ECOPOCALYPSE CH.6 - "C.D.C, A.S.A.P."

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.6 - "C.D.C., A.S.A.P." 
by James McShane

Your trip to the Centre for Disease Control Headquarters allows you time to calm yourself down and indulge in a little family bonding with your sister. You and Madge never saw eye-to-eye on many things over the years, but when she brought back her first girlfriend and introduced Suzi Ching to Mom, you stormed out of the house and wouldn’t come back until they’d both left. This incident made Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays a hornets’ nest for the next fifteen years. It’s not your fault you’re a bigot; society made you that way. You wish you could turn back time and make things right again, a-la Sam Beckett and Quantum Leap. But going by your recent experience with inventions, any time machine you built would probably result in the Nazis winning World War II and the San Francisco 49ers winning Superbowl from now until Doomsday. Neither of these possible events sit well with you. You are who you are – now deal with it.

You turn to Madge and say, “Hey, sis, remember that time you and Suzi…”

“Shut the fuck up!” Madge replies into her headphone. “I’ve not yet forgiven you for that,” she continues. “However, if you can in any way make this"—she points down below at the shit- and blood-stained streets—"better, maybe this Christmas I’ll buy you something nice.”

“I always wanted a pony,” you say wistfully.

“I was thinking more of a one-way trip to fucking Jupiter.” She turns to you. “I hear it’s nice this time of year.”

Madge has mellowed over the years, you surmise.

“Are we there yet?” you ask, changing the subject. You’re the pilot, and you know how long the journey takes, but you really want to move on from all this bitterness.

“Two minutes,” Madge replies. “I rang ahead. The president’s guy at the CDC is expecting us. You better know what you’re doing.”

“It’s like we said earlier, Madge. Whoever’s lost is gone forever. The only way I can fix this is so it never happens again. I hope this joker listens to me.”

“Who else is he going to listen to? The Ayatollah?”

You grunt in mock agreement. The sooner this finishes, the better civilisation can get going again. You will make this right.

You hope.

As you bring the helicopter down on the roof of CDCHQ, you experience a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach. There must be at least twenty CDC goons as your welcoming party. They have guns. Lots of guns. As you and Madge step out, a goon in a hazmat grabs you by the arm and throws you to the ground.

“So you’re the fucker who’s responsible for this eco-Apocalypse?”

You raise your hand and introduce yourself. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” you add. He slaps you across your face with a gloved palm. “I didn’t think I was this popular,” you mumble.

A voice from behind your assailant calls out. “Easy, Ernie. Let’s not give the CEO too hard a time. After all, amends must be made. Bring them down to the lab.” The new guy, who you assume must be the president’s eyes and ears in CDC, points to Madge, who is carrying the new and improved Environaut from the helicopter. He pulls you up and offers his hand.

 “Jack Sneedon, President’s Liaison, CDC.”

You both shake. “I take it you’re aware of what we have here?” you say. “With the improvements I made to the original design…”

“Yeah, I know,” he says as his colleagues move Madge and the devise into the roof elevator. “Your sister filled me in over the phone. Some shit about co-coolants. I don’t get it.” He fixes you with a steely glare. “But I’m hoping you do.”

Once more, you hope.

Down in the lab, you unpack all your equipment and prepare for a demonstration of the Environaut. You look around and see that the place is spotless. No blood. No shit. “You’ve been cooped up here all this time?” you ask. “No breaches of security? No Shithead Zombies?”

Sneedon shrugs. “One or two got through the main gate, but that’s all. Our guys are clean and good to go. What about you?”

Your head drops. “I lost my Mom and my best friend.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sneedon replies curtly, “but we’ve no time for sentimentality. We can grieve our dead later – provided we don’t become one of them. Set her up and let’s see what she can do.”

The demonstration works like a charm. After thirty minutes of further testing, Sneedon and his cohorts are less agitated than they were when they met you on the roof. It didn’t stop Hazmat Man from slapping you once more, this time with feeling.

Sneedon takes out his phone. “Wake up the president!” he barks. “Tell him I have good news.” His face loses several shades of natural colour. “What the fuck?” he roars. “When the hell did that happen?” He finds a nearby chair and just about manages to flop into it. He rubs his hand over the top of his head. He appears to be sobbing. “Artie’s in charge? Holy sweet fuck!” He ends the call and looks at you.

You feel a hand at your shoulder. It’s Madge, getting all sisterly like. “What’s going on?” she asks.

“Turn on the TV,” is Sneedon’s response.

On the big screen there is a shot of the White House. The ticker at the bottom of the screen reads: “President and Vice-President invoke 25^th Amendment. Speaker of the House, Arthur Gantly becomes President of the United States. News conference to follow shortly.”

You look at Sneedon. “They must have fallen foul of…the foulness.” Now you sound like a badly written twelve volume fantasy epic.

“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.
Now that your life is on the , do you:

A. Offer to turn yourself over to the bloodthirsty masses, hoping your self-sacrificial gesture will change Artie's mind?
B. Appeal to Artie directly and show him your new and improved Environaut? He's not that much of a nut, is he?
C. Do what every self-respecting person would do in a situation like this - run?

ECOPOCALPYSE CH.3 - ROOKIE BLUE POOP THUNDER

ECOPOCALYPSE CH.3 - ROOKIE BLUE POOP THUNDER By James McShane

On any other day, flying your helicopter over the vast metropolis would be a thrill akin to becoming the world’s first triple Nobel Prize winner—of course, seeing that you are unable to make change of a ten, write a poem worth reading, or even know what a goddamn quark is, Nobel is no-dice—but this is not just any other day. Mankind is smothering under the weight of its own shit, and it’s all your fault.

         “Mexico will have to wait,” you shout over the sound of the chopper as it veers first one way, then another.

 “So where to?” Milo screams back. You suddenly remember to turn on communications. No use wearing headphones if you can’t hear for shit, right?

Shit. That word again. If you make it out of this alive, you’re going to petition Webster to remove it from the dictionary. The guys over there owe you—big time. It was you who asked them to include iPoop as a new word.

You still have to answer Milo’s question. You hover over the city for a while, taking in the disaster below. You look around and see the police station. As you fly closer you see that the cops are performing their civic duty as only they know how: They’re shooting at anything that moves. Political correctness be damned!

“We’re going to need guns,” you say into your mouthpiece.

“Lots of guns,” Milo says.

You've always wanted to use that line and are pissed off with Milo for stealing it from you. “Yeah,” you mutter. “A fuck-load of guns?”

“Is that bigger than a shed-load?” Milo winks from behind his visor. Okay, you can’t see him actually wink, but as sure as eggs is eggs, the twerp is winking.

“Let’s go and see if the boys in blue have any spare weaponry. See if we can shoot our way out of this.”

“Would be better if we just flew our way out of this,” Milo whines. “I don’t see how we can help them.”

You ponder this as you look for a place to land, then nod in agreement. “Okay, they’re on their own, but we will still need to defend ourselves one way or another. We’ll stop here, on the roof, bail downstairs, grab some guns and ammo, then fly the fuck back to the lab.”

“The lab?” Milo is agog. “Why the fuck would you want to go back there?”

“I started this,” you say as you expertly land on the roof of the police station. “And I’m going to finish it. Properly.”

Milo opens his side of the chopper and jumps out. “This is where I bail, boss,” he says. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, but you’re on your own.” He runs in the direction of the door at the far end of the roof. You shake your head. All these years, having my back, and he has to bail now, when I need him the most. You’ve given Milo enough room in your thoughts. Now it’s time to do what needs to be done. You follow him, head through the door, and run down the stairs. There is an elevator, but you’re over elevators now. Stairs are the only way to go.

The further you go down, the louder the commotion becomes. You hope you’re not running straight into a Cop vs. iPooper free-for-all—that shouldn’t be the case, because as you flew over, you saw the cops shooting out of rather than back into the station. You gamble that the station is free of iPoopers.

No, the commotion is something else entirely. The cops are fighting amongst themselves, and at the heart of it all is Milo. He points up at you and shouts to one of the cops nearby. All of a sudden you’re the centre of attention, like at a Playboy party when all that the guests want is a piece of you. These cops want a piece of you all right—but not to play with. There is vengeance in their eyes. They wish to call down the wrath of the Maker and smite you from where you stand.

“Smite this, motherfuckers,” you rant, grabbing a service revolver from a nearby cop. (There are a lot of nearby cops, by the way. Well, there would be; it is a police station, after all.) You shoot in the air. “This is your last warning, gentlemen. I need some guns so I can put things right again.”

Milo stands near the front of the vengeful policemen. “See what I mean, guys? My ex-CEO wants to cure the world once more! My former employer wants to return to the scene of the crime and bring more madness upon us. I say it stops. I say it stops now! What say you all?”

The shot that hits your thigh is answer to Miles’ question. Maybe coming here was a bad idea after all. Back to the chopper! You beat a hasty retreat back up the stairs. You thank the Maker for all those hours you put in the gym, but the pain in your wounded thigh isn’t getting any better. The higher you climb, the fuzzier your head gets. You can’t slow down. Milo and his Keystone friends are hot on your tail.

You make it up to the roof and into the chopper before you just about pass out from blood loss. You start the motor running and slowly ascend into the sky. You feel a weight from underneath the helicopter. You look out and see Milo and some cops hanging on the landing blades. There are enough of them to keep you from climbing too high, but not enough that you can’t move away from the roof. Your awareness of what’s happening around you begins to fade. You wish you had more time to stem the loss of blood. There are things you must do to make this right again. You have to atone for your own misjudgements and the actions of your motherfucking Board. They are too dead to answer for their own crimes.

But you can’t atone now. You are powerless to do anything except glide the chopper along the roof. In a moment you’re over the city, with Milo and Company keeping you company. Your demise is imminent, you know. Perhaps you can take a few fucking iPoopers with you. You barely have enough strength left in you to position the chopper over a hoard of shit-stained, shit-smelling, shit-excreting maniacs. You switch off your motor.

You plunge.

You sit back and enjoy the ride.

YEEHAW!!

Oops...return to Chapter 3

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.5 - GRAB CLIVE

BLOOD ON THE CONCRETE HARDWOOD CH.5 - GRAB CLIVE

By James McShane

Clive is a blubbering mess on the living-room floor. You know you’ve made a deal with him, but your gut instinct (the one that told you that there was no way that girl was over 18) is knocking on the door and wants in. Seeing that you didn’t listen to it last time out, you think maybe it’ll do you no harm to find out what it has to say.

You’re being played for a patsy, ya schmo, your gut says. Momma Feeb has done a runner and I think she knows more than she’s letting on. Peck Clive some more!

“Don’t mind if I do,” you reply.

“Don’t mind if you do what?” Clive says, his face barely recognisable under a sea of blood and tears.

“This!” You jump on top of him and peck some more, opening new wounds and reintroducing old ones to a bright new world. You are immune to his screams for help, his struggling only adding to the excitement. You wonder why you never dressed up as a chicken before and figure there might be a spot in the WWF for you. You’re a natural.

Big Daddy Beak. You like the sound of that.

Then sanity returns, as it often must. Clive’s face is pure pulp. You take a deep breath and consider what line of questioning will work for you.

“Where’s your mother off to, Clive? Tell me the truth and I’ll call you an ambulance. Lie to me and I’ll call the morgue.”

“Phhhhkkkrrrr!” Clive splutters. “Phhhhhhkkkknngg klllll yooooo.” Clive’s left hand twitches like someone attached it to a generator.

“You’re gonna have to come up with something better than that,” you say. You can feel the bloodlust returning. Clive has only moments to spare himself another possibly fatal pecking. “I won’t be held responsible for my actions anymore.” To make your point, you touch your beak to what’s left of his nose.

“Owsh Ows,” Clive manages to say.

“What? Say that again – only this time with feeling.”

“Owsh Owse. Owsh Owse. Owth Owse.”

“Huh?”

“OWTH OWSE!” Clive cries out.

Now you have it. Clive’s mother has gone to Outhouse, an illegal gambling den by the docks. Why the hell has she gone there? you wonder. She wouldn’t cut it as a croupier. I better check it out. You get off Clive and head to the bathroom. You strip out of the chicken suit and find some of Clive’s clothes hanging on the shower door. He’s a size or three bigger than you, but needs must. He even has a hat. You like hats. As you leave the bathroom you cast your eyes longingly at the chicken outfit.

“I’ll be back for you later,” you say.

You throw a towel at Clive. “Clean yourself up, Sinclair. You look like you went twelve rounds with an emu.” You run out the door and head for the docks.

The Outhouse is run by the Bassoon Brothers, a shifty pair of greasebags from Chicago. You had a run-in or three with them over the years, sending at least a dozen of their staff to Sing-Sing. Needless to say, you won’t be getting something nice on your stocking this Christmas, unless you consider a garrotte a perfect Yuletide present. You’ll have to tread carefully.

The door is guarded by a gorilla in a suit. No really, it’s a gorilla. The Bassoons own shares in the city zoo. You don’t want to even think where they’ve put the sea-lions. If you want to find out what Mad Mel Sinclair is up to, you’ll have to take an indirect route. Maybe the back door is clear. You remember your training, so you crouch down and slither along the grass, watching out for escaped snakes. It wouldn’t do to get bitten in the ass by a rattler. You make the door in good time and get up slowly. You hear a voice from behind.

“Call my son a nancy-boy, do you?” It’s Mad Mel, and unfortunately for you she’s not alone. “That’s my prerogative, not yours.”

You’re not looking at Mel. Instead you’re throwing a wary eye at her bodyguard. He’s got at least two feet on you and he’s carrying what looks like a baseball bat in his feathered hand.

“When I said it was hard to find a good chicken these days,” she says, “I didn’t say it was impossible. Isn’t that right, Floyd?”

Floyd Bassoon. In a chicken suit. Carrying a baseball bat.

Bollocks!

Your hands are pulled behind your back. You smell salt water and turn around. “So that’s what you do with the sea-lions,” you say.

“Go get him, Floyd,” Mel shouts.

As the blows rain down on your head, as Floyd’s beak pecks out your eyes and ruptures your inner ears, the only thing you can think of is, who’s gonna feed my cat now?

THE END

Oops...Return to Chapter 5

HARDWOOD BLOOD CH.4 - CHICKEN TONIGHT

BLOOD ON THE HARDWOOD CONCRETE CH.4 - CHICKEN TONIGHT

By James McShane

You consider your options and realise that you’ve only got one choice. You need the cash. The last alimony check cleared out your bank account. When you brought this to your ex’s attention, you were told to sing for your supper. Lacking a voice to trouble Pavarotti or Bieber, you know it’s time to take the money and run.

“I’m outa here,” you tell Curly. “I’ve taken on more than I can handle and frankly this private dick isn’t as hard-boiled as it used to be.”

“What the f—?” Curly fumes down the phone. “Hey, Sweetwater, the boss has turned jellyfish on us.”

You hear Sweetwater yelling. “Get off my goddamn phone, you moron. You think I’m made of money? Let the sucker go. We ‘Trotters can take it from here.” Curly finishes the call without so much as a goodbye and good luck. You’re not surprised. Your relationship with the boys isn’t exactly a marriage made in heaven. They’ll get by, as they always do.

You turn your attention to the lady behind the desk. “Tell me more about this Chicken Fetish job?”

She’s surprised at your about-face. “Well,” she says, taking a card from beside her magazine. “The broad in question is a Missy Synch. Her address is here.” She hands you the card. “It’s not too far away. Ten minute walk, max.”

Something in the back of your mind urges you to steer clear from this madness. But you counter this “something” with thoughts of how you’re going to spend the five Gs. Barbados looks good for this time of year. Maybe the receptionist would like a trip, too. 

“I don’t like long-haul flights,” she says suddenly. “So yes, Barbados would be nice.”

“Wait a minute,” you say, “can you read my mind?”

“No. You talk out loud a lot.”

“My therapist would agree with you.”

She points down the corridor. “The suit is in Room 5. Get ready as quick as you can and go see your client.”

“I gotta go there dressed like a chicken?”

“It’s in the manual, did you not read it?”

You remember skimming over a lot of the requirements. But hey, it’s not often you get the chance to earn easy money.

“There’s no such thing as easy money,” the receptionist says. “And you really must learn to stop talking out loud.”

“My therapist would agree with that, too.”

You find your changing room and go inside. Hanging up on the far wall is a bright yellow chicken outfit, complete with headgear and beak. There are fluffy white wings where your arms are supposed to be. At least there are holes from which you can see where you’re going. You’re glad it’s a cool night out there, otherwise you’d bake—and whoever found your dead body would serve you with chipotle.

You strip out of your work clothes and leave them in a crumpled heap on the floor. It takes you about fifteen minutes to get into the chicken suit, and you remark to yourself that it’s a very comfortable fit. It’s as if it’s been waiting for you. You hum the Sesame Street theme as you leave the room to check in with Lady Hotstuff at the desk. She whistles at you.

“You know,” she says, “when this is all over, and if you want to, you and I could head out somewhere for…you know…”

“A drink?” you offer.

“Maybe we can lay some eggs, too,” she giggles.

As you leave Different Happyness, you feel less like a private investigator and more like an advert for Chick-fil-A—but you don’t care, there’s money to be made. You cross the street and wait for the inevitable…and you’re not disappointed. A cabbie calls out, “Hey, why are you crossing the road?” You let this existential moment pass into the ether.

Ten minutes later (and after many calls of how you’d like your eggs in the morning), you arrive at your destination. You look at the card Hotstuff gave you and search for Missy Synch’s name on the apartment buzzers. You see an M.S. and reckon that must be the place. You press it and a voice answers, a female voice that doesn’t sound right. In fact, the voice in question does not belong to what you would call a spring chicken.

“Hello?” the voice says.

“I from Different Happyness,” you reply. “You asked for our services?”

The voice breaks into a coughing fit. There goes a lung, you think.

“Are you dressed appropriately?” she asks.

“If you call this an early Halloween party, then yes, I’m dressed appropriately.”

“I’m on the fifth floor. Number 512. The lift doesn’t work.”

That figures. She buzzes you in and you trudge up five flights of urine-stained stairs. The walls don’t bear looking at, so you stare straight ahead, thinking only of the money.

You knock on apartment 512. She opens the door and allows you inside. You get your first look at her and think God, how old is this woman?

“A lady’s age is her own business,” she cuts in. “And you really should stop talking to yourself out loud. I’m sure your therapist would agree. Now get dancing!”

“What?”

“That’s what you’re here for, to dance. Did you read the manual?”

“Well yes . . .but . . .”

“No buts, just dance. Can you tango?”

For an old bird, the lady can move. She grinds her pelvis against your own, pulling at your beak like it was a phallus. She ruffles your feathers in ways they hadn’t ever been ruffled before. You feel you were born to be a chicken. You move mechanically, remembering something called the Robot Chicken. The old lady laughs hysterically at your automatonic jerks. You cluck deliriously. If you could lay an egg, you would lay one here and now. You curse the heavens for not providing you with the relevant biological conditions. And all this to no music, not even The Chicken Song. 

You love being feathered fowl.

But all good things come to an end. As soon as she stops her dancing, the old lady says, “I need to shower. Care to join me?”

“In this?” you say.

“No,” she replies. “You can strip off. When we finish, I’ll go get your money and then maybe we can, you know, work out a schedule.”

You like the sound of schedules.

You turn rapidly the second you hear a bang. It comes from the bathroom. There’s a shrill scream, then nothing.

“Lady,” you call out. “Missy Synch, are you okay in there?”

A figure emerges from the room. It’s neither old nor female. You know this man’s face, and then the penny drops.

“Hello Clive,” you say to the man. “Did I just dance with your mother?”

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s got some pretty good moves for a woman of her age.” He points his gun at you.

“Did you kill her?” You realize you’re unarmed. Your gun is back in the changing room at Different Happyness.

“No,” he says. “I just let off a shot and it made her faint. She is my mother, after all. What do you take me for?”

“So what’s going on?”

“I want my ‘Trotters back, dillweed. You’ve taken up too much of their time. I want you out of the picture and them back in mine. Capiche?”

“Did you kill the rest of those women just to get my attention, Sinclair?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Clive Sinclair, former head coach of the Harlem Globetrotters, says. “Now get down on your knees and cluck for your life.”

Will you...

A. Rush at Sinclair to peck his eyes out. Then find out what the hell is going on. The ‘Trotters are involved somehow.


B. Cluck for your life and hope Sinclair is merciful.


C. Attempt to lay an egg, which may provide enough of a distraction for you to make your escape.

TIME DOUCHE CH. 3 - DIREGÉ COMME L’ENFER (Run Like Hell)

TIME DOUCHE CH.3 - DIREGÉ COMME L’ENFER (Run Like Hell)

By James McShane

Okay, Boney’s lady is smokin’ hot and you know that in your finest hour you’d give her the loving of the century. But this is not your finest hour; it’s not even your century. And no matter how your heart says otherwise, discretion is the better part of valour – especially in your situation. You kiss her lightly on the cheek and say in your best historical French, “Not tonight, Josephine.”

She spits in your eye. “Never mention that woman in my presence again, you scum bucket. He loves me more than he loves his wife.”

“Lady,” you whisper, “some dudes will say anything to a woman, if it gets them a free pass through your corset.” It is at this point you want to say vive la revolution, but you think something will be lost in the non-translation. “Thomas,” you say to the air, “I’m making like Moses and getting the flock out of here.”

"Now is not the time for bad jokes!" Nubleman screams. "Don’t forget my machine. Get your ass back there, as quick as you can."

“On my way, TN.” You bid the mademoiselle au revoir. (This comes out as “until the next time” due to the inbuilt translator.) To which Marie replies, “There will be no next time.” Ever the pessimist, this Marie is. C’est la vie!

Using your memory, you manage to reach the outside once more. You look around, but you see no one in pursuit. You breathe a sigh of relief. To the time machine, you think. Tout de suite! Now where the hell did you leave it? Oh yes, further up the hill, you remember. Your stomach lurches at the memory. You pick up your pace, hoping that you’re one step closer to the machine, and one year closer to your own time. Then something out of the ordinary happens.

In front of you, about thirty paces from where you are, the air shimmers. You stop in your tracks as you feel a wave of energy surround you like a tornado. But this, as you know, is not Kansas anymore. You’re quite sure, from what little you learned from history books, that 18^th century France never experienced tornados. Whatever is happening in front of you is caused by science, not Mother Nature.

Merde! you think desperately. Sacre-fucking-bleu! Nothing like a little Franglais to get the blood boiling nicely. The shimmering air and energy wave intensify but seem centred on one spot. Out of nothing something altogether different materialises. You half expect a blue telephone box, with some bloke in a bow-tie coming out of it, waving madly at you. But it’s not a box of any sort; it’s a 16 foot replica of the Washington Monument. At its base, there is a hatch, and you shiver as it begins to open.

“Thomas,” you say through the confusion, “did you by any chance send out for reinforcements?”

"Why do you ask?" Nubleman says.

“I think I’ve found another time machine. And someone is coming out.”

"Fucking NASA," your host spits. "I have a spy in my company. Someone has sold my secrets to the bloody government."

“Welcome to the big bad world of business,” you retort. “So what do I do now?”

"Go with whoever it is and see what they know. Then steal their secrets. I’ll pay handsomely."

You shrug. As long as it gets you back to your own time, and away from the smelly French, you’d go with Doubya if that’s who it was in the monument. But it’s not the former U.S. president; it’s someone more famous, more deadly and better dressed.

The new arrival is leather-bound, wearing sunglasses, built like a brick shithouse, and sporting a crew-cut that is instantly recognisable. He walks over to you, and then holds out his hand.

“Come with me if you want to live,” he says. You take his hand and immediately feel your bones crushed by his incredible strength.

“Oy, be careful, will you?” you shout. “I use that hand for nocturnal entertainment.”

“Where is Bonaparte?” the Governator says gutturally. You point behind you with your good hand. He nods and looks down at you. “Your presence here has disrupted FoxNet’s plans. You must be terminated.”

You freeze. “I thought you were here to save me.”

“I lied,” he monotones. “I am to wipe the French from history, and it is unfortunate that you have allied yourself with cheese-eating surrender monkeys. For that you must pay.” He grabs your head and squeezes until your brain mass seeps from all your facial orifices.

You know you should call for your mother, but all you can think as you die, as the last of your grey cells exits through your nose, is Fucking Republicans!

THE END

Oops...RETURN TO CHAPTER 3

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.3 - UNDER THE KNIFE

WELCOME TO HELLYWOOD CH. 3 - UNDER THE KNIFE

By James McShane

You have enough of lying around naked and decide that Door #3 is the only option worth pursuing. It is only by going too far that you will find out how far you can go. Your grandmother said that to you many years ago when she took up abseiling as a retirement hobby. Poor Granny – they were scraping bits of her off the side of the cliff for days after her maiden flight. Still, you got your inheritance, didn’t you? A nest egg that lies intact, ready for moments and decisions such as these.

You call the receptionist. “Tell Dr. Skin I’ll take the third option,” you say, keeping your voice calm and confident. “It had better be what I need or else I’ll sue him for every penny he’s got. This procedure is going to cost me a small fortune.”

“My dear,” Skin’s receptionist says. “I don’t believe the doctor has discussed terms with you yet.” You search through your memory and realise she’s right. “In any case, we have an opening for this afternoon. Why don’t you come in and let Dr. Skin take care of things?”

“Let me check my calendar,” you say. You hang up and check your calendar. It’s blank, of course. No one wants you now. Amber and Stone have stolen your thunder, and the incident at the club has made you persona non grata. You resolve to find out what that means at a later date. You call back and set up your appointment for three thirty and kill time by ordering pizza and ice cream. One last blow-out, you think. Hell, a bottle of Bollinger will wash it all down nicely. This time tomorrow you’ll be a new person – literally.

***

You arrive a half hour late for your appointment. The champagne took longer to finish that you thought. You blame pepperoni. You present yourself, a little worse for wear, to the receptionist. You think she looks different to how she was this morning. Her eyes are greener, her skin darker, and her hair more greasy. You blame pepperoni once more.

“The doctor is ready for you,” she says, her voice drier that before, too. “Have you a hairbrush in your bag?” You show her your Kashuk Tools® Bristle, which she takes. “Follow me through.” You enter Dr. Skin’s surgery and for the first time, you feel like you’re walking into a Venus Fly-Trap. Still, the colours are pretty.

“Welcome,” the doctor says from behind his mask. All you can see are his eyes. They are green, just like the receptionist’s. “I applaud your courage,” he continues. “Once the procedure is over, you will have that courage rewarded.” He beckons you to his operating table. Surrounding it are machines that seem to have come from Sci-Fi central casting. They make “bing” noises. You notice that the doctor is holding a long thin knife, like a stiletto. You gulp.

“How long will it take?”

“Not long,” he says. “In fact, you won’t feel time passing at all.” He asks his receptionist to help you undress and prepare for the operation. You’re having second thoughts, as well as a sudden urge to pee yourself. The receptionist, who has now taken on the role of nurse, hands you a small plastic cup of purple liquid and two small white capsules.

“Take these,” she says. “They’ll help calm you down and enjoy the experience.”

You’re stunned. “Will I not be knocked out?” you ask.

“The doctor prefers his patients to be semi-conscious during this procedure,” she says. “This is because of its volatile nature. If anything goes wrong – and it won’t, don’t worry - he can put a stop to it straight away.” You take the pills and are led to the operating table. Dr. Skin has changed his clothes and is now wearing all black. You feel yourself drifting away. That’s good shit, you think, and remind yourself to ask for a few of those pills once you leave.

You are on the table before you know it, and the machines “bing” quicker than before. The last think you remember before closing your eyes is the receptionist handing your hairbrush to the doctor. He leans closer to you and you see beyond his eyes. You see his skin. You giggle and think of an old fairy tale. Skin’s skin is old and rumpled. Rumpled still, Skin, you cackle. Those are good drugs they gave you.

Then you feel yourself being peeled like an onion. A very large and blood-red onion. You wonder in your delirium if you would go well on a burger. A very large and blood-red burger. The more he takes off you, the lighter you feel. The machines “bing” like it’s DEFCON One. Yet you feel no pain. The good doctor does his work and you go along for the ride. You see polar bears and feel like you’re in fucking Norway. It’s suddenly cold – then it’s hot again. You feel like you’re in fucking Egypt and cry out in your dream for asses’ milk. What’s good enough for Cleo is good enough for you. And still you’re being peeled. Layers taken away from you like there’s no tomorrow. You try to open your eyes. You want to see what’s happening. But you can’t. All you can see is what’s inside your head. The doctor and his receptionist-cum-nurse are waltzing with wolves and jackals. You wonder where they took dance lessons. The jackals especially know their moves. And then the peeling stops. And then you’re out like a light.

***

You wake up and see Dr. Skin standing over you. You mumble through a bandage wrapped around your face. “Yes,” the doctor says, his eyes red as Red Riding Hood, “the operation was a complete success.” He holds up a jar, inside of which something glows a bright yellow. “I hope you don’t mind that I took my payment while I was operating on you.” He looks at the jar. “You have a wonderfully perverse soul, my dear. I can work wonders with it.” He puts it down and then leans over you. “It is time to take the bandages off and see how you look. Are you excited?”

You mumble some more. What’s this about my soul? you think. You didn’t see that in the contract. Then you realise you never signed one. You feel the bandages coming off you, and at last you’re free. Skin holds up a mirror. “Take a look,” he says to you. “You’re my best job ever.” You see your reflection in the mirror – and you scream.

You look like Justin Beiber.

You look down to your nether regions and scream even louder. You would have never traded what God gave you for what’s hanging there now.

Should you...

A. Make the best of it, join Justin Beiber’s fan club, and go see him sing live at the Hollywood Bowl??

B. Use your newly created looks (and other stuff) and plot revenge against Amber and Stone?

C. Confront Dr. Skin and ask for your soul back?