Among Our Structurally

CLOSEST ANALOGUES —THE PRIMATES — THE MALE DOES NOT FEED THE FEMALE. HEAVY WITH

YOUNG, MAKING HER WAY LABORIOUSLY ALONG, SHE FENDS FOR HERSELF. HE MAY FIGHT TO PROTECT HER OR TO POSSESS HER, BUT HE DOES NOT NURTURE HER.

Male and Female

He was the first person I'd met since joining the seduction community who didn't let me down.

His name was Tom Cruise.

"This is going to be great, man," he greeted me when I met him at wheelie school. He smiled, complimented my adventurousness, and smashed a friendly elbow into my chest. It was the exact same AMOGing gesture that Tyler Durden had written about in London.

He wore black bike leathers with a matching helmet tucked under his left arm and two days of stubble on his chin. "I'm training to jump a trailer," he said. He pointed to a mobile home sitting just off the track. "It'll be bigger than that one. But it's not that hard."

He squinted at the vehicle for a moment, visualizing the feat. "Well, the jumping's not that hard. It's the landing that's difficult."

He cocked his right hand and slugged me in the shoulder.

Tom Cruise was the perfect specimen. He was the AMOG that Tyler Durden and Mystery and everyone else in the seduction community had been trying to emulate. He had a natural ability to remain dominant, physically and mentally, in any social situation without seeming to exert any effort. And he was the living embodiment of all six of Mystery's five characteristics of an alpha male. Nearly everyone in the community had studied his films to learn body language and regularly used terminology from Top Gun in the field. There was so much I wanted to ask him. But first I needed to confirm something.

"So what made you pick me for this article?"

The dust lifted off the track and blew around us as we clutched our bike helmets under our arms.

"I dug your New York Times piece," he replied. "You were writing about the dating guys."

So it was true.

He paused and his eyes narrowed to slits, indicating that he was speaking about a serious topic. His left eye closed a little more than the right one, giving the appearance of deep intensity. "Now is that guy you wrote about in your article really saying that the character in Magnolia is based on him? Is he saying that?"

He was talking about Ross Jeffries. One of Ross's claims to fame was that he was the inspiration for Frank T.J. Mackey in Paul Thomas Anderson's film Magnolia. Mackey was the character Cruise played: an arrogant seduction teacher with unresolved father issues who wears a headset during his seminars and orders his students to "respect the cock."

"He shouldn't," Cruise continued. He swallowed a salt pill and chased it down with a long swig of bottled water. "That's not okay. It's not true. Really. That is an invention that PTA had." PTA is Paul Thomas Anderson. "That guy is not Mackey at all. He is not Mackey." It seemed important for Cruise to establish this. "I worked on creating that character with Paul Thomas Anderson for four months. And I didn't use that guy at all."10

Cruise sat me on his 1000 CC Triumph motorcycle and taught me how to start the engine and shift gears. Then he raced around the track, popping wheelies, while I wiped out going five miles an hour on his top-of-the-line bike. Afterward, he brought me into his trailer. The walls were covered with pictures of the children he and his ex-wife Nicole Kidman had adopted.

"Has this Jeffries guy turned his character more Mackey-ish since the movie?" Cruise asked.

"He's arrogant and megalomaniacal like Mackey. But he's not as alpha male as Mackey."

"I'll tell you something," Cruise said as he sat down at a table spread with finger sandwiches and cold cuts. "When I did that monolog as Mackey, we didn't tell the audience anything about what we were doing. And the guys just started getting pumped up as I was talking. So at the end of the day, PTA and I had to get on stage and say, 'Look, man. We just want to tell you that where this character is going and what he's saying is not good. And it's not okay.'"

Here came the lecture. First Dustin; now Tom Cruise. I couldn't understand it. What was wrong with learning how to meet women? That's what we're here for. It's how the species survives. All I wanted was an evolution-

When asked how he had come up with the character of T.J. Mackey in an interview in Creative Screenwriting in 2000, however, Paul Thomas Anderson did mention researching Ross Jeffries.

ary edge. So why not work at it and learn to do it well, like I'd done with everything else in my life? Who says you're allowed to take lessons in motorcycle riding but not in interacting with women? I just needed someone to show me how to start the engine and shift to higher gears. And I wasn't hurting anyone. No one was complaining after I slept with them, no one was being lied to, no one was being hurt. They wanted to be seduced. Everyone wants to be seduced. It makes us feel wanted.

"We made this whole speech, because the guys were taking what we were saying and going with it and getting into it. So PTA and I were saying, 'Hey man, oh my God. Easy.'"

See, I wanted to tell him. Seduction is seductive. But I couldn't, because as he remembered that moment, Cruise let out a laugh. And Cruise doesn't laugh like ordinary people do. His laugh takes over a room. It comes on just fine, a regular laugh by any standards. You will be laughing too. But then, when the humor subsides, you will stop laughing. At this point, however, Cruise's laugh will just be crescendoing. And he will be making eye contact with you. Ha ha HA HA heh heh. And you will try to laugh again, to join him, because you know you're supposed to. But it doesn't come out right, because it's not natural. He will squeeze out a couple words sometimes between chuckles—"It's not real," in this case. And then he will stop, as suddenly as he started, and you will be relieved.

"Well," I told him, squeezing out the last breath of an awkward laugh. "That's easy for you to say."

We spent the next week together visiting various Scientology buildings. It's no secret that Tom Cruise is a member of the Church of Scientology—a religion, self-help group, charity, cult, and philosophy started by the science fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard in the 1950s. But Cruise had never taken a journalist into that world before.

The more I learned about L. Ron Hubbard, the more I realized that he was the exact same personality type as Mystery and Ross Jeffries and Tyler Durden. They were wickedly smart megalomaniacs who knew how to synthesize great bodies of knowledge and experience into personality-driven brands, which they sold to people who didn't feel like they were getting what they needed out of life. They were obsessive students of the principles that guide human behavior. But the ethics of and motivation for their use of those principles made them controversial figures.

On our last day together, Cruise took me on a tour of the Scientology

Celebrity Center in Hollywood, where I saw a classroom full of students being trained to use e-meters, devices that measure skin conductance. When curious civilians come into the church, they are hooked up to e-meters and asked various questions. Afterward, the interviewer goes over the results with them and tells them why they need to join the Church of Scientology to fix their problems.

Students were paired up in the classroom, role-playing the various scenarios that can occur during an interview. They had large books spread out in front of them. Everything the interviewer (or auditor, in Scientology terms) utters—every response to every contingency—was contained in those books. Nothing was left to chance. No possible convert was going to slip through their hands.

What they were rehearsing, I realized, was a form of pickup. Without a rigid structure, rehearsed routines, and troubleshooting tactics, there would be no recruitment.

One of my main frustrations with sarging was repeating the same lines over and over. I was getting tired asking girls if they thought spells worked or if they wanted to take the best friends test or if they noticed how their nose wiggled when they laughed. I just wanted to walk into a set and say, "Love me. I'm Style!"

But after watching the auditors, I began to think that perhaps routines weren't training wheels after all; they were the bike.' Every form of dema-goguery depends on them. Religion is pickup. Politics is pickup. Life is pickup.

Every day, we have our routines, which we rely on to make people like us or to get what we want or to make someone laugh or to endure another day without letting anyone know the nasty thoughts we're really thinking about them.

After the tour, Cruise and I ate lunch in the Celebrity Center restaurant. He was clean-shaven and ruddy-cheeked, wearing a dark-green crewneck T-shirt that fit his body like a glove. Over a healthy slab of steak, he discussed his values. He believed in learning new things, doing the work required of him, and competing with no one but himself. He was strong-willed, centered, and resolute. Any thinking that must be done, any turmoil that must be resolved, any issue that must be handled was solved first and foremost in a dialogue between Tom Cruise and himself.

"I don't really keep counsel with others," he said. "I'm the kind of per son who will think about something, and if I know it's right I'm not going to ask anybody. I don't go, 'Boy, what do you think about this?' I've made every decision for myself—in my career, in my life."

Cruise leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows in his lap. He was low in his seat and his head was parallel with the surface of the table. As he spoke, he expressed himself through gestures as subtle as changing the aperture of his eyes. The guy was born to sell things: movies, himself, Scientology, you. Whenever I criticized myself or made an excuse for myself, he jumped down my throat.

"I'm sorry," I said at one point, when discussing an article I'd written. "I don't mean to sound like one of those writer guys."

"Why are you apologizing? Why not be a writer guy? Who are those guys? They're talented people who write about things that people are interested in." Then he continued, mockingly, "No, you don't want to be one of those guys who's creative and expressive."

He was right. I had thought I was done with gurus, but I needed one more. Tom Cruise was teaching me more about inner game than Mystery, Ross Jeffries, Steve P., or my father ever had.

He stood up and slammed his fist down on the table, hard—AMOG-style. "Why don't you want to be one of those guys? Be one of those guys, man. I mean it. That's cool."

Okay. Cruise says it's cool. Case closed.

As we talked, I realized that out of all the people I'd met in my lifetime, no one had their head screwed on more tightly than Tom Cruise. And this was a disturbing thought, because nearly every idea Tom Cruise expressed could be found somewhere in the massive writings of L. Ron Hubbard.

I discovered this when Cruise had his personal Scientology liaison bring a heavy red book to the table. He opened it to the Scientology code of honor, and we discussed it point by point—set a good example, fulfill your obligations, never need praise or approval or sympathy, don't compromise your own reality.

When Cruise promised to send me an invitation for the center's annual Scientology Gala, I began to worry that this wasn't about an article for Rolling Stone at all. It was about getting another convert to Scientology. If that was true, he'd picked the wrong person. At most, he was introducing me to a body of knowledge I could draw from, like the writings of Joseph Campbell or the teaching of the Buddha or the lyrics of Jay-Z.

After our meal and study session, Cruise invited me to the president's room to meet his mother, who was taking a course in the building. "Let me ask you something else about that article you wrote," he said as we walked. "A lot of that stuff is about trying to control people and manipulate situations. Can you imagine all the effort they're putting into that? If they took that effort and put it toward something constructive, who knows what they could accomplish."

The interview ended. The article was published. And Tom Cruise and I would meet again. I would be a different person then, but he would be the same. He would never change. He was an AMOG—and he had AMOGed me. However, he hadn't converted me.

He had his church. I had mine.

Chapiah

My church, however, still needed to be built.

Tom Cruise was right: all our effort did need to be put toward something constructive, something bigger than ourselves. I had felt after writing the Times article that my work was not done in the community, that it was all leading somewhere. Now I knew where: Project Hollywood, our church of the spread legs.

The epiphany came to me on my birthday. Some of the PUAs threw a party for me at a Hollywood club called Highlands. They called nearly everyone I knew and had met in the last year. About three hundred guests came, along with another two hundred who showed up at the club just because it was a Saturday night. Even the big boys from the community were there: Rick H., Ross Jeffries, Steve P., Grimble, Bart Baggett (who specializes in handwriting analysis), Vision, and Arte (who stars in his own line of sexual technique videos).

Despite such heavy-hitters working the room, I had zero competition because, for the night, I was the man at the club. I was dressed like a dandy, in a long black jacket with a single button at the top and a cream shirt with ruffled sleeves exposed at my wrists. And I was surrounded by women: fuck buddies, friends, strangers. I couldn't carry on a conversation for more than two minutes because people were constantly pulling me away to talk. I didn't have time to spit game.

Women complimented me on my looks, my body, even my ass. Four different girls handed me their phone numbers over the course of the night. One said she had to meet her boyfriend, but then wanted to escape and party with me; the other gave me not just her phone number, but also her address and apartment number. These were girls I didn't know before the party, and two weren't even there for my birthday. I didn't need routines, boyfriend destroyers, gimmicks, or wings. All I needed was a big pocket to hold all the scraps of paper.

In addition, two porn stars a friend had brought with him introduced themselves. One was either named Devon or Deven; the other had big teeth.

We talked for a half hour, and they supplicated to me the whole time. The night felt like the time in Toronto when everyone though I was Moby— except this time they knew I was Style.

Mystery had recently developed another theory of social interaction. It basically stated that women are constantly judging a man's value in order to determine if it can help them with their life objectives of survival and replication. In the microcosmic world we had created at the Highlands that night, I had the highest social value in the room. And just as most men are attracted in a Pavlovian manner to anything that is thin, has blonde hair, and possesses large breasts, women tend to respond to status and social proof.

In the end, I took a petite, mischievous stripper with big saucer eyes named Johanna back to my house. While she was on my bed, grinding me through my clothes, she asked, "What do you do for a living?"

"What?" I replied. I couldn't believe she would ask that, but she seemed to need that piece of information in order to explain my status at the party and her attraction to me.

"What do you do?" she asked again.

And that's when I had the epiphany: Sarging is for losers.

Somewhere along the line, sarging became seen as the goal of pickup. But the point of the game is not to get good at sarging. When you sarge, every night is a new one. You're not building anything but a skillset. What got me laid on my birthday was not sarging but lifestyle. And building a lifestyle is cumulative. Everything you do counts and brings you closer to your goal.

The right lifestyle is something that is worn, not discussed. Money, fame, and looks, though helpful, are not required. It is, rather, something that screams: Ladies, abandon your boring, mundane, unfulfilled lives and step into my exciting world, full of interesting people, new experiences, good times, easy living, and dreams fulfilled.

Sarging was for students, not players, of the game. It was time to take this brotherhood to the next level, time to pool our resources and design a lifestyle in which the women came to us. It was time for Project Hollywood.

Chapish

Mystery flew into town to meet me. All he had needed was the word go.

He was the only person I could talk to who wasn't afraid to take chances and make changes to pursue his dreams. Everyone else I knew always said, "Later"; Mystery said, "Now," and that was an intoxicating word to me—because later, every time I'd ever heard it, translated as never.

"Now is the time, Style," he said when he arrived at my apartment in Santa Monica. "Let's build this shit. Sarging is for losers. I mean, sure, it's better to be a loser who gets laid than one who doesn't, but we're talking about a championship level of game now."

I knew he'd understand.

According to the books I'd read on cold-reading, all human problems fall into one of three areas: health, wealth, and relationships, each of which has an inner and an outer component. For the past year and a half, we'd been focusing solely on relationships. Now it was time to get every cylinder in our lives firing. It was time to follow through on Mystery's codeine-addled ramblings and join forces to work together for more than just HB10s. We were greater than the sum of our cocks.

The first step to making Project Hollywood a reality was to find a mansion in the Hollywood Hills, preferably with guest bedrooms, a hot tub, and a location near the clubs on Sunset. Next we needed to hand-select the best in the community to live with us.

Perhaps I shouldn't have trusted Mystery again. But this time, I wouldn't let myself be dependent on him. His name wasn't going to be on the lease. Neither would mine, for that matter. We'd find a third party to take the risk and the responsibility.

We found that third party living in the Furama Hotel. His name was Papa. His grades had kept him out of law school, so instead he'd enrolled at Loyola Marymount in Los Angeles to study business. The day he moved from Wisconsin to Los Angeles, he dropped his bags off in his hotel room near the airport and took a taxi to my apartment, where six foot five inch Mystery was sleeping on my five foot six couch.

"The three most influential people in my life," Papa told us as he sat down on the couch at Mystery's feet, "have been you two and my father."

Papa's hair was now spiked and gelled, and he looked like he'd been working out. I left him to talk with Mystery in my living room while I ran downstairs to a Caribbean food stand to get dinner for everyone.

When I returned, Papa was Mystery's manager.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" I asked Mystery. I couldn't believe he was going to let a protege-turned-competitor manage him. Mystery was an innovator. If Ross Jeffries was the Elvis of seduction, Mystery was the Beatles. Tyler and Papa were merely the New York Dolls: They were brash, they were loud, and everyone thought they were gay.

"Papa likes the business and he can fill workshops every weekend," Mystery replied. "So all I have to do is show up."

Papa, in his networking mania, was in constant contact with nearly every major sarger. He knew all the lair presidents and was on all the seduction mailing lists. With just a few e-mails and phone calls, he could recruit a dozen students nearly anywhere in the world.

"It's win-win," Papa insisted. Ever since he'd gotten into the pickup business, that had become Papa's favorite phrase. He was smarter than I'd given him credit for. He was going to become the middle man for the biggest pickup artists in the community. And they were all going to let him, because most artists have the same fatal flaw: They're too lazy to deal with anything practical themselves.

We never actually invited Papa to join us in Project Hollywood that day. It just happened because he was willing to do the work. There was a Cold-well Banker office across the street from the hotel, and Papa walked in and found us a real estate agent named Joe. Real estate agents don't make much money on rentals, but Papa managed to talk Joe into working for us by promising to teach him the game.

"He's going to take us tomorrow to look at houses," Papa said when we met him in the lobby of the Furama Hotel one afternoon. "There are three places I really like. There's a mansion on Mulholland Drive; there's the former Rat Pack crib off Sunset; and there's the supermansion, which has ten bedrooms, tennis courts, and a built-in nightclub."

"Well, I'm for the supermansion," I told him. "How much is it?"

"It's fifty thousand a month."

"Forget it."

Papa's face clouded. He didn't like the word no. He was an only child.

He disappeared into his hotel room and emerged a half hour later with a sheet of paper in his hands. On it, he had sketched out a plan to earn $50,000 a month. We'd throw a weekly party in the club, and make $8,000 by charging admission and $5,000 in drinks per month; various pickup and lifestyle seminars would earn the house $20,000; we'd offer tennis lessons that would add up to $2,000 a month; and the ten residents of the house would pay $1,500 each in rent.

It was completely impractical. It wasn't worth spending all our income on overhead. But it was impressive. Papa was going to make Project Hollywood happen, no matter what it took. I began to understand why Mystery wanted to work with Papa. He was one of us: He was a go-getter. He had initiative. And, unlike Mystery, he was a closer.

As a pickup artist, Papa also seemed worthy of Project Hollywood. He'd proven his fearlessness in the field over and over since we'd met him in Toronto. And he would prove himself once more the following day, when he picked up Paris Hilton at a taco stand.

MSN GROUP Mystery's Lounge

SUBJECT: Field Report—The Seduction of Paris Hilton

AUTHOR: Papa

Today, I went with Style, Mystery, and our real estate agent to our prospective mansion, Dean Martin's old crib in the Hollywood Hills. I am in love with the place and can't wait to close the deal. We will be on top of the world, literally and figuratively. When you are in our crib, everything seems perfect.

Its a short walk to a popular Mexican fast-food restaurant, so we went over there for a late lunch. After ordering food, we found a table outside. Suddenly, our agent leaned over to me and whispered:

REAL ESTATE AGENT: You know, I saw Paris Hilton walk inside the restaurant. I think she's ordering a burrito. Why don't you go pick her up?

PAPA: Really?

STYLE: Hey, if you are going to walk over there, don't look in her direction. PAPA: All right, its playtime.

I got up, walked into the restaurant, and saw a hot blonde chick getting salsa. So I thought, "Salsa sounds good to me." I've been gearing my game up for this moment, and now it was time to take what I deserved. So I walked over to her side and pretended like I was just at the salsa bar by coincidence. I helped myself to some salsa, and then looked over my right shoulder at her and started the conversation with Style's jealous girlfriend opener.

PAPA: Hey, I need a female opinion on something? PARIS: {Smibs and looks up) Okay.

PAPA: Would you date a guy who was still friends with his ex-girlfriend? PARIS: Yeah. I think so. Sure.

I started to walk away, then turned back and continued the conversation.

PAPA: Hmm. Actually, this is a two-part question.

PARIS: (Smiles and giggles)

PAPA: Imagine you were dating a guy who was still friends with his ex-girlfriend. And you were going to move in with him but he had a drawer with pictures of his ex-girlfriend—not nudie pictures or anything, just regular pictures and some letters.

PARIS: Ooh. I would so get rid of them. I would put them in a box.

I cut her off and continued with the opener.

PAPA: Do you think its unreasonable for her to want him to get rid of those pictures?

PARIS: Oh, for sure. I dated a guy who did that, and I tossed them.

PAPA: Wow! The reason why I asked was because I have a friend in the same situation, and she burned them.

PARIS: Yes. That's what I should have done. [Smiles]

Paris finished getting her salsa, then took her salsa containers and started to walk away.

PAPA: Hey, you know, you look like a little cartoon version of Britney Spears. Oh, maybe its just your teeth.

Paris put her salsa container back on the table, looked at me, and smiled. Then I told her Style's Cs versus Us routine.

PAPA: Yeah! You have Britney teeth. Well, that's what my ex-girlfriend said. I mean, she has a theory that girls who have teeth in a wide C-shape, like Britney Spears, are perceived as good girls, no matter how many guys they hook up with. You have the same kind of C-shaped teeth.

PARIS: (Excited and smiling) Oh, yeah?

PAPA: Hey, I mean, just look at the smiles of the cover girls on magazines. They have the same kind of teeth. Well, at least that's what she said. She even got surgery done to her teeth because she had U-shaped teeth, like Christina Aguilera. She said U-shaped teeth are perceived as unfriendly, and that's why Christina Aguilera has the bad girl reputation and Britney Spears doesn't.

PARIS: [Smiles) Wow.

We walked to the counter and she grabbed her food. I acted as if I were going to leave, but don't think I'm going to leave Paris without proper game. She had her food and was about to exit the restaurant, so I had to keep her there. I looked over my shoulder and continued the conversation.

PAPA I have an intuition about you. PARIS: What?

She put her food down and looked at me.

PAPA: You know, I can tell you deep insights about yourself just by asking three questions. PARIS: Oh yeah?

PAPA: Yeah. Here, come over to this table. PARIS: Okay, sure.

I sat down at a nearby table, and she placed her food on the table and sat across from me. When she sat down, she smiled. I knew I was set and that it was time to work solid game. For the next fifteen minutes, we shared some stories about Hollywood and talked about commonalities. I did some qualifying, gave her some Speed Seduction patterns, and told her some socially proofed higher-value stories.

PAPA: Well, my friend taught me this fascinating visualization technique called the Cube. He's over there right now, and we just finished shopping for a house over there [pointing in the direction of the Hollywood Hills). I've been living in a hotel for the last ten weeks. Ugh. PARIS: Oh yeah! Which one? PAPA: The Furama.

PARIS: [Nods] Yeah, I live right up the street on Kings Road. PAPA: Cool. I'll be your neighbor. I'm moving into a house on Londonderry. It's a great place, and I already have so much heart for it. My friend Style and I are talking about making it a place for after-parties.

PARIS: Cooool.

PAPA: Okay. Are you ready for the Cube?

PAPA [Escalating the yes-ladder) Before I start, I need to ask you a few questions. Are you intelligent? PARS: Yes.

PAPA Are you intuitive? PARIS: Yes.

PAPA Do you have a good imagination? PARIS: Yes.

PAPA: Okay. Great! We'll continue then. Imagine you're driving in the desert and you see a cube. How big is the cube? PARIS: Its really big! PAPA: How big is that? PARIS: As big as a hotel.

Though I knew who she was, I didn't give it away and acknowledge she was a Hilton.

PAPA: Hmm. Interesting. Okay, so what color is it?

PARIS: Pink.

PAPA: Cool. Is if something you can see through or is it solid? PARIS: You can see right through it.

PAPA: Rock on! Now, lets add a ladder. Where is the ladder in relation to the cube?

PARIS: Its leaning against the cube, going into the middle of it. PAPA: Ah! I would have expected you to say that. PARIS: Yeah. (Smiles and giggles)

PAPA: Yeah. So let's add one more thing to your picture. Lets add a horse.

Where is the horse in relation to everything in your picture? PARIS: Its sleeping. PAPA: Where is it sleeping? PARIS: In front of the cube.

PAPA: Wow. Interesting. (Pause) Okay. Are you ready to find out what all of this mean? (Pause) It doesn't mean anything! No, just kidding. The cube represents what you think of yourself. Its your ego. Now, your cube is pretty big. You have a lot of self-confidence. Its not super-huge. I mean, it's not like you have a huge ego, but you definitely carry yourself with a lot of confidence. Also, your cube is pink.

PARIS: Yeah. That's my favorite color.

PAPA: Well, pink is also a color that is playful and bright, and you chose that because you carry yourself with the same kind of energy. You are the kind of person who really likes to have fun and party, but you are also the kind of person who just enjoys being in other people's company.

PARIS: Yes.

PAPA: And your cube is something that you can see right through. Now, that represents how people interact with you because you are the kind of person who even when people first meet you, they can see right through you. You really connect with people and that rocks.

PARIS: What's your name?

PAPA: Papa. What's your name?

PARIS: Paris.

PAPA: Rock on. I feel like we have so much to talk about.

PARIS: Yes.

PAPA: We should definitely party it up together sometime.

PARIS: Yes. We should.

PAPA: Here.

I gave her a piece of paper and a pen. She wrote down her first and last name, and then handed it to me, expecting to impress me and get a wow response. But I didn't give her any response, as if I had no idea who she was. Then I handed it back to her.

PAPA: Here.

PARIS: Okay. Write it down right here?

PAPA: Yes.

PARIS: This is my cell phone.

PAPA: Cool.

PARIS: Yeah. We should definitely meet up.

I walked back to see the boys at the table outside.

STYLE: Nice job, man. Nobody give Papa a high-five or acknowledge it, in case she sees it. Well done, bro.

REAL ESTATE AGENT: High five, bro.

I explained to the boys what happened. This rocks. I know that this is the way things are going to be. It just makes sense that I would roll with Paris Hilton when I am in Project Hollywood.

Mystery, this is my set. So hands off when Paris comes by the crib to see Papa.

Cheers, Papa

Every word Papa told Paris Hilton had come from me: the jealous girlfriend opener, the C-shaped versus U-shaped-smiles routine. Even his delivery of the Cube was the exact same as what he'd recorded at his first workshop with Mystery and me, down to the way he said, "Interesting" and "Cool." He was a great robot, and he had just outperformed his programmer.

We walked back to the house to meet the owners and sign the paperwork. The former home of Dean Martin (and later the comedian Eddie Griffin), the Rat Pack crib was just above Mel's Diner on Sunset Boulevard. It was $36,000 cheaper per month than the supermansion, and it was walking distance from the clubs on Sunset Boulevard.

The living room looked like a ski lodge. There was a fireplace, a sunken dance floor, a thirty-foot-high ceiling, a massive wood-inlay wall mural, and a large bar in the corner. The space could easily hold a few hundred people for seminars and parties. There were two bedrooms off the living room on the ground floor. Outside each of these rooms was a staircase leading up to another bedroom. And then there was a small maid's room off the kitchen.

The crown jewel of the house was the multitiered backyard. On one level, there were two patios shaded by palm and lemon trees. On the second level, there was a large brick terrace with a peanut-shaped pool, a Jacuzzi, a dining area, and a working barbecue and refrigerator. Beyond it lay a landscaped hill with a path winding up to a small, secluded deck at the top of the property. From there, we could see the glittering lights and ten-story movie billboards of Hollywood. The place was a chick magnet. There was no way we could fail here.

Papa put his name down on the lease. This, in addition to paying the larger of the rents, earned him the right to the master bedroom, which came equipped with a raised platform intended for a bed, picture windows, and a fireplace. The bathroom was decked out with a glass-encased circular shower, two walk-in closets, and a whirlpool bathtub built for three.

The possibilities were limitless. Papa had visions of renting the house for after-Grammy parties, movie premieres, and corporate events. He no longer sarged girls when he went out; instead he sarged promoters and celebrities, trying to make connections for Project Hollywood after-parties. He even used Speed Seduction and NLP tactics to try and hypnotize people into investing in the house.

In his spare time, he made bids for tanning beds, movie projectors, pool tables, and stripper poles on eBay. He wanted to make Project Hollywood a place Paris Hilton would want to come every weekend to party.

There were still two bedrooms that needed to be filled, so we issued a call for roommates on Mystery's Lounge. The response was terrifying: Everybody wanted in.

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