GHOSTWRITER HOLLYWOOD CONFIDENTIAL

Chapter Two:

      Never believe what they tell you on T.V. It's all bullshit. I should know. I'm alive and so is everyone else here, but you wouldn't have a clue, if you took what the media says as the truth.

    Even if one of us changed their mind and could get an interview, the powers that be would say it was fake news! A conspiracy theory gone wild. Of course these days you could prove what happened with DNA testing, but none of us, we've decided, want to. It would take quite the effort, what with our surgically removed finger prints and teeth, and the cremations and switched corpses. Besides, the truth is buried deeper than most of the public could ever imagine, and those of us who do know, even we cannot always trust ourselves to believe what really
happened.

    I'm just writing all of this down because if I had a mouth, I'd be blabbing it. I need to tell my story even if it doesn't get read by anyone, even if all I can do is type and have a voice-activated computer read it back to me when no one else is listening.

    I mean sure, I can "talk" to the others here. We all sit around with our keyboards and voice activation. Those who can speak do that, too. Luckily we can mostly all hear. It used to be so stilted. A jumbled mix. Like any of us could touch type or hand write and there was one of us who could see, and another one who could still speak, but that was so laborious. Now we type and talk all over each other. Even the old timers are catching on, albeit resentfully because they balk at all the technology. But what is the expression? 'What we says, stays.' That's what we're all sworn to, and so far, almost fifty years on from the crustiest, oldest mummy among us, we've stuck to it through thick and thin.

    I've had my ups and downs. Came here in 1995. But all in all, it's been worth it. When I could no longer eat, I made up for it having sex. For money. Lots of money. Luckily for me, I enjoyed it. Most of the time, anyway. Then I made more money writing about it. Ghosting romance novels. Hey, not all of us come here with a trust fund. How do you think I paid for this?  

    When my eyes became tiny slits that only vague shapes and dim light could penetrate, I toughed it out on a word processor until all this voice-activated shit came through. Now I can talk and read what I write after a fashion. So even though the sex isn't really happening anymore it's so fan-fucking-tastic to be able to hear what I'm writing that it kinda makes up for it, and if I get the urge I just use a vibrator they gave me for physical therapy anyway.

    But oh my God, to be able to smell and eat! I'd give just about anything for that. A tongue transplant? Hell yes. Make a wider slit and stitch that fucker in. A nose? Just punch two holes and if it made things work... believe me, I've asked! As soon as some other goofball is willing to do a test run and it's a success, I'm there, baby.

    I really shouldn't be writing this, but you'd be surprised at who-all lives here. We've had royalty, movie stars, celebrities, musicians, even a politician or two. Then there are what I like to call the 'regulars' who really aren't all that regular because A.) of what happened so that they had to come here and B.) they came from old money so they were rich in the first place —heiresses and trust fund babies— and could afford it, but as far as the general public goes, no one has ever really heard of them.

    There was a musician who stayed a while, then thought s/he could make it on the outside. Well, you don't know who I'm talking about but we do, and we all know what happened to her, or him or...'it'. Which just goes to show, we were right about keeping this place a secret and staying here for the rest of our lives.

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    Every one of us has a story about how we got here, what life was like before; how we've come to accept our fates. This is supposed to be about me, and I will tell what happened to me personally but really, if no one is ever going to read this and if I mix up some of the details, what the hell does it matter if I tell the others' stories, too? Because their stories really are my story. Living together like this, we've shared practically everything. And what we haven't shared I'm sure I can figure out anyway. But just to make it fun and keep this anonymous let's say I stir things up, like how the one with the big knockers was flat-chested, or that dude with the big dick had a teeny-weeny one after all?