Pesky helicopters chop the clouds as I stumble down the black hill. There’s packs of LA types all around me. A&R’s and actors, influencers and IG girls. Blah blah blah. We’re all fucked and high and full of shit.
There was a party in the hills tonight, but it’s over now. Some square ass neighbor made a complaint. Now there’s a police blockade at the bottom of the hill and KTLA 5 choppers in the sky. That’s why we’re all scaling down this Hollywood mountain at 1:47 AM.
I should’ve left with Zeke, but I was entranced by the party. All night I wandered the house aimlessly, name-dropping and making elaborate plans that will never materialize. At one point, I bumped into Kylie. I didn’t know what to say, so I blurted “nice heels” with a thumbs up like some sort of freak.
A giant home, all cubes, angles, and no soul. Whose party? Whose house? There was a man who resembled Jesus on cocaine floating around in a scarlet bathrobe. His name was Maximus and he said he does IP acquisitions. Why’s everything in this town so damn vague?
For parties in the hills, the procedure is something like this: you receive an obscure text, Party in the hills, plus an address. Today’s text came from Harley, my client’s booking agent. Agents are my favorite Hollywood character. They’re almost like a friend who always has to pick up the tab no matter how many drinks and lobsters you order. Except they’re not really your friend, but I won’t learn this until next year when my client fires me and Harley vanishes.
I’m still marching down the purgatory hill. It’s never-ending and treacherous. Basically the hima-fucking-layas. Something is weighing me down. A bottle of Don Julio 1942. Did I steal this? Damn it, I’m an animal. I spot a pair of basketball asses stuffed into tiny black dresses, but the lack of movement makes me suspicious. The ladies each hold a pair of stripper heels. I make a joke about the cardiovascular benefits of hiking, and now we're basically friends.
Hunter’s the feisty blonde and Brielle’s the shy brunette. They’re almost like twins, but this is by design. They shared the same plastic surgeon and moodboard, which was filled with various faces and body parts they screenshotted from Instagram. Their life story is both fascinating and terrifying.
In high school, Brielle’s dad started dating one of their best friends and got locked up. On the girl’s 18th birthday, they got married at the prison. Today they live on a small farm in San Bernardino.
Hunter insists on showing me what they used to look like. I gawk at the image on her phone. Just twelve months ago, these BBL bandits were skinny Middle Eastern skater girls. Basically Lebanese Avril Lavigne’s! They ate double cheeseburgers and drank milkshakes every night for three months and the warlock surgeon remixed the fat.
“So, how much did it cost?” I ask.
“Twelve racks,” Hunter says.
“Each,” Brielle adds.
“Yeah, we had to hustle. We stripped, sold pussy,” Hunter explains. They notice my bewilderment. “Not our pussy of course!”
They say the surgery was an investment that they’ll recoup in 18 months. I’m not sure how. Finally, we’re at the bottom of the hill where a clusterfuck of black SUVs are waiting. My Uber driver calls out to me.
“I know an after-hours spot off Fairfax. Wanna go?” I ask my new friends.
“Hell yeah!” they say. We shuffle into the backseat, and descend deeper into the sinister LA night.
