Here's a further, top secret sneak preview for the first thing, "The Dancing Boy of Hollywood: A True Story:"
I've gone missing, skipped sessions with my shrink, and an appointment for blood work. I haven't answered calls or texts in weeks, including from our patron, Mr. Conte himself. He's concerned that I might have relapsed - again.
Henry and Christina are sent to find me, which they do - at this secret retreat in the woods. I'm surprised to hear that I'm missing, and a little mad they think I'm using again. (I'm forced to pee in a cup in front of them, as the last time I was afforded privacy for this purpose, I had bought and passed along a clean sample. Sadly, it did not - of course - match my dna.)
They're also there to make a delivery. It's a videotape - not for my eyes, but the vault. I ask: celebrity sex tape? Nearly, Henry says, on both counts, but I'm sure you don't remember it. I guess it must be out takes from my barely legal porno career. It's earlier than that, Christina says.
They've been authorized to make a deal: I tell them, under oath, where I've been, and they'll be allowed to show me the tape. I agree.
The story cuts to a party in Malibu, June 1991. Henry and Christina discover I've been using - heroin, in this case - and stage an intervention. (It all started in the hospital, a few months before, when I was being treated for injuries from a certain secret mission. I hadn't planned to continue using, but then was told me what happened: our other injured team mate - with whom I was close - didn't make it. It's all about survivor's guilt.)
They go to call my parents, and a certain celebrity psychiatrist - who I'd been seeing - but do so from a pay phone, just to play it safe. They flush my drugs before leaving.
Already jonesing (it could be hard to find a pay phone in Malibu), my 17 year old likeness is visited by several of my peers. One of them, my leading frenemy (to be played by you know who) - he's the one who stole my journal - has a bag of dope, but I'll only be allowed a hit if I agree to play truth or dare. The truth, of course, is what happened to me on set (during the making of this movie). The dare, of course, is to reenact it.
Cut back to the secret retreat. I confess where I'd been: at the death bed of a certain doctor, in LA - the man behind the dancing boys of Hollywood. I believed, naively, that I'd been summoned to hear an apology. It was nothing of the sort. He had, instead, a proposal. He wanted to leave me his empire, built on sex and drug trafficking, and worth billions. But it meant going to the dark side. I decline, returning to my life as a homeless undercover reporter, having just seen the face of evil. (His empire goes to my nemesis - a former member of our secret team, who sold us out on our first mission, leading to this one kid's death - and we'll be taking up more about him in the first film-only short, "Down and Out (in this place I currently live): A Dancing Boy Investigation." And I reveal my biggest secret: what happened, in hospital, at the hands of five members of an industry satanic cult.
Back to Malibu, where my former agent literally comes out of the closet, and catches me in a vulnerable position. I've violated the nda, but he's prepared to make me a deal: I get to continue using, but he'll be allowed to have his way with me until I turn 18. At the last minute, my allies swoop in, rescuing me and snatching the tape.
Back, again to the present day, where we narrow escape being burned or blown up by the bad guys - they're already aware that I've talked. Fortunately, there's a mirror site due north, where we go for the night. We'll be safe there, for now.
