BY DUANE SWIERCZYNSKI
Hollywood
We knew things would be different when the president’s head exploded on live TV; we just didn’t know how different.
At first, the killing was treated as a typical assassination. But no bullet fragments could be found, no lone gunman. In the months that followed, and as an increasing number of public figures were slaughtered in plain sight (culminating in the so-called Oscar Night Massacre), we slowly learned the awful truth.
Today, the currency of fame has been completely devalued. In its place: a new austerity where citizens are judged solely by their anonymous contributions to society. Those who continue to seek public recognition risk the wrath of faceless killers who hide in outlaw collectives known as “psychic death cults.” (“Show us your face and we will destroy it,” reads one line from their manifesto.) These groups continue to operate despite all law enforcement efforts to stop them.
Yet, there is an occasional investigative breakthrough. The following interview was conducted by Special Patrol, California division (SPCA), operating out of a former private “escape room”—style establishment at the corner of Hollywood and N. Cherokee Avenue, inside the “Giallo Experience.” —The Eds.
Detective: Please state your name.
Subject: Hah, fuck you.
Det.: Look, we already know your identity thanks to the DNA scrape when we slapped the cuff on you. It’s routine. You can have all of the plastic surgery you want, but your double helix doesn’t lie.
Subj.: So why are you asking my name?
Det.: For the record.
Subj.: You might as well paint a bull’s-eye on my forehead.
Det.: Look, we’re on the same side here. I know what these animals did to your family. If you’re completely open with us, we’ll be completely open with you.
Subj.: Says the lady wearing a featureless mask, a fedora, black gloves, and speaking through a voice modulator.
Det.: [Sighing] It’s the room. I know it’s stupid, but we were told to use the materials at hand in this old escape room. I never liked Italian murder movies.
Subj.: Everyone’s a critic.
Det.: [Frowning] I thought you said you wanted to cooperate.
Subj.: I do. But can I tell it my way? I feel like you’re trying to push me all the way to the end, and if I don’t explain it right, you won’t understand.
The detective opens her arms in a gesture indicating the subject can speak freely.
Subj.: We arrived through the Burbank gateway, then made our way down the Cahuenga Pass …
Det.: Hold on. For clarification purposes: who is we? You were arrested alone.
Subj.: I was with my daughter.
Det.: I’m sorry … did you say your daughter?
Subj.: Are you going to keep interrupting me, or can I tell you my story?
Det.: [Lengthy pause] You may continue.
Subj.: We hit the checkpoint at Cahuenga and Franklin, next to those stacked glass blocks that used to read HOLLYWOOD before someone smashed it all to hell. Now all that’s left is OOD, along with all of the ugly signage you SPCA guys slapped up. I signed the papers indicating that yes, we knew the dangers of Hollywood and would be proceeding anyway.
Det.: We want to keep people safe.
Subj.: If you wanted to do that, you people would level the whole place.
Det.: That would be illegal.
Subj.: Right. [Sneers] Anyway, we made our way down the hill and took a right onto Hollywood Boulevard. It had been a long time since I’d been down there, and the daughter noticed them first.
Det.: Noticed what?
Subj.: The holes in the sidewalk. Kind of like mini craters, with chunks of granite with little bits of pink stone here and there. Took me awhile to realize what I was looking at, and the daughter had never seen them before, so …
Det.: A lot of frightened A-listers paid to have their stars demolished a few years ago, right around the same time they scrubbed their names and images off the Internet. Larry Edmunds’s book and poster shop was hit hard too. There’s a rumor that some C- and D-listers teamed up for a late-night raiding party, driving over from the Valley and tossing Molotov cocktails into the place.
Subj.: There were still some names left on the walk.
Det.: Yeah, but nobody remembers who they were, so what does it matter? Let’s get back to it.
Subj.: That’s really sad, isn’t it? The idea that at one time you mattered so much that they would set your name in bronze in the very sidewalk, but now …
Det.: Where were you headed?
Subj.: The daughter was hungry, so we stopped at Musso & Frank for a bite. I was surprised; the place was sort of packed. You know how it’s divided into two rooms, one with the old bar where Hammett and Cain and Fante and Bukowski—
Det.: Are these the names of your contacts in the PDCs?
Subj.: What? No. They’re writers. Famous ones. They used to hang out at Musso’s and get drunk.
Det.: Never heard of them.
Subj.: The Maltese Falcon? Ask the Dust? Jesus, Notes of a Dirty Old Man?
Det.: Go on.
Subj.: Wow. I’d chalk it up to age, but of course, I can’t see your face to tell how young you are. Anyway, we squeezed our way to the bar, mostly because I wanted the daughter to rub her elbows on the same bar top where the greats used to rub their elbows. There were a lot of writers there.
The place has become sort of a shrine to them, a reminder of the good old days of one-step deals and setup bonuses and COEP credits.
Det.: Did any of them recognize you?
Subj.: [Nervous] No … I mean, why would they?
The detective shrugs.
Subj.: Anyway, the funny thing is, the writers were all out in the open, no masks, using their real names and everything. Which of course. Who in Hollywood would bother killing a writer? The PDCs would have to work their way down through the deep pool of Z-listers and bottom-feeders before they’d ever target a screenwriter. They were all drinking fairly heavily, though, as if they expected death any minute.
Det.: What did your daughter order?
Subj.: Well, she was too young for a martini, if that’s what you’re asking. She had a baked potato with soy’r cream and a cashew milkshake.
Det.: They serve milkshakes at Musso’s? I’ve never been.
Subj.: Really? It’s practically in your backyard.
Det.: I don’t spend any more time in creepy old Hollywood than I have to. But maybe you can clear up something for me. I’ve heard stories that the bartenders serve MND-RSRs. A single cocktail, along with a little extra juice in the sidecar, that erases your short-term memory for a day or so.
Subj.: It’s possible. I didn’t order one.
Det.: What did you order?
Subj.: Vegan lamb chops, French-cut style. Sautéed mushrooms. Iced tea.
Subj.: How could I be telling you this if I’d erased my short-term memory?
Det.: Fair enough. Where did you go next?
Subj.: The PDC recruitment center at McCadden Place, right near the Egyptian. The offices were surprisingly clean. Not what I expected.
Det.: Apparently the PDCs infiltrated and forced out the previous tenants—you know, those cultists who believed that humans evolved from clams and their dead leader was coming back to earth in a spaceship or whatever. But how did you discover the location of this recruitment center?
Subj.: It’s an open secret. Otherwise, how else would wannabes find the place? You know all of this stuff already, you don’t need me to tell you.
Det.: It’s important to know how you know. Why did you want to visit the center?
Subj.: To prove I’m psychic.
Det.: Do you possess psychic abilities?
The subject leans back in his chair and smiles.
Subj.: And now we come to the heart of this interrogation. You want me to predict the future? Kind of like a test?
Det.: Sure. Let’s start with something small.
Subj.: Like your name? Your date of birth?
The detective visibly jolts.
Subj.: Just kidding. Okay, whatever. Hold up fingers behind your back. I’ll tell you how many.
Det.: That’s no proof of psychic ability. Anybody can make a lucky guess.
Subj.: Sure. But how about twenty times in a row?
The subject goes on to predict, without error, the number of fingers the detective is holding up behind her back. There are no reflective surfaces in the Giallo escape room, which is decorated like a late-1960s, upscale Italian apartment. The subject does this twenty consecutive times. The detective is impressed.
Det.: So you’re one of them. The so-called gifted.
Subj.: Nope. I hate those bastards. I came to LA to destroy them all.
Det.: Then how—
Subj.: Can I please, please,please tell it my way?
Det.: You’re the psychic. You probably know how this entire conversation is going to play out.
Subj.: I wish. But I did manage to pass the PDC screening process. Basically, I was put into a room and had to go through a series of guessing games, much the thing we just did. I thought they’d be choosier, but I guess they’re just looking for butts in seats at this point. I was given a paper ticket and an address.
Det.: Was your daughter tested?
Subj.: That wasn’t an option.
Det.: They just allowed her to tag along with you?
Subj.: She was close by.
Det.: You’re talking in riddles.
Subj.: No, but I’ve got a riddle for you. A couple goes on their honeymoon. The husband returns home alone, telling police that his wife had a horrible accident and died. The police go, Your travel agent called. You’re under arrest for murder. How did they know?
Det.: Because the husband only bought a one-way ticket for his wife?
Subj.: [Crestfallen] You heard this one before.
Det.: No, I’m a detective. Greed always does you in. As does trying to distract me from my line of questioning. See, your daughter is the one piece that doesn’t fit with your story. Where is she now?
Silence.
Det.: And you know, I’m starting to recognize you. Even with the plastic surgery you’ve had done.
Subj.: I haven’t—
Det.: Uh-huh. The way you carry yourself, move your hands around, yeah … you were fairly well-known as a character actor, back when movies were still a thing.
Subj.: Not as well-known as my wife.
Det.: Or your daughter.
The subject practically deflates in his chair.
Subj.: Fuck.
Det.: Yeah, look. I’ve known your name from the beginning. The DNA scrape, remember? But I didn’t actually see it until just now. It’s all about the tells. Human begins are hardwired to say, Notice me, notice me, even when it’s in their best interests to stay hidden.
Subj.: How philosophical.
Det.: No, behavioral. Anyway, enough dancing around. I was hoping you’d tell me the truth, but since you’re clearly trying to pull some Keyser Söze shit on me—
Subj.: Oh, you know that reference, but not Double Indemnity?
Det.: You’re just proving my point. You’re right: I can’t help but give you some tells too. I am young. Younger than you, anyway. But I know you’ve been lying to me from the beginning, because I know all about you, [NAME REDACTED]. I know why you’re here in Hollywood, and what you planned to do. What I don’t know is how you’re alive.
Subj.: Go ahead. Tell me who I am. What I planned to do.
Det.: Your wife, former A-lister [NAME REDACTED], was one of the victims of the Oscar Night Massacre. She was up for Best Supporting that year. You were standing right next to her when her head exploded. The cameras caught you trying to help her put herself back together, like Jackie O. reaching out of the limousine on Dealey Plaza. But you couldn’t. It was too late. There was nothing you could do, no way to protect her from the PDC that had targeted her, along with all of the others.
No response.
Det.: The psychic death cults decided to make a big statement that year and wipe out the entire slate of nominees. They were mostly successful. It was the most public demonstration of their powers, and it worked. But it wasn’t just actors. They also went after politicians, high-profile CEOs, musicians, comedians, people who were famous for being famous … If you were known by the general public, you were automatically on their hit list.
Subj.: [Mumbles] People in a room.
Subj.: Just a bunch of people in a room. I’ve heard it takes only a dozen, and as many as three hundred. The night my wife died, a group of people sat in a room and concentrated on her so much that …
Det.: Her head exploded. Like in that old movie Scanners.
Subj.: Don’t you dare say that title! Especially not in front of someone who’s lost a loved one to a PDC. You just don’t do it!
Det.: Oh, so you’re fine with slinging James M. Cain around, but I’m not allowed to get all David Cronenberg on your ass?
Subj.: What? So you have heard of Cain.
Det.: Not every tell is a tell.
Subj.: So you’re just a dick. Why are you doing this to me?
Det.: Because you’re a liar and a drunk who murdered his daughter, yet claims to have had a milkshake with her at Musso’s earlier today.
Subj.: Don’t.
Det.: I get it, [NAME REDACTED]. You completely lost it after [NAME REDACTED] died, her brains all over your Ermenegildo Zegna three-piece. You crawled into a bottle. But you still had a daughter at home, one who should have been the focus of your attention. You should have protected her. Especially when the PDCs started targeting child actors.
Subj.: Please don’t.
Det.: By this point, the media stopped covering celebrity deaths. It was just drawing too much attention; things were spiraling out of control. But we have the files. We have her death certificate—
The detective’s interrogation is interrupted by a third voice in the room.
Daughter: But I’m not dead.
Det.: [Shocked] Shit!
The subject’s daughter, well-known child actor [NAME REDACTED], materializes in the room. She is seated next to her father.
Subj.: Honey, I told you to stay hidden.
Daught.: I’m not going to let this stinky detective tell her filthy whore lies.
Det.: I don’t know how the fuck you got in here but this room is supposed to be completely secure … [Panicking] Control!
Daught.: Take it easy, Stinky. I’m a hologram. Remember that movie [TITLE REDACTED], where I was inside a computer game fighting for the liberation of all of the “extra” lives? Well, they did a full-image capture of my body and a rudimentary AI based on my mind. It was for the press junket. The idea that I would do, like, a hundred interviews all over the world at the same time. It totally slapped!
Det.: Where is this … hologram … coming from?
Subj.: The projector is hardwired to my heart. You try to pull it, I die.
Daught.: And if you kill my dad, Stinky, I will haunt you forever.
Det.: Fine. But please stop calling me that.
Daught.: What? Stinky? I don’t have the sense of smell anymore, but look at you, rolling up in here with your mask and hat and gloves. You gotta be a little ripe.
Det.: I’m going to talk to your father now, okay?
The daughter shrugs.
Det.: I’m starting to see things a little more clearly now. You … and your daughter … returned to Hollywood so you could pose as a psychic and infiltrate the PDC who killed your wife.
Subj.: Correct.
Det.: How did you intend to do that?
Subj.: Math.
Det.: [Stares at him] You’re going to have to explain that.
Subj.: But first let me come clean. After the daughter and I first cleared the SPCA checkpoint and hit the boulevard, we didn’t proceed directly to Musso’s. First we stopped at a tourist shop on Hollywood and Cherokee. Directly across the street from where we are sitting right now.
The daughter is now wearing star-shaped sunglasses.
Daught.: I got these ace shades.
Det.: That place is an eyesore. All they sell is cheap junk celebrating a place that doesn’t really exist anymore.
Subj.: You know what else they sell? Handheld cattle guns.
Det.: Like the one we found on you when you were arrested.
Subj.: If you’re going up against a psychic, accept no substitutes.
Daught.: Did you know it can lobotomize a telepathetic with just one pull of the trigger?
Det.: I did know that, sweetie.
Daught.: Don’t sweetie me, Stinky.
The detective frowns.
Subj.: And after I bought the cattle gun, we went to Musso’s, where … You were right. I did ask Ruben for a MND-RSR.
Det.: That’s why you brought your daughter along. So she could tell you where to go next, without you having to consciously remember.
Daught.: My dad’s a silly drunk.
Det.: You went to the PDC testing center and got your certification … also thanks to your daughter.
Daught.: That’s not very nice.
Det.: What’s that?
Daught.: The middle finger you’re holding up behind your back.
Det.: Just testing a theory.
Subj.: Hey! She’s a kid, you fuck!
Det.: Okay … so now we have motive, we have a weapon, and since you passed the PDC test, we have the means. But I still don’t see how you thought you’d make it out of there alive. I mean, just the sheer numbers.
Subj.: Which is why I did the math.
Det.: Go on.
Subj.: There are three known psychic death cult gathering places: the Egyptian, El Capitan, and, of course, the Chinese. If you don’t have the clearance—the stamp on your inside wrist—they kill you on sight. As many SPCA officers have discovered. But once I had my official clearance, I could step into any of the lobbies.
Det.: Why is that important?
Subj.: Because that’s where they hang the headshots.
The detective makes an “and… ?” gesture.
Daught.: Of their victims, stupid.
Det.: Oh.
Subj.: Early on, there were hundreds of amateur psychic death cults. You get enough people with latent psychic ability, then add a handful of activators powerful enough to draw upon that energy, then boom, you’re ready to start killing famous people with your mind.
The daughter makes an “exploding head”gesture with her hands while pursing her lips.
Subj.: They recruited most of their members online, from the comments section.
Daught.: Trolls.
Subj.: But pretty quickly they figured out there was strength in numbers, and the inevitable consolidations and mergers started happening. Now, there are only three PDCs, all of them operating in the abandoned ruins of three Hollywood theaters.
Det.: The Egyptian. El Capitan.
Daught.: Which specializes in child stars. The jerks.
Subj.: And the Chinese, which I soon discovered hosts the PDC responsible for killing my wife. Her headshot was hanging on the wall.
Det.: Former movie theaters … that makes sense. What other place could accommodate hundreds of people and have them focus on the same thing?
Subj.: Exactly. When I walked in, they handed me a paper program with that day’s targets. As you can imagine, the pickings are very slim these days. It was pretty much Twitter comedian [NAME REDACTED], famous-for-no-good-reason [NAME REDACTED], some YouTubers, a magician.
Det.: What do they actually show on screen?
Subj.: Whatever footage they can find of the target, run in endless loops, usually a couple of hours, sometimes three, until the target is dead. Then the headshot goes up in the lobby.
Det.: How do they confirm the kill?
Subj.: Sometimes they don’t. But mostly, the strongest activator in the room maintains a link with the target, so they’re able to describe the death in gory detail, right down to what the target was doing at the time. It’s not all head explosions, by the way. Some get off on total organ failure, extreme vertigo, the illusion of drowning.
Det.: That’s sick.
Daught.: I know, right? Maybe you’re not so stinky.
Det.: Thank you.
Subj.: Then there’s a break for the restroom, a trip to the concession stand, and then some trailers that give clues about tomorrow’s slate of targets. Though, like I said, it’s getting pretty obscure by this point. Do you remember anyone who appeared in The Mephisto Waltz? Or Assassination of a High School President?
Det.: The Chinese has over nine hundred seats; we estimate, based on surveillance footage, that there are over five hundred people inside for any given show. How did you think it was possible to kill them all with a single cattle gun?
Daught.: Like he said, math.
Subj.: Math, and testing the limits of free speech.
Det.: How’s that?
Subj.: Basically, I yelled fire in a crowded theater.
Det.: You what?
Daught.: Actually he yelled, Animal Control raid! That got people moving pretty quickly.
Det.: Do they still call the SPCA that? Animal Control?
Daught.: Pretty sure you faceless fascist freaks started it. You do consider the telepathetics “animals,” don’t you?
Subj.: Anyway … and here’s the math part … I reasoned that the activators, the most powerful psychics in the room, would sit in the best seats in the house. The very front row.
Det.: You’re joking, right? Those are pretty much the worst seats. The middle is where you want to sit.
Daught.: Uh-uh. For me, it’s either the back row or no go.
Subj.: Whatever! I figured the activators would be running in the near-dark toward the fire exits on either side of the screen. So I hid myself in a curtain there and nailed as many passing psychics as I could with the cattle gun.
Daught.: BAM. BAM. BAM. I helped.
Det.: You’re a hologram … you don’t have fingers.
Subj.: No, she kept the “Animal Control raid” thing going to whip everybody up into a panic.
Det.: And this plan of yours … did it work?
Subj.: Not one bit.
Daught.: It was the ultimate dad fail.
Subj.: There were simply too many of them. I lobotomized maybe a couple of dozen before somebody knocked the gun from my hands.
Daught.: And then it was all over.
Det.: Which brings me around to the question I keep asking: how are you still alive?
Subj.: Once they caught me and scanned my mind, yeah, I was pretty much toast. They had some fun with me, controlling my body, making me do strange things.
Daught.: Not your finest hour, Pops. [Giggles.]
Subj.: But then they saw the potential in me. How I could be a huge help to the psychic death cult movement.
Det.: Why would you do that? You hate these people. They killed your wife!
Subj.: But they also made me see the truth. You’re right—I was responsible for the death of my daughter. And I needed to be punished.
Daught.: Don’t look at me. That happened after my brain was scanned for the AI press junket thing.
Subj.: And the PDC, in turn, admitted culpability in the world they had inadvertently created. Instead of celebrities and politicians … real live human beings, flaws and all … we are now controlled by the cult of anonymous fascists who demand total social control, ruling behind masks and truncheons.
Daught.: Pssst. He means people like you.
Det.: That is not fair. We are struggling to barely keep this world together!
Daught.: Admit it, Stinky. This is why you allow the PDCs to continue to operate. Why you didn’t level Hollywood. No famous people means that the anonymous jerks can rule from the shadows.
The detective stares at the hologram.
Subj.: So I cut a deal.
Det.: What … kind of deal?
Daught.: In Pop’s defense, he really didn’t have a choice. You try keeping your mind together when dozens of telepathetics are playing around in there. You’re lucky he’s not wetting his pants and barking like a dog.
The detective stands up from her chair, horrified.
Det.: What did you do?
Subj.: It’s what I didn’t do.
Daught.: He didn’t resist arrest.
Subj.: And I didn’t let you speed me through my confession. I’ve kept you here in this room for at least twenty minutes …
Daught.: … while I hacked into your Animal Control personnel files, including photos and video interviews without your mask, and transmitted them to the Chinese PDC.
The detective, visibly panicked, runs to the door and begins to pound on it.
Det.: Let me out!
The daughter whispers something in her father’s ear.
Det.: For [NAME REDACTED]’s sake, let me out of this room!
Subj.: Look on the bright side, Shannon Morris.
The detective, pulling off her mask, turns to face the subject and his daughter.
Daught.: You’re going to be famous.
End of interview.