I have been searching for some place to share my stories, where I can be anonymous and no one will find me. I have a lot of stories to tell if the community would be interested in them.
This time I’m focusing on only one, and it’s a long one so strap in. I grew up in a dilapidated apartment in the Bronx, and moved to Hollywood when I was nineteen or so. I was hoping to make it big and support my mother who was in failing health at the time.
I starred in some direct to dvd movies, but never made it beyond that. Then, as I was fretting over bills, I got a text from a friend. “Hey, someone has a job for you. His name is, and he wants to meet you at, in about ten minutes.
Since, wasn’t too far from where I then lived, I got there quickly. He told me that, was wearing a white suit, black tie, and would be standing close to the entrance. They introduced themselves and we hopped in his car to an undisclosed location.
There they gave me the deal: I’d work as a fixer, dolling out face medicine and pills so certain people who were planned to die. The pay started at around twenty thousand a day. A day. I agreed since I needed the money badly.
It’s been a couple of years now, and I’m sure I have a spot in hell waiting for me. I live in a nice place and was able to ensure my mother had a comfortable end.
I eat at high end restaurants, go to the hottest nightclubs, drink, smoke, and shoot the highest grade shit. But my life is completely devoid of anything real. It all feels so fake I can’t stand it anymore.
Maybe that’s why I’m telling you all this. Maybe I’m just hoping someone will give me the sweet release I’ve been begging for. But we’ll see.
But before I go, I have a story to tell. I was at one of those clubs, I was high, and drunk, and completely out of it. A woman in a pretty yellow dress, white heels, white leather purse, and heavily frosted hair walked up to me. She pulled a syringe, a small vial, and a wad of cash out of her pocket. She told me to follow her to which I did.
We went into his little room off the entrance into the club. There was a young guy, around my age, sitting on a white leather couch waiting for us. Before we got to him, the woman whispers “Now you know what to do.” To which I nodded and did my work, leaving just as his mouth started to foam up.
Afterwards she apologized profusely for such a random fix. Handing me more money before leaving out the front entrance. I woke up at noon the next day to headlines about an up and coming musician being found without a pulse at the nightclub I was just at.
I’d done so many of these by this point that it didn’t even phase me. Maybe that’s the worst part about it. I’ve become fully desensitized to death and my role in causing it. That I don’t even flinch anymore.
The Hollywood industry isn’t all glitz and glamour, it’s a lot of death, both planned as well as unplanned. I’ll leave you a quote from one of the first songs I had heard at this club
“A woman died on the Hollywood sign, jumped off and ended her life, Hollywood, a place of fame, on the flip side, a place of shame”