Perhaps you’ve heard of me. For privacy reasons, I won’t tell you my name, but you can rest assured I am who I claim to be.

My life has been one of privilege and success, though it has come at a cost. Don’t cry for me, just know that the glitz and glamour of Hollywood is an elaborate charade, a gilded turd. Behind the tuxedos and champagne, beneath the sports cars and awards, and hidden beyond the crawling eye of ceaseless criticism, one may find the real Hollywood. Show business is a business, and make no mistake: the only rule is you can do whatever you want, as long as your product is profitable. At least, that used to be the only rule.

I pride myself on being something of a renaissance man, but my acting is not rooted in some silly “method formula” that only serves to drive the cast and crew crazy. Don’t get me wrong, when the camera is rolling, I will go all-out. I’ll put myself in incredible discomfort for realism, but when the action is cut, I’m the kind of guy you’d enjoy having a beer with. Provided, of course, you could get the elevator to take you to my floor at the resort, past the security checkpoint, and then into one of my private suites.

Over the years, I’ve learned it’s important to have one suite for entertaining, and one for my personal space. Some people simply will not leave once they get past that final door, as if they think they’ll never get another chance to be this close to me again. They’ll pitch their tired ideas of a tepid meet-cute romance or self-aware sendup of some cliche. Honestly, it’s exhausting – most of the time I don’t get the appeal, so I tell them to contact my agent to vet the proposal (which all but ensures I will never hear from them or about their sad little premise). Eventually, I slip out and over to my personal suite for some time to myself.

I don’t let a lot of people into my personal space. My assistant, my agent, my stylist, my publicist, my trainer, my masseuse, my head of security, and most importantly, my attorney (who makes the others sign airtight NDAs). Occasionally, my doctor will make a house call if I need a medication delivery or adjustment. Or my therapist, when the pills won’t cut it. What I’m getting at is these people who get private access to me are the ones I’m paying, who provide a service the public can’t see. The public, the unwashed masses who hand over their money for entertainment. A brief reprieve from their desperately meaningless lives. They can’t see it takes an entire retinue to bring their favorite performers to the screen. Part of the appeal is not knowing how the sausage is made, which means they get to think they’re only one lucky break away from becoming famous themselves, having their own meet-cute with me at a cafe in Burbank, getting a deal with a top producer for a blockbuster action flick. Retinue is French, by the way. I learned that for one of my roles.

The public is fickle, moreso these days. Their voices are brought together and amplified by social media. It’s amazing the pressure they can bring. Sometimes a show gets brought back from the dust bin, or a fading franchise gets a sequel greenlit. And sometimes, the public can do something bad, like force studios to change or pull shows that are “insensitive” or “hurtful”. Even worse, they can ruin someone’s career. That’s the fear most celebrities have these days, of being canceled over some nonsense like making a funny racially-themed joke (without even necessarily being a racist) or not fully supporting the woke mob’s cause du jour. The outrage machine moves on eventually, and as long as one keeps bringing in the box office returns, anything’s absolved. Or so I thought.

You see, that’s where the trouble began. The public, who know nothing about how hard it is to do what I do, have decided to make an issue out of my choice of companionship. I’m a busy man. I don’t have time for a family, and I’m not ready to settle down. I refuse to apologize for enjoying the vitality of beautiful girls whose energy and ambition match my own. If it should happen that sometimes those relationships don’t work out past a certain point, can I really be blamed for seeking out a new love interest? Honestly, it’s baffling. In my performances, I share the screen with a new actress for every film. How is my private life so different?

My agent and my publicist, the bastards. They teamed up on me, and forced me to agree to date a woman that would hopefully put the rabble rousers to rest. I spoke in broad strokes about the qualities I’d be most interested in for a partner, which endowments were most crucial. They brainstormed on a list, and came back to me a few days later with a series of photos (including recent headshots) and brief biographies that I didn’t bother reading. I looked through the photos and picked one I could tolerate for a few months. They arranged to have her discreetly delivered to my private suite for a test drive before I’d have to be seen with her in public. Never lease a car without a test drive. Trust me, I know from experience.

My attorney worked with hers on the contract. We signed, and set the date for a Wednesday evening. It was during principal photography for one of my upcoming projects, so the plan was to have her secreted through the loading dock and into the resort, then brought to my floor via the service elevators. That way, the paparazzi would have no clue she was there. When the test drive was over, she’d be brought out the same way. My security team would make sure the closed-circuit cameras were turned off in and around the resort, and they’d clear both her entrance and egress. If everything went swimmingly, we’d officially meet at a charity event in a few weeks. Then we’d date for a while, do a few red carpet events, and in between, I’d get to see if her carpet matched the drapes. That’s a bit of artistic license as the next contract would also stipulate she maintain hardwood floors. Waxed and polished, smooth as glass.

On the day she was to be brought to me, I was pretty wound up from filming an intense scene, so when I got to my suite, I took a French shower and popped a couple of benzos, which I washed down with a bit of bubbly. I was waiting in the bedroom when I heard a perfunctory knock on the door. As she entered the living space, I gave her some time to get uncomfortable before I stepped into the room.

I wish I had never opened the door. I was facing some sort of grotesque monster, an undead creature brought back from the decay of the crypt. This had to be a prank courtesy of practical effects and prosthetics. It had to be. Despite my depleted energy and drugged state, my heart raced as my mind flooded with fear. What was this unsightly unliving corpse, this mummy from beyond the grave? Could it be real?

I tried to force myself to run back to the bedroom, but I was frozen with terror. The monster flashed a hideous grin while reaching behind itself to throw the latch and lock us inside. Alone. Together. I struggled to breathe.

“Hello, [Redacted]. I’ve wanted to meet you for years. Are you as excited as I am?” Every word it spoke was coughed through its ancient mouth, and while its outer coat of makeup was flawlessly applied, I could see well enough it was covering a patchwork of atrocious flesh, rotted and wrinkled. I fought the urge to vomit. Despite being known as a suspected atheist, I prayed to wake from this nightmare.

“What’s the matter, hon? Tongue tied? I wasn’t sure I’d be your type, but I didn’t expect to leave you speechless.” The creature walked toward me in some mockery of seduction, swaying hips that were disgustingly wider than the photos had implied. Sweet Jesus, let that be padding for the prank. I couldn’t imagine caressing those emulsified bags of spoiled cottage cheese.

My knees buckled and I grabbed the table to steady myself. The monster rushed toward me and I caught a whiff of nostalgic revulsion. When it died, the priests must have perfumed the corpse with an ancient bottle from Jean Paul Gaultier. It touched me lightly on the shoulder, and I found myself almost reaching for the resort telephone to beg for help. I sobbed lightly as I realized I was trapped. Nobody could know it was here, nobody could hear my desperation. This was irrevocable, contractual. I had to find a way to survive the next several hours.

It steered me toward the settee. I was powerless to resist, crippled with terror and on the verge of fainting. I thought it would kill me then to steal my life essence and prolong its unnatural existence. Instead, it talked, which was somehow worse. I could barely bring myself to listen, even as it discussed my craft.

“I know you hear this all the time, but I absolutely loved you in [Redacted]. My parents wouldn’t let me watch it in the theaters, but one of my friends in middle school got a copy of it and we would watch it when I slept over. We watched it so much we wore out the tape player. You were absolutely fabulous, every girl’s dream.” It was sitting next to me, almost touching me with those dreadful fingers. Despite my terror, I couldn’t help myself. I spoke to it.

“What do you mean, tape player?” I asked.

“Don’t be silly, sugar. You know, how we used to watch movies before DVDs.” Middle school. VHS. Oh, God! I started doing the math in my head. This was impossible, no reanimated corpse could possibly survive that long without some sort of supernatural intervention. I realized it intended to snuff me out that very night, but it was toying with me, extending the suspense for a cheap thrill.

“You know,” it said, “thanks to streaming services, I don’t keep any video players in our family room.” I realized what it was about to say, and I knew it was now or never to launch my escape. If I could lock myself in the bedroom without it clawing its way in, I could ride out the evening with a chair blocking the door and my hand cradling the telephone, just in case. I would dial 911 if I had to, fake a medical emergency. Fake? What fake? This was a real emergency.

It smiled and laughed, a cackling caw befitting its deepened crow’s feet. It touched my shoulder in a replica of playful flirtation. “My kids don’t even know what a DVD is.”

I screamed, and I jumped to rush toward the bedroom, but I tripped over the edge of the davenport and lost consciousness when I hit the floor.

I awoke in my bed some time later. The monster was nowhere in sight. My assistant had let herself into the suite and brought over my coffee, which I sipped while trying to recall the rest of the night’s events.

To my horror, I looked over and saw a depressed creasing of the sheets on the other side of the bed. My assistant raised an eyebrow at me while passing a phone. It was my publicist on the other end, and he was positively beaming.

“Great work, old sport. I knew you could do it! Let’s hammer out the details for the official meeting this morning. I know I don’t have to tell you this, but you really needed this thing to get airborne. I’m glad you powered through and left her satisfied.”

I put the phone down in a daze and washed my face in the bathroom sink. When I looked up, I was jolted with the realization I had noticeably aged. That undead bitch had stolen some of my lifeforce, and now I was supposed to commit to a public relationship with it?

I don’t think I’m going to survive this. I need help.