Harold Lomez had a double wide trailer parked on Riverside Dr. He got an assistant, a TV in his trailer, and seltzer.
Betsy Grimes stood outside her regular sized, assistant-less, seltzer-less, trailer looking at Harold’s trailer at midnight in Sherman Oaks.
Or Van Nuys. Whatever the fuck.
She pulled on a Marlboro Light and the glow lit her classic, somewhat vintage-looking 50s visage that wasn’t super famous but had graced a billboard or two in her time.
She looked some more. It’s wrong. That he has a double wide, she thought. It’s just wrong. My agent hates me.
It made her want to burn it all down.
“You’re on,” said the PA.
—
“Rolling”
“Speed”
“162 Fargo take one”
Clap.
“Action”
They didn’t tell her about the cat.
Betsy hit her mark. The closet door burst open. And there was that hideous cat puppet, holding a knife and covered with fake blood.
“Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh!” Her high pitched, almost mechanical sounding, shriek, like the fierce rending of a steel plate.
“Cut.”
“What the FUCK, HAROLD????”
That’s not something you should do to a person.
Memories of Fresno. The dog. Charlie. Charlie in the hen house.
You have to put a dog down if they develop a taste for chicken.
Her father had blamed Betsy for that and made her put Charlie down and clean the hen house.
It’s your fault Charlie got in the hen house.
All the blood of the hens. The commotion. A frenzy of death.
Bam! Shooting Charlie in the head after. Unsuspecting Charlie. With a bloody maw. Who had developed a taste for chicken. Now he’s the JFK of dogs. She’s the Lee Harvey Oswald of 10 year old girls.
All the bloody feathers of the hens who would lay no more. All her fault.
It’s your fault Charlie got in the hen house.
“Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh! Harold, no surprises!”
A quiet moment as people realized she was serious. People slowly, inconspicuously began reaching for their phones.
“I’m trying to get a real reaction.”
“I’m an actor. I always give a real reaction!”
“Sorry, Betsy.”
“Back to one,” said the AD.
The memories flooded like a horrible slide show. Betsy’s hands went to her face.
She remembered the song of that summer “Gangsta’s Paradise” — As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death/ I take a look at my life and realize there's nothin' left.
There was nothing left after the cleaning of the henhouse. The Apocalypse of the Hens.
“Why am I on this movie?!?!? Why on God’s green Earth is there a movie about murderous fucking housecats to begin with and why am I in it? Why does my agent fucking hate me? (WhydoIhaveaonebedroominReseda?) Harold, why do you hate me???”
“Betsy, Betsy. Embarrassing. OK. I’m sorry about the surprise. Relax.”
“Makeup.”
“Don’t tell me to relax!”
Betsy turned and stared at Harold, unmoving. Harold became her father. Harold became her agent. Harold became all the bad men.
He became Charlie, the dog in the hen house.
And then her anguish and fear … became power. She felt the power of a thousand suns surge from within her heart.
Charlie’s gaping maw dripping blood.
The power surging from inside. Bottled up for so long.
She pointed her finger at Harold.
And, suddenly, — poof! — he became a dog.
Harold Lomez was transformed into a small, white poodle, still wearing his CBGB t-shirt and his Dodgers cap.
Poodle Harold walked in two tight circles for a minute, yipped once at Betsy, beseechingly, and stared at her, as the Dodgers cap slowly slid off his canine head.
The room was silent. Everyone was filming now.
Hahahahaha, laughed Betsy. “I have turned Harold into a small white poodle!”
“What the fuck?”
Betsy gathered the shaking, nervous, confused poodle Harold up into her arms.
“You don’t need a double wide trailer now, do you boy?”
She smiled at him.
She smiled into the cameras.
And that was the video that broke TikTok.
—
In her trailer, Betsy thought about what had happened.
What had happened? Was it a power? She felt … that it was. She felt that she now had an awesome power.
There was a knock at her door.
“Betsy?”
Betsy went to her door and opened it.
Most of the crew was there, gathered, quiet, and confused.
Pietra, the unit publicist, stepped up.
“Betsy are you ok? Do you know what happened? Is this some kind of bit?”
All eyes were on Betsy.
As they should be.
She pointed at Harold’s trailer.
“That is my trailer now.”
“That is Harold’s trailer,” said the AD.
“Harold is a small white poodle.”
“That’s what we wanted to ask you about,” said Pietra.
“He cannot be a dog. He is a … living human being. He is in the DGA!” said the AD.
Betsy realized that she would have to demonstrate her power again. She was not getting enough respect.
People slowly stepped back from the AD.
Betsy pointed at the AD.
Poof!
Unlike Harold, the AD became a super cute cocker spaniel with extra big fluffy ears.
“So cute!,” said Betsy.
And that’s when Betsy Grimes, 38, of Fresno, went from being a D-List star playing the second lead in Death Cats 2 and living in a one bedroom in Reseda, to a fucking high octane nuclear powered A-lister, even to a goddess in the eyes of many.
—
Betsy woke up late. She hadn’t gotten home until 2, and with all the excitement, she had had trouble getting to sleep. She had then decided to make a list.
By 4, she had a long list — a nice long list of men she had to visit.
Videos from the set had gone viral. Betsy had 389,000 new followers on Insta. She had 137 unread texts and emails — her agent, her lawyer, that guy she was occasionally seeing, and every journalist she had ever heard of and then some. 12 men actually wanted to be turned into dogs.
Situationship: Betsy — what is this video? Is it some publicity trick?? 🤣🤣🤣
Lawyer: Hey. You ok? Call me — the studio really wants to chat with you about last night.
On insta: Betsy, can you turn my ex into a Labradoodle? I live in Arizona but can come to you.
And so on.
The fruits of trauma, she thought. Finally, the fruits of trauma. In the fullness of time.
Betsy went to her closet. She had a full day planned.
—
At 1:15 PM, Betsy walked into The Grill.
Betsy had been on keto for 90 days and looked her best. She had a pillbox hat, slightly askew, a flattering white YSL dress, heels, and Celine sunglasses. Perfect lipstick. Stunning. Like a lead.
The Grill was the center of Hollywood at lunch. A small restaurant on a small side street in Beverly Hills, it would be easy for a civilian to overlook.
But there they were, as always. The managers, the executives, the agents and the lawyers, mostly men, who had collectively relegated her to Death Cats 2, to Reseda, to driving a Kia, to being cut even from the Women in Film Oscar party, who had collectively decided to pass on her pilot Fresno!, and who had probably all rubbed one out to her 2005 Maxim pictorial. They were all there sharing Cobb Salad and iced tea.
This, she detected, was where the ley lines crossed in Hollywood. Since ancient times there had been power here. This was where their power was at its height. All the power to lift up, to enrich, to make stars and lives, suddenly came together every day at 1, in a tight critical mass.
But it was also where her power was at its height.
She strode right past the maitre d’ to the bar on her left and ordered a Dirty Martini.
Her order acknowledged, she moved into the dining room proper.
The room quieted down. Click clack click went her sole pair of Louboutins.
Everyone now was looking at her.
As it should be.
But she kept her eyes on the middle distance.
“Betsy Grimes...”
“Did you see that video?”
Phones came out.
Burn it all down.
There were women there too, of course. They would be unaffected. It would all be okay. She felt sorry about the waiters.
Everyone was looking at her now, and silent.
Instead of pointing, Betsy raised both arms to the sky. This she had rehearsed at home, inspired by a Cher music video on YouTube. She let the memories in again, not just of the dog Charlie, but of every slight and humiliation ever, let it flow into her, let it charge her battery, activate her weapon. And then, finally, let it flow out in a massive explosion, like lava from a long bottled volcano. Like Vesuvius. Like Pompei.
“Gentlemen,” she said, “this … for every Betsy Grimes.”
Poof. All the men became dogs.
“Holy horror movie!”
The Grill, the center of power in Hollywood, had become a veritable kennel of yapping purse dogs.
Kim Tornato, a (female) network head, had been having lunch with six powerful male agents and lawyers and suddenly she was surrounded by a litter of Lhasa Apsos.
The man-dogs, slipping their former garments, were suddenly everywhere, running around in desperate confusion and bewilderment.
They barked futilely at Betsy.
They yapped futilely at each other.
Soon, dog behaviors could not be resisted and more than a few took a good sniff of the others’ behinds.
For her part, Betsy slowly walked back to the bar … to collect her martini.
The women remaining in the dining room were awe struck at Betsy’s power but panicked by the proliferation of canines. Many xanaxes were popped.
For at least sixty seconds, while Betsy took her first sip of her martini, everyone was too awe struck even to text their assistant.
—
At Marmont, they let Betsy smoke. Not in the tiny hidden away smoking exile area, but right at her table.
After The Grill incident, and the videos that were posted online, Betsy had been offered millions of dollars and favors of all kinds by admirers, people who wanted to make amends, and people who wanted to stay on her good side.
Every network and paper wanted to interview Betsy.
The Pope offered to come to LA for a meeting, as did the Dalai Lama.
But Betsy was having lunch with Ted Sarandos, the head of Netflix.
He talked about the success of the network and how he puts trust in his largely female team.
“Ted. Look at me. I’m the CEO now.”
“Yes, Betsy. I agree. That is exactly right. Please don’t make me a small canine pet.”
By the end of the week, Betsy was globally famous, had 500 million followers on Twitter and Insta, and had been offered $100 million per year in various payouts and indulgences, most of which she accepted.
She quickly accepted gifts of a classic Palm Springs Neutra and a beautiful modern in the Bird Streets.
She was a star. She was what she had always wanted to be. She got what she deserved.
Finally.
—
At CAA, she accepted the offer of representation. It had always been her dream.
They felt very confident about Fresno! and her other project ideas.
But there was one condition.
A mid level TV talent agent who had previously dropped her as a client had to be “dogged.”
The agency agreed wholeheartedly.
Betsy was in the conference room. Isaac came in.
“Isaac, Isaac, Isaac. You dropped me, babe.”
Isaac, nervous, not used to being nervous, but nervous today, responded “Betsy. You know it’s all about numbers. It’s not personal. The numbers just weren’t there. You, I liked. Loved!”
“Isaac. That’s not enough.”
Betsy pointed at Isaac. Poof. Isaac became a Labrador Retriever.
“I’ll be keeping this one,” she said.
—
Betsy held court at her new house in Palm Springs with her attendants and many worshippers.
Her houses were well appointed. She had the best Christofle flatware. Exquisite Bernardaud plates. That was the least of it. All the fashion, all of everything, came to her for free. It was like being an A-list celebrity, but times ten.
She appointed her therapist as the head of her cult, though they discussed what else they should call it, since “cult” had a negative vibe.
She frequently heard requests from women to dog various men and she accommodated many of these requests, traveling about most days to deliver the sentence on men who had at some point slighted someone.
The Palm Springs house was beautiful indeed and Betsy looked beautiful in it.
When the Betsy movie came out, starring Betsy, it received a 100%/100% on Rotten Tomatoes and every critic and person on Earth contributed their opinion.
Never before had everyone on Earth been unanimous about anything! It was the beginning of the Betsy Cinematic Universe.
—
Kenneth Gabriel was now a German Shepherd. As dog breeds go, this was a pretty good one, but he did not want to be a dog at all. He wanted to continue being a hilarious Hollywood, male, human, writer-director of comedic films. He hadn’t taken on as many dog qualities as some had. He still pooped in the toilet. He never sniffed anyone’s privates.
He did eat dog food. His wife looked upon him sadly when he did. Kenneth became suspicious that she was having an affair with his lawyer and her trainer.
Kenneth had many friends who had been dogged and many were kept in Betsy’s Pound, a dog pound where the dogs’ cages were labelled with their previous names and where women — or anyone, in theory — could come buy them and own them from then on. Many executives and producers were purchased by women who had felt slighted or ignored by them and it became an amusing thing at dinner parties, a social triumph, perhaps even an essential gesture, to have such a moment at a dinner party.
Kenneth himself had been in the pound until his wife’s friend agreed to go to Betsy’s pound and buy him, theoretically for herself, to torment him endlessly, but in fact to give him to Mrs. Gabriel.
Kenneth wanted this all to stop. And he knew just whom to speak with to see if there was any chance of reversing what had occurred. At least, if there was any chance of reversing this supernatural revolution, this was the only chance.
I should mention that Kenneth was also special amongst the dogs in that he had retained the ability to speak. He continued to give notes over zoom to his shows and continued to act as a consulting producer on two NBC comedies.
Kenneth told his wife to tell his friend Josh to initiate a Secret Meeting. He assured her that Josh would know what he was taking about.
She did.
—
The Society of Secret Meetings (SSM) had met since the 1920s and had controlled Hollywood, behind the scenes, since that time. The members of the society had earned a permanent position in Hollywood by their accomplishments. They included the heads of all of the studios and agencies and various other significant contributors. They met regularly, settled industry disputes, decided how long strikes should last, and distributed jobs in the industry as a tight and secret cabal, as they always had.
They also had a procedure for initiating special meetings beyond their regular meetings.
Josh took the steps to call for a Special Meeting.
A special menu item was subtly added to the Nate n Al’s menu the next day — Matzoh Brie with peanut butter.
A special charge was added to the bill of various SSM members at Craig’s over the following week. “Rutabaga - $0.”
In this way, all members of the SSM were alerted to the call for a special meeting.
—
SSM special meetings took place in a private back room at Musso & Frank restaurant, which was the oldest restaurant in Hollywood. It had always been this way. There were provisions for changing the location, but these had never been invoked.
At 9 PM, as always, the SSM members gathered in the members’ room.
Jonathon Fernandez, the head of Fox.
Sacha Goldberg, the head of WME.
And all the others.
When they settled into the meeting room, a senior attorney questioned Kenneth’s right to be there. How did they know he was in fact Kenneth?
“I know you take six months to make deals and are an idiot. Does that not resolve the issue?”
The SSM agreed to convene a quorum.
And they agreed to one more thing.
“We need a legendary advisor.”
There were universal murmurs of assent.
Sacha, the Chairman of the SSM, said “I will invoke, by the Hermetic powers invested in me, Samuel Goldwyn.”
Suddenly, the ghost of Samuel Goldwyn appeared at the table.
One man fainted.
Another man said, “Sheesh, I was really hoping for Wasserman. Fuck me.”
Samuel thanked them for bringing him back.
“I am al-vays happy to attend an SSM meeting!”
The men explained Hollywood’s — and the world’s — predicament.
Samuel nodded. “Jesus, that’s fucking nuts.”
There was discussion of various approaches of how to address the situation.
Finally, Samuel leaned forward and said “I know the solution.”
—
Samuel, behind his ghostly visage, explained the situation.
The Star Machine had been developed in the 50s as a cooperative venture between Max Factor, Paramount Pictures, and General Electric.
It is still in use. When people are hit by the Star Machine, their looks improve and they get tremendously enhanced charisma. Several Star Machines were produced. CAA has one. WME has one. Every major studio has one; however, it is used sparingly today due to its known side effects of making people narcissistic, the worst version of themselves, and, eventually, they go completely insane.
But a byproduct of the Star Machine project was the Evil Eye, a laser gun that has the opposite effect of the Star Machine, and that was discovered in the Star Machine process.
One hit from the Evil Eye gives one numerous unattractive traits. Targets become confrontational, develop a bad personality in general, lose all sense of good taste and decorum, pick bad movies, get halitosis, constantly overshare, and they experience immediate and dramatic weight gain — at least thirty pounds — and other distortions of their appearance.
Most of all — it reveals who you truly are.
“Bad taste and weight gain? It sounds like half of Hollywood has already been hit by this thing!” said Jake Wei, the head of Disney movies.
Only one Evil Eye was ever created and it was not used in anger. It is carefully hidden, disguised as a space laser by the props department and kept amongst old props from “I Love Lucy.”
Samuel then faded out, as “summoned” elders could only be present for so long.
The men (and dogs) found and dusted off the old Evil Eye prototype — it was exactly where Samuel said it would be.
—
Mrs. Gabriel, Lauren to her friends, was stationed in front of Hinoki & the Bird in Century City.
As Belinda Messinger, the head of the Gojo network, a former publicist, punctilious and well-mannered, and bien pensant in all ways, took her valet ticket and walked in, Lauren hit her with the Evil Eye pulse.
Belinda suddenly felt ill and had to go to the bathroom.
Belinda made it to the bathroom and vomited and wasn’t sure what was happening.
She came to her table with her friends and accomplices, trying to focus on the topic of the day, a race-swapped and gender-swapped The Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court musical starring the (still human, thankfully) Lin Manuel Miranda, but proceeded to excoriate everyone for their thorough creative incompetence and their ethical defects, then burped through a version of Foghat’s I Just Want to Make Love to You before speeding home where she published an elaborate tell-all Tumblr post about the foibles and hypocrisy of every prominent person in Hollywood and, to top it off, added a section about her personal negative animus toward the Obamas.
Similar embarrassing faux pas — socially crippling faux pas — in the next weeks were suffered by other leading female network and studio heads.
Christi West, America’s sweetheart, suddenly gained 400 pounds.
There was much — tremendous — weight gain and many regrettable denunciations of friends and entire races over lunch. Seemingly no amount of Ozempic and Lorazepam could solve this problem.
The Evil Eye was working.
—
Through an anonymous proton email address, SSM communicated to Elaine Kim, the new head of CAA Motion Picture Talent, that this phenomenon was not some sort of spontaneous decline in good taste and politesse. It had nothing to do with Jupiter being in the seventh house, as had been debated in Showbiz, the industry trade journal. It was a deliberate campaign that was in the control of the group sending the email, and it would continue unless and until Betsy Grimes met her end.
Since Elaine was one of 12 women on Betsy’s Central Council and met with her every Sunday, it was up to her to end this reign of terror or continue to watch as Hollywood slid into the sea in a chaos of confessions and denunciations.
—
Elaine hastily assembled a breakfast meeting at John O’Groats.
Things were not good and had to be improved.
She proposed, at the meeting, that “even though we all love Betsy,” the deed had to be done.
Everything was falling apart. “We can’t lose the men and then lose the women, too. Plus, that Betsy movie was not great.”
But if we’re going to do this, we’ve all got to do it.
“Julius Caesar style.”
Christi West put down her bagel, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, farted, and said, “I’m in.”
—
Betsy received her Central Council every Sunday at Noon at her Blue Jay Way house, which she had named The Hen House.
Betsy received her Council beside her pool in a vintage Pucci jumpsuit and oversized Gucci sunglasses. Her chair was perfectly positioned in the center of the pool’s width so that the entire shot could be composed elegantly “in thirds,” which she liked. It was a warm and sunny day and Betsy and the pool were framed with “jet liner” views of Los Angeles.
In her lap she held Harold Lomez, still a white toy poodle, with a bow in his hair.
The twelve Council members were also well attired — as Betsy appreciated that — except for Christi, who had now been “off her game” for a few weeks and was in Pittsburgh Steelers-themed sweats and a MAGA hat.
Everyone but Betsy had a hand bag.
Elaine started things off: “Betsy, this is the end. Do you have final words for the world?”
Betsy was momentarily confused.
All the women pulled out pistols.
Betsy flung Harold aside, stood up and turned away from the women, but she could not escape across the pool.
“You’ll miss me, bitches,” said Betsy.
With a bang, 110 grams of lead (one missed) tore through the back of Betsy’s Pucci jumpsuit at 440 meters per second, communicating 6,413 foot pounds of energy into her body, which propelled her, flying through the air like a mockery of a super heroine, to the very center of the pool before she dropped into the water.
Betsy Grimes was floating face down in her pool. She thought, briefly, that this was just like the shot in Sunset Boulevard.
If only there were cameras at the bottom of the pool.
Everyone was looking at Betsy.
As it should be.
—
When Betsy passed, floating in her pool in a growing cloud of crimson, floating in a cloud of conspiracies, a now historical figure, all the dog men were released from her spell and became men again, generally waking up naked in their yards, or in the pound as the case was for some.
This was received with mixed feelings by the women, though it was generally accepted.
The possessions of Betsy Grimes were auctioned off for the benefit of charity and they were valued like relics from a saint.
Hollywood gradually got back to something like normal, though many of the dispossessed men were not invited back to their former posts.
Professors set about examining Betsy and her personal effects for any indication of the source of her power, to no avail.
The Evil Eye remained a secret, however.
Betsy Grimes and her reign came to a close, to be entered in the annals of Hollywood as one of the more remarkable episodes.
Kenneth sat down at his laptop to write the novelization of Betsy’s rise and fall. He started with: The only thing permanent in LA is the real estate. And the illusions.
© Roy Price 2023
“The only thing permanent in LA is the real estate”. That is of course until the next big one! Seriously, loved this , I hope your writing the Screenplay?
🐶🐶🐶