Act 1 opens with two Jewish homosexual babies clamped to Lillian Hellman's tits while Nazi bullets spit past her. Samuel Beckett and Pablo Picasso sit passively at the dinner table breathing in the scent of Chanel No 5 as Miss Hellman manipulates the world to her bidding. Oink, bark, cluck . . . Katherine Kenton catches my eye as Miss Hellman grabs Adolf Hitler by the throat.

Allow me to part the fourth wall. My name is Hazie Coogan. My vocation is not that of a professional housekeeper – though I am proud to scrub her pots and pans – to the glorious film actress Katherine Kenton; nor do I enjoy what Walter Winchell call a "fingers deep" relationship with her. Nor too am I the sorceress; rather I am the source. I am the lens through which she exists, I am the axe of the bluntest Hollywood satire.

Back to the action. If you can call it that. See how every name is in bold. Sarah Bernhardt, Wallis Simpson. See how irritated you get by it! See how little it adds. See how few original ideas Hollywood and Chuck really have. Hollywood sucks you in and spits you out. What Walter Winchell would call a dream factory. What John Crace would call a statement of the bleeding obvious.

Los Angeles, city of myth where the truth is what I say it is. Moo, miaow, yawn. Katherine Kenton watches her life flicker past in black and white, old reels of her as Queen Elizabeth I and Catherine the Great, as she reads a Lillian Hellman script where Lillian carries an atom bomb to Iwo Jima and sucks on her Nembutal and Seconal, medication you definitely won't be needing if you carry on reading. Cut to the crypt where Katherine Kenton is mourning her dog, Loveboy, and placing his remains alongside several of her ex-husbands – or wasbands, as Walter Winchell would say. The only flowers are from Webster Carlton Westward III. Where are Errol Flynn, Gloria Swanson and the other invited guests?

Act 2. The establishing shot sees Lillian Hellman grappling with Lee Harvey Oswald as the adoption agency tries to match babies to Miss Kathie's dress and you're meant to think, "Wow, Chuck is just so out there", but somehow you don't, so the scene cuts to Miss Kathie's boudoir where she is entertaining her newest beau, Webster Carlton Westward III.

In my position as Miss Kathie's protector, it sometimes behoves me to do a bit of snooping and to my horror I find a manuscript in Webster's drawer. It is for a book entitled Love Slave: My Life with Katherine Kenton. I cut to The End, past the bits where she is praising the length of his cock, to where she gets runs over by a bus as she sucks him off in the street.

"He is planning to kill you off and cash in on your fame," I tell Miss Kathie as she is rehearsing a Lillian Hellman Broadway show that will revive her career. I cannot allow this to happen. She is my creation. I discovered her. Etc. Baa baa black sheep. I keep her alive only to find the manuscript rewritten with a different ending. This time she is to be mauled by bears after intense anal sex with Webster. What Walter Winchell would call a grizzly ending. What is it with wannabe literary iconoclasts and anal sex? John Crace would say.

And so the act continues with a series of ever more graphic – yet also ever more predictable – thwarted sex-death threats that leave Katherine Kenton strangely younger than she was before as her wrinkles and flab melt away until . . .

Act 3. Ah, yes, the denouement that will surprise neither Laurence Olivier nor Greta Garbo nor you, because even a child could see this one coming. It was I, Hazie Coogan, who wrote Love Slave. How her career soared in the swansong of my creation. And now that Katherine Kenton has sadly passed away from cyanide poisoning, I can publish Paragon, her autobiography that begins: "I owe everything to Hazie Coogan." And as I recline next to Lillian Hellman, I dandle Miss Kathie's adopted baby on my knee. Her name is Norma Jean Baker.

Digested read, digested: Chuck it away