Bryan Hodges
Cat Sullivan, film extra turned Hollywood God, is the antihero standing in the smoldering leftovers of Los Angles County. He is alone with a gun in his mouth telling the story of how he went from a lowly film extra, to the biggest star in the world, and what went wrong.
Terrible and beautiful, Hollywould is an unbelievable and unflinching satirical scream in the face of celebrity and a media driven society.
Hollywould is Bryan Hodges' debut novel. He lives and works with his wife in Baltimore.
The curtains here are burning orange and I can't tell if it's the flames or the California sunrise. Right now Hollywood Blvd and parts of Vine and Wilcox avenues are being gnawed to the bare walls. Grauman's and Paramount Studios and Bob Hope Square are being eaten by flames and every time I hear the door shake I put my finger on the trigger of this gun and drop another Paxil or Prozac, or Zoloft. I let them dissolve in my mouth until I get that burning feel through my nose and the taste in my mouth the same as chewing aluminum foil. There are far off booming noises and I guess each time that it was a gas station explosion or a household propane cylinder or just another mutt Hollywood Executive Producer blowing his brains out.
I hear choppers and sirens and people screaming and I yell at the door that it probably isn't the greatest idea to be screaming when there is so much smoke to inhale. And, almost as if my advice was heard and taken seriously, the screaming stops or fades away. I look at the clock and it is 6:17 and I start to think that I am not going anywhere. That she isn't going to show or that before she does I will burn alive or be taken into police custody. This wasn't in my five year plan.
On television right now all you can see is my face. Every few minutes another paparazzi snapshot will come into frame and even after everything that has happened I want better pictures of myself on television. This is how easy it is to lose sight of things. I tell the reporter to put one of my premier photos up, pictures of me in suits worth more than the average car. I tell the screen that it's not worth being on TV if you can't look perfect.
With a gun pressed beneath my chin and another Celexa between my teeth it's getting hard to focus on the TV. My eyes hurt from looking down past my nose to see bad pictures of myself. The truth is I'm waiting to see an aerial shot of Hollywood Blvd. I am waiting for Lana to show up. I am waiting for half-a-dozen officers to ram down this door with a hundred news cameras behind them. I'm waiting to die when I realize I have spent my entire life... waiting.
