BRIAN COOPER DILL: AND NO JUSTICE FOR ALL — NOT EVEN MICKEY PART I: THE DEAL
- MAXX WOLF
- May 13
- 9 min read
Updated: Jun 11
How Brian Cooper Dill Sold Maxx Wolf a Hollywood Exit
This is the true story of Maxx Wolf, Brian Cooper Dill, Lance Robbins, Felipe Borges, and Kyle Morgan Dill. It is also the story of Killer Escort, Lifetime, Disney/Hearst, medical-equipment fraud, stolen cameras, gold bars, and the Hollywood deal that became the trap. But mostly, it is a story about rats.
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Brian Cooper Dill—born in October of 1972 and currently 53 years old—was an FBI rat before Maxx Wolf ever met him. The name Brian Cooper Dill matters here because this is not some anonymous Hollywood scam story. This is the Brian Cooper Dill story: the FBI rat, the fraudster, the career criminal, and the man Maxx Wolf says helped turn Killer Escort into something far darker than a low-budget movie. Maybe he was born that way. Maybe prison made him better at it. Maybe the first time he saved himself by feeding someone else to the machine, he realized he had found his religion.
But before Maxx, there was Pasha. Years earlier, Brian Cooper Dill’s name surfaced in a Wired story involving bank fraud, stolen account data, PayPal transfers, and Pavel “Pasha” Valkovich—a co-defendant who later pleaded guilty in a murder-for-hire plot targeting an informant. Brian was not the hitman story. Brian was the rat-pattern story. Pasha took the weight. Brian walked light. Different man. Same math. According to Maxx Wolf, Brian did what Brian does: he ratted, survived, and let another man carry the years.
That matters. Because rats do not become FBI rats overnight. They practice.
By the time Brian came to Maxx with his Hollywood dream, he had already spent a lifetime pretending to be bigger than he was. He was a bad magician. A drug dealer who spent his late teens and early twenties delivering cocaine to the Hollywood studios before he got caught and spent a decade in prison. A massive fraudster. A career criminal with a producer fantasy and a beer belly full of borrowed importance.
He was also a hacker who made a point to fix his fucking name online. Brian understood reputation laundering before most people understood Google. Search his name, and the internet becomes a fog machine: wrong men, old noise, unrelated faces, dead links, and enough confusion to keep the real Brian Cooper Dill hard to pin down. He manipulated the results so nobody would ever find his real past. That was not innocence. That was strategy. But every ghost story ends when someone posts the face.
He wanted Hollywood badly. Not the craft. Not the art. Not the work. He wanted the costume. The set. The girls. The title. The ability to stand around with a drink in his hand and pretend the world had finally mistaken him for someone important.
Then came Lance Robbins.
Brian met Robbins at Nobu—drunk, high, and marinating in the kind of Los Angeles bullshit that makes weak men think they just discovered destiny. Robbins was not Spielberg. He was not Bruckheimer. He was not some golden studio kingmaker. Robbins was a has-been Hollywood hustler peddling cable-movie dreams. A bargain-bin middleman. A discount-pipeline operator selling access like oxygen and acting like anyone who checked the receipt had insulted cinema itself.
But to Brian, Robbins sounded like salvation. Robbins had scripts. Lifetime-style scripts. Cable-thriller scripts. And this was not just some random cable fantasy. Lifetime sits inside the A+E Networks world — the Disney/Hearst media machine — which is exactly why Brian Cooper Dill thought he had found a golden door. Lance Robbins, Lifetime, Disney, Hearst, Killer Escort, Brian Cooper Dill — those were the names inside the pitch. To Brian, “Lifetime” meant more than a movie channel. It meant Disney-adjacent legitimacy. It meant corporate polish. It meant he could dress a low-budget hustle in mouse ears and pretend it was a clean Hollywood exit.
The kind of scripts where someone gets stalked, someone cries in a kitchen, and everyone pretends the budget is bigger than it is. Brian ran to Maxx like he had found religion.
“We can go legit,” he said.
That was the hook. At the time, Maxx and Brian had been making money in the medical-equipment game—fake doctors, fake entities, fake paper, real money. The kind of business where the paperwork does the acting and the banks pretend they are victims after cashing the first check.
Brian sold the movie deal as the exit ramp. They would make a movie for roughly $250,000. Robbins brings the script and the Lifetime pipeline. Maxx and Brian put up the money, splitting it 50/50—or at least, that is what Maxx thought. They shoot it professionally. They sell it for two or three times the cost. Maybe $500,000. Maybe $600,000. Maybe more. Then they do another. One movie a month. Clean money. Clean exit. Hollywood, baby.
The first project was Killer Escort. Killer Escort was supposed to be the clean Hollywood exit: a Lifetime-style thriller, pushed through the Lance Robbins pipeline, financed by Maxx Wolf and Brian Cooper Dill, shot with Felipe Borges behind the camera, and dressed up as legitimate entertainment.
The paperwork started. Records show Maxx paid $15,000 through his Wells Fargo account toward the attorney handling the film paperwork. The rest moved the old way: gold bars. Real gold. Heavy gold. Quiet gold. Gold for the production. Gold for trust. Gold for the dream.
Then Brian brought in his brother, Kyle Morgan Dill.
Let’s be brutally clear about Kyle. Kyle was no producer. He had absolutely zero talent. He was a failed real-estate agent brought in to be a gopher. An errand boy. A clipboard carrier. The useless family add-on who could run around and look busy near the machinery. Maxx paid Kyle too. A gold bar for each month.
Then came Felipe Borges. Felipe Borges, the Brazilian Cam&Grip Inc. camera man, became part of the Killer Escort story because Brian Cooper Dill needed equipment, optics, and someone willing to stand close to the machinery without asking too many questions.
Felipe was Brazilian. His bio called him a cinematographer, director, actor, and CEO of Cam&Grip Inc. It sounded official. It sounded polished. It was pure Hollywood packaging. Felipe Borges had absolutely no talent. None. He wasn’t hired for cinematic genius. He was hired for one reason: he possessed two expensive cameras worth roughly $100,000 each.
And according to Maxx Wolf’s account, he didn’t even own them clean. He stole them. But Felipe didn’t pull off that hustle alone.
Brian taught him the grift. Brian showed Felipe exactly how to do it: walk into a rental house, drop a small deposit under a fake company name, remove the tracking hardware, and vanish with the gear.
Brian built his own cinematographer because he figured one day he’d need the hardware. Felipe didn’t have a director’s eye. He had a thief’s inventory. That was his entire value proposition to this movie. Stolen cameras and a pulse. Enough equipment to make Brian think he had solved a production problem without paying real production prices.
There were warning signs. There always are. One night, Brian Cooper Dill and Felipe Borges took Maxx to a place called The Bullet in Burbank. They sold it like some rough little biker bar. It was not a biker bar. Maxx walked in and saw shirtless men playing pool and gay porn playing on the screens behind the bar. He walked right back out. Brian and Felipe played dumb and dumber.
That was the first rule around Brian Cooper Dill: Everybody pretended not to know what everyone knew.
Still, the movie moved forward. The plan was simple enough to believe. Lance Robbins had the script. Felipe Borges had the cameras. Kyle Morgan Dill could run errands. Maxx Wolf and Brian Cooper Dill were supposedly splitting the cash. On paper, it looked like Killer Escort, a low-budget Hollywood thriller tied to Lifetime-style dreams. In reality, according to Maxx Wolf, it was becoming another Brian Cooper Dill production — part movie, part fraud cover, part escape route.
That is why this story matters beyond one movie. This was not just Killer Escort. This was Brian Cooper Dill, Lance Robbins, Felipe Borges, Kyle Morgan Dill, Lifetime, Disney/Hearst, and Maxx Wolf standing at the edge of a Hollywood exit that was already starting to rot from the inside.
Then the FBI hit Maxx’s San Francisco penthouse.
Labor Day week. Agents came in. Doors opened. The government did what the government does best: made noise, grabbed the body, and saved the thinking for later.
Maxx called Brian. No answer. He called again. Nothing. Brian did not come. Brian did not stand up. Brian did not move like a partner.
A lawyer floated around the edges, but when the bond issue started smelling expensive, Brian disappeared behind excuses. So Lulu Wolf did what Brian would not. She put up the Beverly Hills house. That is how Maxx got out. Not because Brian saved him. Because Lulu did.
By then, Brian had already run. Not walked. Not paused. Not stood beside his partner. Ran. He left his wife. Left his baby. Left the movie. Left Maxx in custody. Left the whole production hanging in the air.
Brian fled south of the border with his tail between his legs. According to Maxx’s account, Brian contacted one of his criminal friends, another man feeling heat, and headed for Mexico. The stolen cars, the border route, and the company Brian kept down there are a story for another day. For now, remember the important part: When Maxx got hit, Brian ran like a coward.
Maxx spent days in custody before bail was resolved. When he came home, he came home with an ankle monitor and a federal leash.
Brian, meanwhile, hid in Mexico. At first, he did not hand the movie to Kyle right away. He stalled. He delayed. He let the production sit because Brian did what he always did under pressure: he froze. He lied. He waited for someone else to carry the weight.
Then time started running out. If they wanted to wrap by Christmas, the movie had to move. So Kyle Morgan Dill started “helping.” Which meant casting. Which meant trouble.
Kyle had no real idea where to find actors. So the talent search drifted into the sad little basement of low-budget desperation—Craigslist energy, bargain actors, cheap calls, people answering posts like the movie business was being run out of a garage with a ring light.
The food was no better. Cheap caterers. Bad trays. Downtown-L.A. mystery meals at prices that still somehow managed to feel like theft.
That was the production Brian left behind: A cable-movie dream held together by gold bars, Craigslist casting, a clueless errand boy, rented confidence, and a talentless Brazilian camera guy whose best qualification was stolen equipment.
Then November 1st came.
Maxx flew to San Francisco. The judge told him he had followed the rules. The ankle monitor came off. The next hearing was set for February 20th. Maxx flew home. Two days later, Brian reappeared.
Tanned. Rested. Safe from the Mexico hideout. Acting like he had not abandoned everyone while Maxx sat in custody. It was the first time Maxx had seen him in months.
A day later, they were ready to shoot. The first location was a house in the Valley that Kyle had found. Maxx looked around. Bad food. Weak cast. Cheap energy. Brian pretending none of it was his fault.
“Who picked the cast?” Maxx asked.
Brian shrugged. “My brother.”
Of course he did.
The cameras were set. The actors took their marks. Felipe stood behind the stolen lens. Brian played producer. Maxx watched the circus start moving.
For one second, it almost looked like a movie.
Then someone called: Action.
And that was where the real production began. Not the one Robbins sold. Not the one Brian promised. Not the one Maxx paid for.
The other one.
The one Brian was already writing behind everyone’s back.
The Name He Tried to Bury
Brian Cooper Dill spent years trying to vanish inside the internet. Digital scrubbing. Altered histories. SEO garbage. Anything to keep the real Brian Cooper Dill from standing in the light. But now the name Brian Cooper Dill belongs where Maxx Wolf says it always belonged: next to FBI rat, Killer Escort, medical-equipment fraud, Lifetime, Disney/Hearst, Felipe Borges, Lance Robbins, and the Hollywood deal that became the trap.
But the problem with rats is simple: They leave tracks.
Documents remember. Records remember. People remember. Maxx Wolf remembers.
And when this story is finished, Brian Cooper Dill will not be known as a producer, a magician, a businessman, or some invisible ghost hiding behind an edited search history.
Brian Cooper Dill will be known for exactly what he is: an FBI rat.
The kind of man who throws his partners to the wolves. The kind of man who trades his loyalty for a lighter sentence. The kind of man who thought his name could stay clean forever.
It can’t.
Not anymore.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Editor’s Note:
This article is satire, opinion, and personal commentary based on Maxx Wolf’s account, records, videos, 302s, documents, photographs, public reporting, and investigative materials in his possession. References to Brian Cooper Dill, Lance Robbins, Kyle Morgan Dill, Felipe Borges, Killer Escort, film production, criminal history, fraud, hacking, stolen equipment, informant conduct, or related misconduct are presented as commentary, narrative, and Maxx Wolf’s interpretation of events. This article does not encourage threats, violence, harassment, or contact with any person mentioned.
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