Where are they now? Part One.

Gary Coleman had it all: fame; power; bitches and money. As the cute little black kid on Different Strokes, he was recognised around the world, but where is he now? Whilst thumbing through the industry publication “Has-beens Monthly”, I discovered a shocking secret – Gary Coleman has been working in the sex industry, renting himself out to depraved perverts who get their sexual kicks from having poor little Gary dance upon them whilst singing a medley of Michael Jackson’s greatest hits.

I rang the number quoted in the ad, and was put through to Gary, where he asked me a number of questions, including what footwear I would like him to wear (I opted for the golfing shoes with extra spikes) and what Michael Jackson songs I would like him to sing (Thriller, the complete works) whilst he danced upon my naked body.

In the interests of journalism, I met Gary at a seedy hotel, where he danced upon me for just over 45 minutes. During the session, as his little golfing shoes tore holes in my back, he sang his heart out, hitting almost every note perfectly. If you shut your eyes, you’d think that Michael was in the room. Gary said that for an extra fifty bucks he could make it so. And for an extra five dollars Gary will finish the gig by shouting “What you talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?” in your face until you ‘arrive’. Ahem.

Overall, I found Gary to be excellent value for money, and his showmanship second to none. This reporter found the whole concert/deviant session to be totally enthralling. I was so hypnotised by his work that I actually forgot that I was an undercover journalist; such was the power of Mr Coleman’s performance.

When I confronted Gary in the parking lot of the hotel, he was unperturbed by my accusations. Indeed, he positively denied having any knowledge of the sex session that had just taken place between us, and as he made his speedy getaway, I could still hear his voice as he protested “What you talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?” I tried to point out to Mr Coleman that my name was not Willis, but by then he had disappeared down the road in a chariot pulled by several small cats.

I think I’m in love with Mr Coleman and his tiny shoes. Why doesn’t he call? Why? The pain is unbearable…but that might just be the wounds in my back….

Call me, Gary, call me….