BRIAN COOPER DILL: AND NO JUSTICE FOR ALL — NOT EVEN MICKEY PART II: THE BORDER

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BRIAN COOPER DILL: THE BORDER

The Valentine’s Day Massacre

This is the second chapter in the true story of Maxx Wolf, Brian Cooper Dill, Felipe Borges, Lance H. Robbins, Joel Seaton, and Kyle Morgan Dill.

It is also the story of Killer Escort, the Valentine’s Day Massacre, Chula Vista, Tijuana, the BMW border crossing, medical-equipment fraud, the FBI, and the setup that turned Maxx Wolf into the fugitive they wanted him to be. But mostly, it is still a story about rats — and what rats do when the walls start closing in.

After Action, the movie started moving.

Not well.

Just moving.

For weeks, they shot wherever they could. They used Maxx’s properties, Maxx’s cars, and Maxx’s world as the production’s free luxury backdrop. They used his houses, his views, his Mercedes AMG GT Roadster, his Range Rover, his wife LuLu's penthouse office in Beverly Hills and his Hollywood Hills locations. It was the kind of scenery that made a cheap movie look like it had money, even when the production itself smelled like discount catering and bad decisions.

Brian loved that part. He loved standing around like a producer. He loved watching people move when he spoke. He loved pretending the set existed because of him, even though Maxx’s money, Maxx’s assets, and Maxx’s world were doing the heavy lifting. Brian wanted the costume, the title, the girls, the illusion, and the word “producer” hanging around his neck like stolen jewelry. And the more the shoot went on, the worse he got.

Brian drank like the bar owed him money. He got loose, sloppy, and loud. He grabbed at actresses, played big-shot Hollywood man, and acted like a lawsuit with legs. He would lean into the girls, half-drunk and full of himself, and start selling fantasy: the Mexico wrap party, the private jet, the yacht, the whole fake empire. There was no jet. There was no yacht. There was a rented penthouse in Mexico, a borrowed personality, and a career criminal trying to look rich in front of women who deserved hazard pay.

Maxx watched him and knew exactly what he was becoming. He wasn't just drunk; drunk still knows where the floor is. Brian was hammered past the point of liability. Maxx told him, in plain English, that he was going to get them sued. But Brian was too busy enjoying the costume. Felipe stayed close to the camera. Kyle stumbled through the production side like a failed realtor trapped inside a call sheet. Lance Robbins floated in the background as the discount Hollywood pipeline man who had started the whole circus.

The shoot limped forward. Scenes were filmed, money moved, and the Christmas deadline approached. And while Maxx thought they were finishing Killer Escort, Brian was doing something else. Behind the production, behind the lights, behind the fake Hollywood dream, Brian Cooper Dill was running the old medical-equipment fraud again. This is where the Brian Cooper Dill setup began to take shape: Killer Escort in Los Angeles on one side, and the

San Francisco offices and medical-equipment paperwork on the other, and Maxx Wolf’s image sitting in the middle like bait. Only this time, according to Maxx Wolf’s records, he was doing it without Maxx. And worse—he was using Maxx’s image.

Fake IDs, fake names, medical-equipment paperwork, and San Francisco offices. It was the same old fraud game, dressed in a new disguise. Brian had waited until Maxx’s ankle monitor came off. While Maxx was in Los Angeles filming, Brian was moving through San Francisco, setting things up, opening offices, using documents, creating the kind of paper trail that could later be shoved in Maxx’s face.

The records would matter later. Phone records, travel records, private investigator findings, and the timeline. They would show Maxx was in Los Angeles. They would show Brian Cooper Dill was in San Francisco. They would show why the FBI, Special Agent Joel Seaton, and the San Francisco investigation should have slowed down and asked the first obvious question. But the FBI didn’t want that story. They wanted the easy one. The lazy one. The one with Maxx’s picture on an ID and no curiosity attached.

Special Agent Joel Seaton of the San Francisco office and the Federal Bureau of Idiots didn’t need a real investigation. In Maxx Wolf’s account, Joel Seaton became the face of the lazy federal mistake: the agent who had Brian Cooper Dill, Maxx Wolf, fake IDs, San Francisco offices, phone records, and a timeline staring him in the face — and still managed to chase the easiest story. They had a picture, a lazy theory, and apparently all the curiosity of a dead houseplant.

This was Investigation 101. It did not take Sherlock Holmes to ask the obvious question: why would a man out on federal bond use his own face on a fake ID? Eliot Ness would have turned in his grave watching what federal law enforcement had become — not investigators, not untouchables, just lazy dumbasses with badges and confirmation bias.

But Joel Seaton did what lazy federal agents do when thinking feels like overtime: he grabbed the easiest story, ignored the timeline, ignored the phone records, ignored common sense, called stupidity probable cause, and helped get Maxx Wolf’s bail revoked.

By late December, the movie was almost wrapped. The last scenes were shot at one of Maxx’s houses. The food was better that day because even Brian understood you had to pretend class at the end of a con. Then came January, and nothing moved right. The movie sat there. The music still needed work. Maxx had a friend who could compose, but Brian kept talking about finishing touches and the final push.

February arrived. Maxx’s hearing was set for February 20th. The case, as Maxx understood it, was small. Camp time. Maybe months. Maybe a year on paper, less in reality. Brian even sold prison camp like a vacation brochure: cheeseburgers on Wednesday, fried chicken on Thursday, and fucking fish Friday, plus exercise, no bills, no wife, and no pressure.

Life just didn't better than that.

Only a career criminal could make federal prison sound like a wellness retreat. That was Brian’s pitch. Only a career criminal could make prison sound like a wellness retreat.

Then came the Valentine’s Day Massacre. February 14th. This is the day the Brian Cooper Dill story stopped being a bad movie production and became a federal setup.

While normal men were buying flowers, the government called with handcuffs in its voice. Maxx’s lawyer told him the government wanted to revoke his bail. “For what?” Maxx asked. They said the FBI had evidence: video, ID, and proof that Maxx had been up to new fraud while out on bond. Maxx knew immediately something was wrong. He had been filming, he had been home for the holidays, he had been doing charity work, and he had been preparing for court. He had not been running around San Francisco opening offices.

“Video of who?” Maxx said. “My ghost?” That was the moment the FBI stepped on its own dick and called it an investigation. They saw Maxx’s picture and stopped thinking. They saw what they wanted to see. They grabbed the easy theory with both hands and ignored the obvious question: Who uses his own face on a fake ID while out on federal bond? An idiot? Or a man being set up by someone who already had his picture?

This was the Federal Bureau of Idiots at full speed: see a face, skip the work, ignore the timeline, and let the rat hand them the script. Brian Cooper Dill had handed them a story.

Joel Seaton and the FBI were dumb enough to carry it.

Maxx told the lawyer he wasn’t running. It was Friday. Court was in San Francisco. Monday was presidents day. He would surrender Tuesday morning. He had nothing to hide. Then he called Brian. Brian answered like a man who had already rehearsed innocence. “What’s going on?” “They’re revoking my bail,” Maxx told him. “For what?” “They say they have video of me doing fraud. Opening offices. Funny business.” Maxx asked him directly. “You haven’t been doing anything behind my back, have you?”

Brian did what Brian does. He lied. “No, no, no. You’re crazy. We’ve been doing the movie.” Of course. Always calm when the lie is still warm. Then, about an hour later, Brian called back. He had an idea. San Diego. A music coordinator. Clear your head. Work on the movie. It sounded useful. It sounded normal. It sounded exactly like the kind of thing a man might do before a court hearing when he still believed the FBI had made a mistake and the truth would fix itself.

Maxx packed a small bag. He told Lulu he was going to San Diego to work on the music for the movie. He would be back before court. She had Valentine’s plans with their daughter. Everything seemed manageable. Maxx drove south. Beautiful weather, a two-night bag, a San Diego hotel, dinner, drinks, and waiting. Brian delayed with a baby excuse, a wife excuse, a life excuse. It was the usual Brian weather report of bullshit.

The next day, Brian told Maxx to meet him in Chula Vista. Fifteen minutes from the border. Maxx noticed that. Chula Vista mattered. The border mattered. Tijuana was no accident. Brian pulled up in his four-door BMW. Felipe Borges was with him.

Maxx looked at him. “Why’d you bring him?” Brian waved it off. “Don’t worry. He’s not coming in with us. He’s just going to sit in the car.” So Felipe stayed outside, waiting. Maxx and Brian went into the bar. They had food and a couple of beers. Brian acted casual. Too casual. Then the plan changed. The music coordinator wasn’t ready. Another place, Brian said. They should move Maxx’s car somewhere safe and all go together.

Maxx didn’t like leaving his car in that neighborhood. He said he needed gas first. So they got gas. Then Brian guided him to a little shopping center—restaurants, parking, the kind of place that looked safe enough if you didn’t know you were already inside the trap. Maxx parked. Brian said the car would be fine. Then Maxx got into Brian’s BMW. Felipe was still there. The three of them moved again. Another bar. More food. More drinks. Then Brian wanted shots. Maxx went to the bathroom. When he came back, the drink was waiting.

After that, something changed. Maxx felt sick. Not drunk sick. Wrong sick. His body started going heavy. His mind started slipping. The room moved in a way it should not have moved. He walked outside for air, trying to shake it off, trying to understand why a couple of drinks suddenly felt like poison. He made it to the BMW. Brian opened the door. Maxx got in.

Then the lights went out.

According to Maxx Wolf’s records, the BMW crossed into Mexico around 4:15 p.m. Brian Cooper Dill was driving, Felipe Borges was in the car, and Maxx Wolf was gone. Not gone from the world, but gone from himself. That BMW border crossing — Chula Vista to Tijuana, Brian Cooper Dill at the wheel, Felipe Borges in the car, Maxx Wolf unconscious in the back — is the center of Not Even Mickey Part II: The Border. 

By the time the car crossed the border, Killer Escort was no longer the production.

The production had changed. The stage was Mexico.

The script was survival. And Maxx Wolf would not wake up until 1 a.m. in Tijuana.

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, medical-equipment fraud, federal conduct, Special Agent Joel Seaton,

FBI conduct, bail revocation, border crossing, drugging, kidnapping, and related events 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.