Hollywood Hack Job

by Nathan Allen

  Fr. Gerdtz saw his Twitter followers rise to over twenty thousand.

  Time passed. Life went on, and the horrors of recent events faded from the public’s memory. Fr. Gerdtz disposed of his weapons and resumed a life of relative normality. He carried on with his work at the church, speaking to captive audiences and near-full houses on a weekly basis. His Twitter following peaked at just over twenty-four thousand before gradually receding. It now sat at around sixteen thousand.

  His appearances in the media dried up, and he no longer Googled himself.

  Despite all the blood spilled and lives lost, he felt an immense satisfaction with everything he had accomplished. The cult of celebrity had been all but wiped out. People rediscovered their faith, and each other. They showed less interest in material wealth and placed greater value in spiritual enrichment. Strangers were kinder to one another, and were quick to help out those who had fallen on hard times. Citizens said hello to passers-by in the street rather than move around wordlessly with their faces glued to their digital screens. They consulted doctors and nutritionists when seeking dietary advice, and stopped mindlessly following the fad diets favored by the stars. They read newspapers and listened to respected journalists and academics when forming opinions on politics and current events now that celebrities no longer told them what to think.

  Hollywood continued to produce films and television programs, but the public understood that the actors appearing in them were simply attractive-looking ciphers, and their job was of no more importance than that of a dentist or plumber. When their work was done they were paid an adequate rather than excessive wage, and they lived normal lives away from the glare of the cameras. Corporations no longer showered them with free luxury items, and universities ceased their bizarre practice of awarding them honorary degrees.

  Everything was as it should be.

  Until one night, when Fr. Gerdtz’s peaceful sleep was interrupted by his ceiling separating and a familiar kaleidoscopic mass of light and color flooding inside. He opened his eyes, and the face of God appeared before him once again.

  “You have done something remarkable,” God told him. “You have changed the world for the better. But I have one more task for you.”

  “I’m finished with all that,” Fr. Gerdtz said. “I did what was asked of me. We achieved what we set out to achieve. The celebrities have been put in their place, and order has been restored. No more unnecessary killing.”

  “Your job is not yet complete. The virus may be dying, but it has not been completely eradicated. It lies dormant, awaiting the right moment to reemerge. And when it does, it may return stronger than ever.”

  Fr. Gerdtz pulled his blanket up to his chin. “Get somebody else to do it. I’ve put my guns away. For good.”

  “You may reconsider when you hear what they have planned.”

  God informed him of an event due to take place in the coming weeks. It involved hundreds of former celebrities converging on the one location to revel in their excess and fawn endlessly over one another. While almost all high-profile gatherings had been canceled in light of recent events, the organizers of this particular one refused to give in.

  “That can’t be true,” Fr. Gerdtz said. “After everything that has happened, surely no one would risk hosting something like that.”

  “You fail to understand the mindset of the faded star,” God said. “They suffer from a chronic ailment known as Limelight Deprivation Syndrome. Their former status in the world haunts them like a twitching phantom limb. They refuse to live as normal civilians, working regular jobs and living regular lives. These people have become addicted to the exposure. Despite the inherent risks they are physically incapable of staying away. And if this event is allowed to go ahead it could mark the beginning a celebrity resurgence. It will undo everything you have accomplished.”

  Fr. Gerdtz closed his eyes for a moment. “Can I at least have some time to think about it?”

  “Of course. But before you make your decision, you may wish to take a look outside your front door.”

  The light faded away a moment later. Fr. Gerdtz climbed out of bed and pulled on his robe and slippers.

  Another mystery package was on his doorstep. This one was much larger and heavier than any of his previous deliveries. He had to strain to lift it up.

  He carried it to the kitchen table and slowly removed the wrapping. Despite his reservations about this latest proposal, he couldn’t deny the tiny spasm of excitement he felt as he cut through the packing tape. He was like a child unwrapping a present in the early hours of Christmas morning.

  The weapon contained within the box was unlike anything he had seen before. In fact, it was unlike anything anyone had seen before, as it had been specifically assembled just for him. It had an assortment of switches, buttons, dials and digital screens, along with dozens of hi-tech features and settings. At the bottom of the box he discovered a seventy page instruction manual.

  The cover page said: How To Use Your New LMN-8R.

  Chapter 7

  It was the perfect setting for Fr. Gerdtz’s final performance.

  The Metropolitan Museum of Art had hosted its annual Met Gala on the first Monday in May since 1946. It was ostensibly billed as their annual fundraising event, but it was more or less an excuse for the uber-rich and ultra-famous to flaunt their extravagance and exclusivity to an obscene degree before a compliant media pack. It was a gathering that attracted some of the planet’s most superficial inhabitants, a place where the fashion and entertainment worlds intersected to form an axis of imbeciles.

  The event often coincided with a spike in ISIS membership. There was no greater illustration of Western decadence than a bunch of self-centered divas in overpriced rags celebrating their indulgent lifestyles and basking in one another’s reflected glow.

  Many of the invited celebrities may project a down to earth, I’m-just-a-regular-person-like-you kind of image, but that was merely a persona they adopted to hide their true selves. Deep down they were all incredibly haughty and terribly needy, harboring irrational desires to be loved and admired by everyone. It was for this reason they flocked to events such as the Met Gala, the senior prom in the world’s biggest high school. Scoring a ticket was a measure of one’s relevance, and confirmation they existed on a higher plane to the rest of society.

  There had been talk of the Gala being permanently canceled, but the organizers opted to go ahead, publicly stating that they would not allow fear to dictate their lives. The mysterious gunman had been inactive for well over a year by now, and they believed his violent crusade had come to an end. Just to be on the safe side, a small army of private security guards had been employed to watch over proceedings.

  There were also concerns that they may have had trouble attracting the usual quality of guests to this year’s event, but these worries were laid to rest when almost everyone who had been invited RSVP’d. Many stars had attempted to leave the limelight behind and lead normal lives, obtaining entry-level employment in offices and on construction sites, only to discover that living like a regular civilian was humiliating beyond belief. They were ill-equipped to live in the real world after so many years of being pampered and mollycoddled, unable to perform the most basic of tasks without constant direction or help from an assistant. They missed the privileges and elevated status of their previous lives terribly. Without exception, they all leaped at the chance to leave their brief dalliance with reality behind and resume their lives inside their hermetically-sealed Hollywood bubbles.

  Fr. Gerdtz made his way inside the building at 5:45 p.m., just as the last of the partygoers were arriving. Despite the heavy security presence, gaining entry was surprisingly straightforward. He only had to display his pass and identification, telling the guards he was part of the catering team, and he was waved on through. He consented to a full body scan with a metal detector wand, but they neglected to check the trunk he was wheeling in behind him. When asked what was inside the trunk, he gave a vag
ue explanation about replacement parts for the catering equipment that were urgently needed.

  He navigated his way through a maze of back corridors and hallways before locating the main arena.

  He was a little overwhelmed by what he found when he slipped inside. On his previous jaunts, he’d devoted a great deal of time and energy in tracking down individual celebrities, figuring out where they would be at a certain time, and how he could gain access in order to carry out his work. Now he was surrounded by hundreds of them. They were literally everywhere he looked – all these models, actors, reality television stars, pop singers, fashion industry bigwigs and assorted hangers-on. A room full of phony people with fake looks and fake confidence, sipping expensive cocktails and listening to a performance by some mediocre EDM duo, competing with one another in a desperate worldwide popularity contest.

  No one paid him any attention as he wheeled the trunk into a corner and rested it against the wall. Even when he flicked the locks open and removed the LMN-8R, none of the guests seemed to notice.

  The bazooka-sized weapon was rather cumbersome and awkward to handle. The weight made it difficult to hold for prolonged periods of time. His bad back and arthritic joints weren’t doing him any favors, either. He used a stool to prop up his leg, then rested the weapon on his knee for support.

  He wrapped the palm of his hand around the grip. Only then did it occur to him that he was yet to test the weapon out. This would be the first time he had ever fired it. He wasn’t even one hundred percent certain of how it all worked, despite twice reading the instruction manual cover to cover. He figured he’d work most of it out as he went along.

  He pressed the on button, and the touch screen lit up. He selected the assault rifle setting from the available options, said a quiet prayer, then pressed his finger against the trigger.

  A dozen bullets were spat out in the space of half a second. A posse of Victoria’s Secret models standing in the direct path of the gunfire were instantly cut in half. They fell to the floor in a bloody heap.

  Everything from that point appeared to play out in a dreamlike state. The music abruptly cut out, and a stunned silence followed.

  Then a cacophony of screams erupted as the guests saw what had happened, and the absolute horror and disbelief when they realized what was about to go down. A frenzied dash for the exits ensued.

  Fr. Gerdtz held his finger to the trigger and sprayed the room. Celebrities hit the floor and dived for cover behind anything solid enough to withstand the brutal assault. Anyone too slow was mown down like a blade of grass. The bodies of Amy Schumer, Justin Long and Macklemore were pumped full of hot lead.

  Panic spread like head lice through a kindergarten. It was every A-, B- and C-lister for themselves in the mad rush for safety. Slower and weaker guests were shoved aside and trampled on as their stronger and fitter peers scrambled to make it out alive. Celebrity wife Chrissy Teigan was among those who stumbled in the mayhem and fell to the floor. She made several attempts at regaining her footing, but was knocked back down in the stampede every time. After suffering fifteen or twenty stiletto heels to her cranium, she stayed down for good.

  Bottlenecks formed around the doors. Hundreds found themselves trapped inside, sitting ducks unable to move an inch further. The harder they pushed, the worse it became.

  Fr. Gerdtz selected grenade launcher mode from the menu and pressed fire. A small olive-colored ball lobbed over towards a clogged exit. Two Jonas brothers and four Modern Family cast members were among those ripped apart in the subsequent explosion, coming to rest in a messy pile of random body parts and torn designer frocks.

  The blast tore a chunk out of the building’s wiring. The power cut out and the room plunged into darkness. The sense of chaos was heightened an exponential degree, the hysteria intensifying with every second that ticked over.

  Out of nowhere, a powerful spotlight flicked on. It was the only source of light in the room, and it landed directly of Fr. Gerdtz.

  Dozens of security guards converged on the scene with their guns drawn. “Drop your ... whatever the hell that is!” one of the guards shouted at Fr. Gerdtz.

  He ignored this directive and selected the LMN-8R’s flamethrower option. An epic wall of fire belched out from the nozzle, instantly engulfing Gerard Butler. The smell of propane and charred flesh filled the room within a matter of seconds. He swung the weapon around and gave the button another tap. Karl Largerfeld’s face melted away like a Ken doll on a hotplate.

  Security opened fire, but Fr. Gerdtz made no move to escape. He simply kept aiming and firing indiscriminately into the crowd, alternating between the three different modes of attack, taking out everyone in his sights. He didn’t care who he hit. As far as he was concerned, there were no innocent victims here. Everyone was either famous or a fame-chaser. They needed to be eradicated for the good of the world.

  Celebrities went down like dominoes, one after another. First Anna Kendrick, then Calvin Harris. Then Chelsea Clinton, Bradley Cooper, Kendall Jenner and Drake.

  A stray bullet ricocheted off a steel beam and dislodged a chandelier. It crashed down on top of Idris Elba, pinning him to the floor.

  Blake Lively and John Mayer both caught bullets to the face.

  Lorde and Aziz Ansari were swallowed up by thousand-degree flames.

  The spent cartridges piled up and the death toll mounted until there were more dead bodies covering the floor than there was actual visible floor. Fr. Gerdtz pictured what the chalk outlines would look like once the deceased had all been hauled away. He imagined it would be something like those famous Keith Haring murals.

  When his crusade first began, back in that nightclub with Krystal Blayze another lifetime ago, he was torn up by his actions. He may have been fulfilling a direct order from God, but there were many, many moments where he was emotionally conflicted about what he was doing.

  No such feelings bothered him tonight. It was only now, illuminated by this lone spotlight, watching all the heads snap back and limbs blown off and blood spray into the air, that he realized how much he missed the thrill of it all. This was what gave his life true meaning. This was how he wanted future generations to remember him.

  He may have earlier declared tonight to be his final mission, but at that moment he knew he wouldn’t stop unless someone else stopped him first. He was simply having too much fun.

  Darnell Leviston fumbled for his Hi-Point 9mm compact pistol as he sprinted down the long corridor, sidestepping the terrified staff fleeing in the opposite direction, using the screams and gunshots to navigate his way to the main arena. He was operating on nothing but instinct and adrenaline. He knew if he stopped for even a second to think about what he was running towards, self preservation would inevitably kick in and prevent him from taking another step.

  He had been patrolling the west side of the building when the crackle of gunfire rang out, just a couple of minutes ago. He quickly abandoned his post and bolted for the nearest entry point.

  He arrived to a scene of pure carnage. It was as if some brutal war zone had been scooped up from somewhere in the Middle East and dropped into this historic Manhattan building. He knew immediately what had happened. This was the one thing they all feared, the absolute worst-case scenario. The past six weeks had been spent preparing for the possibility of this very moment, and now it had arrived.

  The deranged priest was here. He was armed with some sort of modified ultra-weapon, something only an evil genius could have constructed, and he was taking great glee in putting it to use.

  Bullets flew in every direction. Deep puddles of blood formed on the floor. The air was thick with the stench of death.

  The power was out, albeit with one spotlight still in operation, shining directly on the priest. The muzzle flashes from the shootout and the occasional burst of flame gave some additional strobing light.

  Dozens of guards fired at the priest from every angle, but had so far failed to take him out. The sheer force of his weaponry
kept them at a distance, while the number of civilians in the area made getting off a clean shot near-impossible.

  Darnell saw that he happened to be the guard standing nearest to the gunman. The priest had his back to him, and was as yet unaware of his presence. He swallowed down his fear. Like it or not, it was his responsibility to take control of the situation.

  He raised his gun out in front of him, his finger tightening around the trigger. He moved in tentative half steps towards his target. A queasy feeling churned in his stomach. He had never fired at anyone; he hadn’t even reached for his gun in the line of duty. The only time he had ever discharged his handgun was at a firing range. He had no idea if this all-enveloping sickness that had taken over his body was normal or not.

  The other guards ceased fire when they saw what he was doing, allowing him to get as close to the assailant as possible.

  Little by little, he inched his way over towards the priest. He was thirty feet away. Then he was twenty-five feet, then twenty. His weapon had quadrupled in weight in the past few seconds. His hands trembled but his aim never wavered.

  A jet of flame shot out, and Darnell felt a blanket of searing heat sting his eyes. He blinked several times until the pain subsided and his vision steadied.

  He now stood less that ten feet away. Another couple of steps and he could reach out and touch him. He had a clear, unobstructed shot. There was no way he could possibly miss from here.

  Summoning every ounce of courage and resolve he had within him, he steadied his aim and squeezed the trigger over and over. Five seconds later, his clip was emptied.

  But the priest remained standing.

  Not a single bullet had so much as grazed his skin. The hair on his head remained as immaculate as when it was combed that morning. His crusade of carnage continued without a moment of interruption.