They call me DeMille.

That was my mistake. I spoke during a session once. I asked her if she was ready for her close-up.

I live in Hollywood, California, the land of stars and sets. People expect glitz and glam and movie stars when what they actually get when they visit is overcrowded, loud and filthy. Don’t get me wrong now, I love my city. I thrive in my city unlike so many. Tourists come and enjoy it for a few weeks and are smart enough to leave back to real life. Then there are those that move here from Kansas or Ohio hoping to become someone. Not that they couldn’t do that where they were but they feel like a big fish in a small pond. I didn’t say that was what they were. I said it was what they felt like.

Mistake.

People that think like that come out here to my turf with fame on the brain. They think they deserve a shot because they were naïve enough to move out here with no money, no prospects and for most of them, no skills, and yet the sense of entitlement is overwhelming. This city, these hardworking people who’ve trained and tried for decades to be successful in Hollywood owe these slack jawed, flat assed wannabes absolutely nothing. But try telling that to the unwashed masses who roll into town every day expecting to go to one audition then be cast in the new Tom Cruise movie or to be given headlining stage time at the Whisky because some drunk asshole at karaoke once told them they were good. This is where I come in. It's my specialty to take the untalented and give them their fifteen minutes. 

The delusional. The weak. The pathetic.

My favorites.

The desperation I see when I look in their eyes during our short time together makes me rise, giddy as a fifteen year old boy. It’s wonderful how fear can make a ‘starlet’ compliant, eager even.

Rodeo Drive is the best place to find my leading ladies. I can always spot them – the girls going into stores and never purchasing anything, always checking their appearance, keeping their eyes on passerby’s hoping to find Spielberg or Bay. They’re easy to pick out of the celebutante crowd and they’re always alone. As a matter of fact, I’m looking at my new close-up now. Her hair is long, dark and flowing; skin looks rich and supple. She’s chocolate, one of my favorite flavors. There she sits fixing her lip gloss unaware that she has caught my eye. I will give her what she wants. I will make her famous like I’ve made so many others famous.

My last starlet was lauded an angel for her appearance in my short film and, oh, she was indeed and angel. So young and fresh. Her pale skin bruised almost instantly with my every touch. A work of art being born in front of my very eyes. And she didn’t pander, didn’t pout like a porn star to appease my camera like some others who hoped that if I thought they enjoyed it I would let them live. This girl fought the whole way, snarling and spitting in my face. Pure perfection.

I made her death quick and painless and I took her again off camera while she bled out, indulging, taking my precious time. Then I destroyed the evidence. The clean up took longer than usual but she was well worth it.

Now she is famous. There is not a person in this depraved city that doesn’t know her name or recognize her face. She is praised for being a fighter. Candlelight vigils have been held in her honor. She was my epic, my Ten Commandments, but now it’s time to move on. There are other films to make, other girls to screen test. There are so many in this city of angels 

waiting for their shot at fame and I am the one who will answer their call.

I am DeMille and I am looking for a star ready for her close-up.