make it out. The doctor hasn’t labelled them. You scream so loud the other souls echo your cry. What’s left of your mind is escaping from every pore of that teenage wank-stain’s skin.

You take your hammer and break every soul-filled container. Each freed soul enters your body and fights for dominance. You run outside the vault and slip on the pink goo, banging your head viciously on the concrete floor. A hole appears beneath you. You feel yourself falling into it. You look down and see your mother. She’s waving at you.

"Come on down," she says. "Me and the pit bulls need some company." You fall further down and pass each of Dante’s Nine Circles of Suffering. You wonder if there’s room service.

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 4

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.3 - PLOT REVENGE

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?

THE END.

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 2