Hollywood Dead. Richard Kadrey

      THERE’S DEAD AND there’s Hollywood dead, and those are two very different things.

      Dead is just dead. In the ground. Pennies on your eyes. A cold slab of meat with no slaw and definitely no dessert.

      But Hollywood dead? That can be a lot of things. Yeah, you’re still a slab of meat, but now you come with curly fries and hot apple pie.

      Hollywood dead is movie dead. When the director yells “cut” you get up and have a donut, and someone makes sure your hair is perfect. When you’re Hollywood dead you can die a hundred times and still come back for the sequel.

      Hollywood dead is the dead everybody thinks they want because nothing is final, everything is negotiable, and you’ll even get a producer credit if you keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told. That last is the hard part. When you’re Hollywood dead it’s hard to sit still and take orders. Hollywood dead is party dead and you never want to hear last call. Hollywood dead is the best kind of dead and the worst.

      Hollywood dead means you can go to the movies and have a smoke, but if you’re out in the sun too long you start to rot and stink. Hollywood dead makes you very careful about cuts and scratches because you don’t exactly heal anymore.

      Hollywood dead gets you thinking about making everyone else regular dead. The good news is that if you’re lucky and you play your cards right, you might just get the chance to do it.

      DON’T LET ANYONE tell you that shooting a gun in a bowling alley isn’t loud. It’s very loud. Incredibly damn loud. The noise bounces off the smooth paneled walls and rattles every nerve in your skull. Of course, everything down here under the mansion is soundproof, so my target practice doesn’t bother anyone else. But I should have brought some earplugs. The tissues I jammed in my ears are pretty undignified and I don’t have a lot of dignity left to spare. I mean, I was dead and now I’m alive, but I’m still sort of dead. Not pork-chop-dropped-in-a-parking-lot dead, but dead enough that Tinder is out of the question. That’s why I’m shooting the shit out of Eva Sandoval’s bowling alley.

      There’s something very satisfying about seeing bowling pins explode when they’re hit with a .45 slug. But I’m annoyed with myself. I left an open frame on the right lane, only killing nine out of the ten. And yet that’s still better than the seven-six-ten split I left on the other lane. I need to practice. My body hasn’t moved in a year and I have to get it back in shape. Whatever Wormwood has planned for me, I’m definitely going to get punched and I’d like to be able to hit back harder than a marshmallow Peep.

      Sandoval and her entourage come in while I’m reloading. She frowns and her lackeys cluster in back of her like confused ducklings. I’m not exactly sure why. I mean, I’m working for them. Maybe seeing a corpse loading a Colt .45 wasn’t in their day planner.

      I say, “Take it up with HR.”

      “Take up what?” says Sandoval.

      “Whatever is bothering your Mouseketeers. They look like they just saw Lemmy’s ghost.”

      When I’m done reloading, I hit a button and an arm slides out of the back of the bowling lane on the left, sweeps away the debris, and loads another ten pins in place. I raise the Colt and cock it, sighting on the one pin. But Sandoval walks over, puts her hand on the pistol, and lowers it.

      “Exactly what are you doing?” she says.

      “Target practice. I need to get my eye back.”

      She looks around the alley.

      “My grandfather built this. My father updated it, and I use it with guests.”

      “Sounds great.” I raise the Colt and fire. The one pin explodes. Everybody except Sandoval cringes.

      I say, “I’m a guest.”

      “You’re