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Aimless, twenty-something Manhattan playboy Max is special...or so he’s always been told. Told by his parents. By his teachers. By Mister Rogers. And special people have a responsibility, he knows - to gift the story of their remarkable, party-boy lives to the huddled, dirty, virgin masses. To inspire them! On the big screen! A New York biopic about his Sexy party-boy existence, yes! Maybe Scorsese will direct? Maybe Max will direct! All and all, it’s Max’s new life-long dream exclamation point.

Enter the seductive, plotting Quinn (quite the special old money heiress/Brooklyn hipster wannabe) and her new, self-destructive writer friend Reid (also quite special). Together, the young pair can assuredly take the head-in-the-clouds Max for all he’s worth. Special young people can do things like that. They can. Just watch. It’s great. Broke and without a place to live, Reid settles into Max’s luxury apartment and starts to write the Greatest Story Ever Told. Just as long as he doesn’t have to talk to its subject.

But, as Reid begins to learn, perhaps there’s more to Max than first meets the eye. Perhaps Max is a Superhero. Or a Vampire/Civil War veteran. That shit’s possible in movies. Like that one with Will Smith. And, so, as Max and Reid struggle to complete the dubious task before them, simultaneously pursue Quinn and get a handle on their misdirected, some might say delusional, lives, they reveal the comedic, tragic fate of Generation Y - a generation taught to believe each was incomparably special and messianically gifted; a generation so blinded by their own self-idolation that the lines between fantasy and reality might not always be so clear.

They say there are only 7 types of stories in the world.

Trophy Kids is number 8.

It’s totally special.