Hollywood Lied

Chapter 13: Tweak Some More

Being bored out of our minds and with absolutely nothing productive to cling to, we crossed another line. Curiosity mixed with recklessness is a dangerous cocktail, and we drank it in one gulp.

So we decided to try some Glass.

We wanted to understand the appeal—the obsession—the way the tweakers on the street would treat a single hit like it was the Holy Grail. They’d claw at one another, scream, threaten, kill if someone so much as touched their stash. I’m not exaggerating. I’d seen that kind of desperation with my own two eyes.

And somewhere in our drug-softened logic, we thought:

Well… why do they love it so damn much?

What’s the big secret?

It was the kind of question only two bored, chemically adventurous idiots could ask with a straight face.

“Shall we?” I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of thrill and stupidity.

I took out my heroin pipe—my old, loyal companion—and packed it to the brim with crystal meth. The shards glittered under the dim lamp like murderous little diamonds.

There was no going back now.

Marjorie stared at the pipe, her pupils wide with a cocktail of fear and fascination.

“You’re really doing this?” she whispered, almost reverently.

I nodded. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the lighter.

When the flame kissed the glass, the meth melted into a swirling white vapor, crawling around the bowl like a living thing. It looked almost… elegant. Beautiful, even. That’s how they get you, I should’ve thought. But I didn’t.

Instead, I brought the pipe to my lips.

One inhale.

Just one.

And the world tore itself open.

“Holy s**t! That hit like a damn train,” I muttered, my fingers twitching as if electric currents were running through them.

I tried to still them—God, I tried—but they wouldn’t obey.

They danced, jittered, alive in a way my body wasn’t ready for, each tremor reminding me that the line between thrill and terror was getting thinner by the second.

The bastards had a mind of their own.

I let that thought hang in the air for a moment, watching my fingers twitch like nervous insects.

They skittered across my palms, flexing, curling, refusing every command I tried to give them.

Calm down, I whispered internally, but it only made them tremble harder—

as if the pressure itself had seeped into my bones and taken up residency there.

It felt like standing in front of a runaway train, knowing full well it wasn’t slowing down.

It was going to crash, and it was going to crash hard.

The realization hit me like a lungful of cold air.

I could feel the momentum building—

that awful, unstoppable inertia of a moment spiraling out of my control.

My hands kept trembling, jittering like faulty wiring,

and the rest of me wasn’t far behind.

Every breath tightened, every thought sharpened to a single point:

This is happening.

There was no slowing it, no gentle landing.

Whatever was coming was already mid-flight,

and all I could do was brace myself for the impact.

“Are you feeling alright, Marj?” I asked, tweaking like a b***h.

She clutched her chest, eyes wide and glassy, breath coming in frantic bursts.

“No, I feel like I’m dying. My heart is beating so fast!” she shouted, panic sharpening every syllable.

Her voice cracked, and for a split second I saw something raw—

not the reckless bravado we’d both been riding on,

but the kind of fear that makes your entire world shrink to the size of your next heartbeat.

I wanted to believe she could push through it.

I wanted to tell myself she was stronger than the rush tearing through her veins.

But as I watched her shaking, watched her pulse hammer at her neck like it wanted out…

…I wasn’t so sure anymore.

Concern twisted in my gut, cold and heavy,

overpowering whatever false confidence I’d been clinging to.

“I’m so sorry, honey. Genuinely,” I stammered, the words slipping out between clenched teeth and jittery breaths.

She shot me a look sharp enough to cut.

“You’re a piece of s**t for getting me into this,” she muttered, annoyance simmering under her panic.

I swallowed hard.

“I never claimed to be a good person.”

For a moment she just stared at me—

then her expression softened, trembling around the edges.

“I love you,” she whispered, stammering just like I had.

I couldn’t help the small, warm smile that broke through.

“I love you too, baby girl.”

She straightened a little, confidence flickering in her eyes despite everything.

“I love you more.”

I snorted.

“Bullshit! Didn’t your parents teach you not to lie?”

Her comeback hit with no humor, no hesitation—

just the raw truth she knew would land hardest.

“Didn’t your parents teach you not to do drugs?”

The words cut deeper than I expected.

I looked away, jaw tight.

“They did… They wanted too much from me. You can’t blame me for turning to drugs.”

The confession hung in the air between us, heavy and trembling,

the kind of truth that didn’t fix anything—

but at least explained why everything hurt the way it did.

“My father was the same way as yours,” she said, her voice flat—

so flat it felt like all the color had drained out of the room.

I let out a tired, bitter sigh.

“I’ll bet he was…” I muttered, already bracing for whatever came next.

She didn’t hold back.

“He told me that he was the only person I should follow in life. That I should grow up and be just like him.”

The sheer arrogance of it made my blood boil.

My hands clenched, shaking for an entirely different reason now.

“God, what a damn prick!” I snapped, anger flaring hot in my chest.

If the bastard were still alive, I would’ve gone after him myself—

dragged all his poison into the light,

shown him exactly what I thought of men who tried to shape their daughters like puppets.

But he was already in the ground.

And you can’t beat the hell out of a corpse—

no matter how much they deserve it.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, catching the sinister curl of my smile.

I didn’t answer right away.

My mind was already miles away—

locked onto one man, one name, one festering irritation I couldn’t shake.

Harvey.

Fucking. Gilmore.

The hack who’d taken my legacy, my blood-and-sweat creation,

and turned it into a dumpster fire with a studio budget.

I could practically feel my jaw tighten as the memory resurfaced.

The remake’s glorious 57 percent on Rotten Tomatoes.

And that top critic review—the one etched into my brain like a curse:

“What the hell did I just watch? Making the story paranormal was the film’s biggest mistake. It aims for spectacle, but delivers none of the magic of the original film.”

Every time I thought about it, I felt the urge to put my fist through something.

Harvey had insisted on complete control over production.

Called himself an auteur with his nose so high in the air he could smell the stratosphere.

But everyone—everyone—knew what he really was:

A glorified control freak who blamed the world when his delusions didn’t pan out.

I sucked in a slow breath, forcing the anger down just enough to speak.

“Just thinking about a guy who deserves a punch to the throat,” I finally said, the smile sharpening.

“Harvey?” she asked, her voice tightening with that anxious little edge she could never hide.

She knew exactly who I meant.

Knew the history.

Knew the rage.

Knew the way Harvey Gilmore’s name alone could flip a switch in me.

And yeah—she knew damn well I could beat his ass into next week if it ever came to that.

The bastard stood at a proud five-six, all false bravado and cheap cologne,

strutting around like God Himself had appointed him king of cinema.

I let out a low, humorless chuckle.

“Yeah. Harvey.”

The name tasted bitter on my tongue.

I could practically see him in my mind—

standing on apple boxes to look taller behind the scenes,

barking orders no one respected,

trying to direct a legacy he never understood.

My smile sharpened, slow and dangerous.

“Relax. I’m not gonna do anything stupid,” I said, though even I wasn’t sure if that was true.

But the thought of him—

the ego, the incompetence, the way he butchered everything I built—

it lit a fire in my chest that felt damn near volcanic.

“I’m gonna arrange a meeting with the cocksucker. No bodyguards, no one to save him. Just him and I,” I muttered, the words coming out low and gravelly.

The meth had me vibrating like a live wire. My jaw clenched so hard it felt welded shut, and my thoughts fired off like bullets ricocheting in a steel room. Rage, paranoia, bravado—it all bled together into one pulsing, electric urge to do something, anything, to stop feeling powerless for even one damn second.

Marjorie looked at me with a mixture of fear and awe.

“Cody… who the hell are you talking about?”

I didn’t answer. I just kept pacing, grinding my teeth, adrenaline pouring through me like battery acid.

In my mind, his face appeared—smirking, untouchable, smug beyond reason.

I wanted that face to look afraid for once. Just once.

“He thinks he’s invincible,” I growled, fists tightening, knuckles whitening.

“I’ll show him exactly how mortal he is.”

It didn’t matter that I didn’t even have a plan.

On meth, plans didn’t exist—only missions, sharp-edged and glowing.

And right then, mine felt holy.

“Holy s**t, are you actually going to do it?” she whispered, terrified. Her voice cracked as she grabbed my arm, clinging to anything that could anchor me. “Please don’t. This isn’t you.”

But it was me—at least the part of me that had been rotting for years.

“Yes. He ruined my legacy. It’s only fair that I ruin his too,” I muttered, each word tasting like rust.

“You’re high right now. You could just… wait it out,” she pleaded, desperation spilling through every syllable.

“f**k off, Marj.”

My hands curled into fists, and before I even thought about it, I slammed one into the wall behind that ridiculous painting of a hen laying an egg. People said it symbolized rebirth, transformation—whatever. All I saw was a metaphor for promises that never hatched. For dreams that suffocated before they ever saw daylight.

The American Dream works fine—if you’re born already holding the deed.

Me? I’d been clawing my way up from nothing my entire life, nails chipped down to the bone.

“I’m… I’m so terribly sorry,” she sobbed, covering her mouth as if she could hold in the sound.

“Shut your mouth.”

Her tears stopped for a heartbeat—long enough for her anger to spark.

“Or what? You’ll choke me out?” she challenged, voice trembling but defiant.

My jaw locked. “You asked for it,” I snarled, though I was yelling more at the universe than at her.

There was a heavy, awful silence.

“I hope you die,” she choked out.

I let out a hollow, exhausted breath.

“I hope so too,” I said—because in that moment, it was the truest thing I’d ever spoken.

I dialed up Harvey’s number to meet up alone and his cocaine tongue would not shut the f**k up. He told me that I was going to star in a Die Hard spoof called Dynamite Hendrix. And get this, his catchphrase was Bonzai!

I blinked, unsure if I was hallucinating from the meth or just witnessing the absolute peak of Hollywood absurdity.

“Hendrix Saville?” I repeated, letting the name roll around in my mouth like it was a bad joke. “Near-invincible? What the hell does that even mean?”

Harvey’s voice bubbled with manic excitement. “Exactly! He survives everything! Car crashes, explosions, shark attacks—you name it! The audience will love him!”

I could feel my patience fraying. “So… the movie is basically Die Hard on steroids with a superhero twist and a name no one will remember?”

“Bingo! And you’re perfect for it! Think about the stunts, the action sequences, the—”

“I don’t feel I am young enough to be doing such roles anymore, I him off. “Harvey, I don’t do this for cheap thrills anymore. I want substance, not nonsense.”

There was a pause on the other end. I could practically hear his jaw tighten. Then, with the same manic energy, he said, “Trust me, Cody, substance sells in explosions now. Bonzai!”

I dropped the phone onto the grass, staring at the clear sky. My career had hit rock bottom, and somehow, Harvey was shoveling more dirt on top of it. But even in my twisted, drug-fueled haze, I had to admit… I was morbidly curious how far this trainwreck could go.

“Meet me at Cranberry Park, Mr. Gilmore,” I forced out the most insincere politeness of my life. He seemed thrilled that I had asked him to meet me at the park.

His Mercedes Benz arrived and he practically ran over to me. I picked up a jagged rock that lay next to me and began my beating of him. I showed absolutely no mercy whatsoever. Harvey tried to fight back, but there’s only so much power a manlet can have. He began bleeding profusely from his face and I broke his goddamn nose in the beating as well. He just bitched about how he would never hire me again. Good! I thought.

After about fifteen minutes he collapsed onto the ground. I hadn’t killed him. I had just shown him what the consequences of being a control freak would lead to. I had no regrets whatsoever. Unfortunately, a jogger saw his bloodied body lying motionless on the ground and called the police on me. I had never before been arrested. The thought of going to prison and using their grimy ass showers revolted me.

The sirens arrived faster than I expected—blaring, echoing through the trees, bouncing around my skull like guilt I refused to claim. Two cruisers skidded to a stop on the gravel path, and before I could even consider running, three officers rushed me with guns drawn.

“Hands where I can see them!”

I lifted them slowly, the jagged rock slipping from my fingers and thudding against the dirt. My pulse hammered, but not from fear—more from the drug crash after the rage, that hollow emptiness that always crawled back in.

They shoved me against the hood of the cruiser, cold metal biting into my cheek. One of them cuffed me while another checked Harvey’s mangled body. He groaned, still alive, still whining even through shattered cartilage.

“You’re under arrest for aggravated assault,” the officer barked into my ear. His breath smelled like stale coffee and authority.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” I muttered, as they hauled me upright.

The jogger who had snitched stood off to the side, arms crossed, looking at me like I was an animal. Maybe I was. Maybe I had been for a long time.

They shoved me into the back seat, the cuffs biting my wrists. As the door slammed shut, the reality finally settled in—county jail, fluorescent lights, concrete floors, and showers I wouldn’t touch even if I were dipped in bleach first.

My stomach twisted.

I stared out the window as they pulled away from the park, Harvey’s blood still drying on my knuckles. The officers chatted in the front like this was just another Tuesday.

And maybe for them, it was.

For me?

It was the moment I realized I had crossed a line I couldn’t uncross. The moment violence stopped being an idea and became

evidence.

But even then—sitting in the back of that cruiser, wrists aching, freedom slipping—I felt no regret.

Just the slow, sinking dread of someone who finally understood he had run out of places to hide.