Hollywood Dead

I guess I don’t have a choice.” “Of course you have a choice,” she says. “They’re just not very good choices.

Proximity to normalcy is a nice turn of phrase; you ought do a needlepoint, frame it and shove it straight up your ass. Keep it there with the rest of your wisdom.

Just wait until you’re alive again.” I look over at her. “What? You’ve got a problem with us Revenant-Americans?” “Hey, some of my best friends are dead. But you look like you’re running a quart low.

And you’re going to do that all by yourself?” “If I pray real hard, I’m sure I can get the baby Jesus to watch over me.” “You just blew up a church,” says Candy. “Okay. The Devil then.” “That’s more like it.

I never liked Michael, and since he tried to kill me, I like him even less.

Cops are generally color-blind when it comes to brown cars, and this Subaru is too boring for even a soccer mom. It looks like it was made for people into competitive tire filling.

Up ahead, Donut Universe shines like the Virgin Mary doing barrel rolls over Lourdes, so I head over.

That's how you know someone likes you. Anyone can give you chocolate and flowers, but when they'll disembowel someone for you? That's true love.

Of course, aside from fear, the God business runs on sentimentality. That’s the only explanation. Unless it’s a real estate scam.

Count to sixty and start again, trying to time the drive. It’s well over an hour. In most towns that would mean we’re halfway to Argentina, but in L.A. it means we could be circling the block looking for parking.

That’s how you know someone really likes you. Anyone can give you chocolate and flowers, but when they’ll disembowel someone for you? That’s true love.

At least your absence wasn’t eleven years like your last trip. How was your time in Le Merdier?” “Dusty. There was a judge down there. He spoke more languages and was crazier than you. If I live, I’ll tell you all about it.

Wells points at me like P. T. Barnum showing off the dog-faced boy to the masses.

I say, “The Elmer Gantry act is very convincing, but why pretend you’re Wormwood? That doesn’t make any sense.

I say, “How do I look?” “Like a pail of manure dragged down a bumpy road and dumped into a river of puke,” says a familiar voice from behind me.

I sit on the end of the bed, trying to look as nonlethal as an extra from Night of the Living Dead can.

And if I do live, I don’t know if my body is ever going to be right again. I mean, even if I figure out what Ludovico’s Ellicit is and get cured, I might look like Freddy Krueger’s foreskin forever.

Anyway, there’s nothing at all humiliating about clutching ten pounds of ice like your firstborn while the damn bag leaks all over your crotch so it looks like you pissed yourself with joy. I crack open another beer to celebrate fatherhood and keep reminding myself that I’m doing this for Candy.

I wonder if this is one of those things they call a “teachable moment.” What it’s supposed to teach me, I have no idea.

I pull over one of the plush plastic chairs and sit down while he tries to remember what words are. Finally, he’s conscious enough to see me and the crazy room. “Where am I?” he says. “In Bilbo Baggins’s spaceship.” He rubs the back of his neck.

I say, “Lights,” and the place is suddenly like premiere night at the Egyptian Theatre. How can I describe the place? The walls and ceiling are rounded, like we’re living in a goddamn UFO. The tables and cabinets have rounded backs to fit against the walls. There’s an orange shag carpet and an avocado-green sofa covered with enough plush pillows that you could break a leg if they ever avalanched. The place is ringed by oval windows, and I can see lights beyond them. Aside from the sofa, the rest of the furniture is all smooth molded white plastic with the same warm seventies hipster colors on the chair seats and backs. The apartment is basically a Hugh Hefner bachelor pad in a Star Trek swingers’ resort.

The furniture looks like it was stolen from the lobby of a fancy hotel trying to pass itself off as folksy.

We duck-walk as fast as we can across the lot to an SUV the size of a freight train. The doors are thick with armor and the windows are two-inch-thick ballistic glass. Of course Abbot has one of these. He’s the Sub Rosa Augur, king high fuck-all, and this is L.A. Cars are sacred objects here. It wouldn’t do for a big shot like him to be seen in anything less than a four-wheeled Stealth fighter.

Ray looks over to see what Carlos is talking about. He has good control of his face. He’s done this before. Ray never looks shocked, but the momentary spike in his heartbeat and his pupils dilating tell me all I need to know.

Why don’t you tell me about why you’re here?” says Ray. Before I can answer, Carlos says. “Despite appearances, Stark here is dead.” Ray cocks his head and looks at me. “I wouldn’t have guessed,” says Ray. “You wear death well.

Ray comes out a few seconds later, wiping his hands on a small towel. He’s in a white shirt and tan pants. In good shape. He’s sandy haired and wearing Buddy Holly glasses. Ray could be a computer programmer or an ad writer. Whatever he does for a living, he doesn’t look like any brujo I’ve ever seen. He puts out his hand as he comes in. “Hi. I’m Ray,” he says. We shake. “I’m Stark.” He walks back to stand by Carlos.

No. I just spent a year on a crusade. I’m sick of lunatics telling me there’s absolution and ice cream over the next hill.

Maybe Sandoval and Roger can share a room. Do puzzles and go to physical therapy together. Maybe discover that they both secretly love Jell-O. Have a real TV-movie bonding experience.

You were going to say ‘You don’t know what Wormwood is like. Crossing them is worse than horseradish on ice cream.’ I’ve been hearing that from you assholes for days. Worry about Wormwood later. Right now, I’m the only monster you should be concerned about.

She’s used to getting what she wants and seeing that she’s not going to this time, she radiates a primal hate so pure that you could bottle it and sell it as napalm.