PARTY IN THE HILLS
September 26th, 2025 | kobi ansong
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. I’ma stay bro. Gotta see what the hell going on, I told him. 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. She smiled, awkward, but polite.
A giant home, all cubes and 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 usually goes like this: you get a text “Party in the Hills” with an address. Today’s text came from Matty, 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 steaks and lobsters you order. Except they’re not really your friend. I won’t learn this until next year when my client fires me and Matty vanishes.
I’m still marching down the purgatory hill. It’s never-ending and treacherous, basically the hima-fucking-layas. There’s something weighing me down: a bottle of Don Julio 1942. Did I steal this? Fuck, I’m an animal. I spot a pair 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 friends.
Hunter’s the feisty blond 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 open up quickly and tell me their life story which is fascinating and terrifying.
In high school, Brielle’s dad started dating one of their best friends and got locked up. When the girl turned 18, they got married at the prison. Now 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 Advril Levignes! They ate double cheeseburgers and drank milkshakes every night for three months and the warlock surgeon remixed the fat. I’d typically never ask this, but these girls were very honest. So how much did it cost?
Twelve racks, Hunter says. Each, Brielle adds. Hunter explains further: Yeah, we had to hustle, we stripped, sold pussy. They crack up at my astonishment. Not our pussy of course! Hunter says. This is meant to be comforting, but it’s not. They say the surgery was an investment that they’ll recoup in 18 months. I don’t ask how.
Finally, we’re at the bottom of the hill. There's a clusterfuck of Ubers and Lyfts, mostly black SUV’s. An African driver calls out to me. I turn to my new friends: I know an after hours spot off Fairfax. Wanna go?
Hell yeah, they say in rehearsed unison. We file into the backseat, and descend deeper into the sinister LA night.