The Madness Of Britney Spears

Note: the functional hemispherectomy is an actual medical procedure (pioneered by a certain Dr Ben Carson, who would later run for President). The idea that it creates multiple "seats" of consciousnesses is unproven but theoretically possible.

Britney stares at him, panting like an animal in heat. Veins pulse on her neck. Her face is a mask of woven shadow.

"I could kill you."

Bared teeth flash. In the hollows of her eyes, a fierce, slipstreaming madness gathers like howling winds. He is caught at their focal point; the eye inside her storm.

"...Kill you, and not get caught."

She steps forward. Her hips sway like a stalking cat's. He does not step back, senses that any hint of weakness will prove a mistake--perhaps a fatal one. He can't see the knife that was in her hand moments ago, but it must be close.

"...Stamp your life out like a small, worthless fire." She spits on the floor. "Nobody would know."

She's naked. Her lithe, sinewy body has a cobralike quality. Kinetic energy, coiled up and ready to explode.

"And even if they knew they wouldn't care. I'm Britney, bitch.

The whole world loves me!

"

The eerie biophilic shadows of the sex-goddess's mansion have resculpted her into a dark version of herself. Parvati, transformed into Kali. Her statuesque figure seems drenched in sadistic killing potential. Her wide hips are built to chase him down, should he run. Her taut midriff ripples, a void of negative space. Her thick thighs and ass are laced with a hunter's fast-twitch muscles.

Hot breath pours across his skin now. She's close. Close enough to kiss him on the throat. Close enough to tear it out with her ice-white fangs. Close.

She reaches between his motionless legs, and strokes his penis. It swells under her touch.

She lifts the other hand to her lips. Touches them. A gesture of confidence. Two spies sworn to secrecy.

"Don't worry, Tom. I'm not going to kill you..." A smile effaces Britney's her lips. "But

I can't stop thinking about doing it

."

* * *

One week ago...

"My daughter is insane, detective. And I need you to find her."

Britney Spears' father filled Tom Hoeckner's office. He was big. Physically imposing. A woman, given a choice between Jamie Spears' and a bear, would make a Pam Beasley face.

"These are the same picture."

"Yeah, the music biz sends everyone loco." Tom laughed humorlessly, remembering what had happened to his sister Aud.

Jamie shook his head. "Britney's problems started long before that, in childhood. I'm public enemy number one...the conservatorship. But if people understood how troubled she is, they'd see certain decisions of mine in a different light."

He drummed fingers on the table.

"The seizures began when she was eight. So did the hallucinations. She said her toys were alive; that her baby teeth had come back and were trying to force themselves into her gums as she slept. She began blacking out. Injuring herself. We took her to a physician, who diagnosed her with the early stages of temporal lobe epilepsy. After some discussion with my wife..."

You discussed, and she nodded her head.

Tom took an instant dislike to the big, domineering man.

"...we decided to try an unusual surgical procedure. Do you know what a functional hemispherectomy is?"

"No. Should I book myself in for one? Sounds fun."

Jamie didn't laugh. "They're rare. I think Britney's was the nineth or tenth ever performed. Essentially, the brain has two hemispheres, split by the longitudinal fissure. A surgeon severs the epileptic half from the healthy half along the corpus callosum. The epileptic hemisphere now has no connection to the nervous system and can't affect the body. Neural pathways rebuild and the healthy hemisphere takes full control of the body. The patient is left with half a brain, but their seizures and hallucinations end."

Jamie paused, sighed, and continued.

"But when they operated on Britney...something went wrong."

* * *

The demented pop princess folds her arms around him, drawing him into a desperate, savage embrace. His face is buried in the hot curve of her neck.

He smells perfume, but there's something...unhealthy underneath it. Unsettling. The touch of her skin jangles him. It's as though he's a tunnel full of wind chimes, and she's an arctic wind blowing straight through him.

"I think I'm in love with you..." Britney whispers throatily. They've just met...but oh God...he thinks she actually

means it.

Primitive animal instincts--long-forgotten, still wired up hot--blare warnings at full volume.

Predator! Predator! Predator!

"...And I can make you so, so happy. Happier than any woman you've ever slept with."

She drops to her knees, and starts sucking his erect cock.

His ankles sweat. Her technique is mortifyingly effective. He stares down at the blonde-haired head bobbing between his thighs, too shocked to say anything.

"Huhhhn...ughh...." nonsense vowels gust and rasp out of him, like dead leaves swirling in a gutter.

He sees the big full-moons of Britney Spears' kneeling ass, the voluptous cleft of her buttocks, the ripe asshole glimmering wetly inside it, her big haunches quivering and tensing as she blows him. It's as though fellatio is a full-body workout for her, requiring every muscle she possesses.

Mentally, he counts down from fifty.

Fifty-mississippi. Forty-nine mississippi. Forty-eight-mississippi.

At

eighteen-mississippi

he cums.

"Ugh! UGH! BRITNEY!" A hot, dirty itch builds and explodes. Raw, filthy beast pleasure electrifies his mind.

She pulls her head off his spasming shaft with a moist

SCHLOCK

, grips it with her hand, and aims it like a gun. "This is my favorite part."

Strands blast out across the terrazzo tiles of Britney's mansion.

Two feet. Three feet. Four feet. Four feet. Four and a half feet. Three feet. two feet. one foot. Dribble.

Britney's insane eyes flicker back and forth as cum flies, like a razor slicing a jugular.

In the orgasm's aftermath, he crashes to his knees, spent. His shoulders sag, his mouth opens. He's burning. Leaking. Melting. Corroding. He feels like he's been locked inside a vault that's been flung into the deepest point of the ocean. He wants to sleep, and sleep for a long time, but he can't.

So long as

she's

here, he might not wake up.

"Let me ask a question..." Britney says innocently, still on her knees.

"What?" His shaft is going flaccid, but it's still inside her hand.

Her Bambi-like eyes are wide and curious. "Did I say I was going to kill you, or not? I actually can't remember what I decided."

Dumbfounded, he stares at her face for some sign--the slightest

indication

--that this might be a joke. When he doesn't answer, Britney's fist begins to tighten on his penis, crushing it.

"Um...you decided to let me live." he stammers.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously inside their cages of eyeliner. "Are you

sure

that's what I said?"

He nods. "Yes. I'm sure. You thought about it, and decided you like me."

"Hmm..." Her lips purse. Then she lets his spent cock fall. The big organ swings between his legs, like a Hungarian sausage dangling from a butcher's hook.

"Get hard," she commands, eyes full of brightly demented lust. "And fuck me. If you don't, I'll decide I said something else."

* * *

One week ago...

"Somehow, Britney's surgery failed. And here we are."

Jamie Spears didn't ask if it was alright to smoke a cigarette in Tom's office. He just lit one up.

"Maybe the doctor botched the procedure. Maybe the epileptic hemisphere rebuilt the corpus callosum somehow. Like I fucking understand how the brain works. But the point is, my daughter now has

two

people inside her head."

As Newport smoke wafted across the desk, Tom's face turned green. He had allergies.

"I don't know how closely you've followed my daughter's career, detective..." Jamie took a drag.

Tom Hoeckner didn't reply.

Does 'follow your daughter's career' mean 'have a honking crush on her, plus nightly wet dreams about her from 8th grade on? Y'know, just asking for a friend...

"...but hasn't it always seemed like there are

Two Britneys?

A split Jekyll and Hyde personality? There's Britney the Mouseketeer, the girl who sang so sweetly in church choir. The good girl, who toes the line and does what she's told."

Jamie's smile was deeply unpleasant.

"Then there's crazy head-shaving Britney, who married some loser and divorced him the next day, who lost custody of her kids, who was sued by her bodyguard for sexual assault, who posts bizarre videos on social media, who's done a half-dozen worse things that you don't even know about, because I squashed the stories before they reached the press."

*Jamie's stare gained a needlelike sharpness. Tom felt pinned by the threat behind it.

And if you tell anyone about this conversation, shithead, I'll squash you too.

"I can't prove this," Jamie continued "but I suspect that Britney's...episodes are caused by her damaged hemisphere temporarily gaining control of her body. Of course, by disconnecting it, we caused the severed hemisphere to evolve into a separate consciousness."

"What the fuck?" This seemed like an insane

of course

to Tom.

"The second hemisphere is still

inside

Britney. It hasn't been removed. It just can't do anything. It can't see, or hear, or twitch a single muscle...but it's conscious. Awake. It simply exists, sparking and buzzing inside her skull, going insane from boredom. So in the moments when it siezes control of my daughter's body...well...it tends to be destructive. She has two brains now. And they're at war for control of her body."

He stabbed out the cigarette on Tom's desk. It left a black bolus of ash on the mahogany.

"My daughter ran away last week. She's done it before, but now, I can't find her. The crazybrain has taken over." He smirked. "Those #FreeBritney freaks have gotten their wish. I don't think even

she

knows where she is, or what she's doing. I need her back before she hurts herself. Or someone else."

"Jamie, I'm a private investigator," Tom Hoeckner held out his hands. "I deal with custody disputes and teenage runaways. I don't know if I believe this many-faces-of-Eve multiple-personality shit, but I

do

believe it's outside my pay grade."

Britney's dad cocked an eyebrow. "I was told you're good at finding people."

"And I am, but--"

"So find my daughter, Tom."

"And what then?"

"Convince her to come back."

* * *

Britney's hot pussy is shaven completely bare.

Her legs are splayed, revealing her glistening sex. She lies on a sofa, one thigh up on the sofa's corinthian leather backboard, the other dangling toward the floor. Her fetishistically pretty foot gently swings back and forth, like a pendulum in space. The toes cast five identical shadows across the floor.

"Problem?" she asks coolly.

"No."

"Well, you're looking at me like there's a problem."

"There's not."

He obediently crawls between the death-goddess's legs, and starts eating her cunt.

Her folds envelope his face like a hot glove. Her slit drools greedily. She spreads herself obscenely wide to receive him.

"Uhhhh...UHHHHH!" Britney's whines are like a sawblade tearing through his mind. He shuts his eyes against her weeping fluids. She now exists, not on the couch, but inside his head, like a possessing homunculus.

He digs through the fat meatiness of her labia lips. Sucking her clit, spiking his tongue forward, face-fucking her to oblivion. She arches her spine beneath his assault. All her muscles draw tight against his stubbled cheeks, tensing like whipcords.

It reminds him of spiders, and how their legs curl inward when they die.

When she cums, those thighs will snap my neck.

"OOOH! OOH! OOOOH!"

Britney places both hands on his back. Eight fingers and two thumbs rhythmically drive like pistons against his shoulders, the nails almost piercing flesh. As pleasure fluxes in her core, the fingers tighten, then relax, then tighten, then relax.

Lewd shlicking and squelching and slurping noises fill the air. The moist, unbridled sounds of him and her, combining like the numerator and denominator of a fraction. And like any fraction, they are connected by a slash.

Britney pants desperately--tongue out, looking like a thirsty dog--as he slobbers between her legs. Her gasps accelerate, rising to a peak. Her clitoris surges and throbs like an outboard motor in his mouth. Her thighs feel like bands of iron clenched against his neck. The precipice. She's close. She's there. She's falling off. Gone, never to return to the sunlit world.

"OH TOM, I'M...!"

She snaps her head backward. Announces her orgasm with a bestial scream.

"...GONNA...UGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHOOOOHHHHH"

* * *

Three days ago...

When Jamie's check cleared, Tom Hoeckner began packing a duffel bag full of tools.

A lockpicking set. Disposable boltcutters. A tracking device. Cash, in case he needed to bribe his way out of (or into) a sticky situation. He decided not to go strapped. Guns complicated matters, and he didn't think Britney would prove dangerous enough to need one.

He didn't trust Jamie or his rap about functional hemispherectomies and multiple personalities. It sounded like the kind of bullshit you spin when you're a controlling, manipulative narcopath who's desperate to seem like the good guy. Britney Spears likely had sympathetic motives for running away from her father.

Nevertheless, a dollar's a dollar and a dime's a dime, and if Jamie wanted his daughter found, then Tom would find her. He was the best in the business. And it's hard to stay missing when you're Britney fucking Spears.

It's different for normal folk. Every day, people go missing, and are never seen again. Or are found, but only after it's too late.

His sister had been one of them.

Audrey Hoeckner had been a Britney Spears superfan. Ever since "...Baby One More Time" had landed on MTV's Total Request Live, she'd been obsessed with the singer, copying her outfits, her mannerisms, her personality.

Her elder brother was also obsessed with Britney, for less savory reasons.

Britney had inspired Aud to bare her midriff, to bleach and straighten her hair, to go see that godawful crapsack

Crossroads

movie on opening night. She seemed to view Britney as the cool, older sister she'd never had. Britney was nothing less than the person Aud wanted to be: a popular, self-assured young woman who had her life together.

Tom's recent conversation with Jamie--or a casual glance at TMZ's front page--would cast ample doubt on the notion that Britney had her life together. Maybe it was for the best that Aud was no longer around to watch her hero's downfall.

Tom zipped up the duffel bag, and slung it over one shoulder. He sighed miserably, thinking about what had happened. His sister had moved to LA to pursue her dream of being a musician-actress. A double-threat, if not a triple.

But LA is where dreams go to die.

Sometimes, it's where they go to get murdered.

His sister had met with failure after failure. Every talent scout in every open audition told her the same thing.

Girl, you're okay. You just don't have "it".

Aud was pretty...in the generic, unmemorable way that any random girl on Instagram is pretty. She was talented...in a studied workmanlike way that's all craft and no magic. She did not explode off the screen as an actress. Did not earworm her way into a listener's head as a recording artist. She was simply

normal

. There's nothing wrong with that. Society needs normal people to pump gas and upsell Sephora products at makeup chain stores. But it does not need normal people for the role of

next Britney Spears

.

But then Aud had scored a lucky break. After a narrowly-won private audition, she was selected to appear on The X Factor

.

This was it. Her one chance. Her big shot at fame. The singular all-or-nothing challenge that Eminem had freestyled about. She'd taken the stage in front of Simon Cowell, sung her heart out...

...and was eliminated in seconds. The first judge to drop the gong was Britney Spears herself.

This episode never went to air--sexual assault allegations against a fellow contestant had caused it to be vaulted and a clip show aired in its place--but her idol's rejection had crushed Aud like a bug. Tom could still remember long phone calls, with his sister sobbing incomprensibly. She'd said that her life now felt like it was over.

And then Aud had simply vanished into the smog and noise and carnage of the City of Angels. After two weeks of silence, he'd gotten a call...but not from Audrey.

"Thomas Hoeckner?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"This is Nwakaego Igbo of the LA County Medical Examiner's office. I am sorry, sir, but we have some bad news about your sister..."

Audrey, on a slab at the LA County Morgue, numerous penetrative stab-wounds festooning her neck, chest, and genitals.

At the time of her death, she'd been homeless and living on the streets in Venice Beach. It was presumed that she'd been raped and murdered by a psychotic fent addict--many such cases. No leads. No arrests.

When Tom Hoeckner had put down the phone, he'd stood in silence, feeling something good and wholesome in his soul gutter out like a lightbulb. His fists clenched. His mind coiled around itself in blind horrorstruck loops, a hamster-wheel spinning nowhere. He remembered what the County Medical Examiner's secretary had told him.

"I am deeply sorry for your loss, and for the late notice. Right now, we have five hundred cadavers whose next-of-kin we are trying to locate."

That simple fact--that there were five hundred people like his sister, in one morgue in LA, at one moment in time--had almost decked him with its weight. These emotions ripping his heart in half...they were everywhere. They were the air people breathe. Right now, uncounted thousands felt the way he felt now. Loved ones disappear...and by the time they're found, they're dead. Too late. Everything you love just disappears, and

you don't even know how or why

--the tattered ends of a person's stroy just blow in the wind forever, unresolved, unknown. Buried not beneath a tombstone but a question mark.

Meanwhile, their killer walks free.

Tom had applied for his Private Investigator license that same day.

* * *

Britney climbs on top of him, whispering lewd obscenities into the crook of his neck. Filth from her mouth drips onto him like sewage.

She straddles his waist, supporting her weight with her thighs and heels. She wants to fuck him cowgirl style. And sure, he'll be her stallion. While they're fucking, he's not dying. He just wishes he knew where the knife was.

He siezes great slabs of her broad, fleshy hips, holds her bucking body steady, and lines up his eight inch prick with her drooling, cock-hungry twat. She gasps as he manipulates her meaty, heavy body like a doll, pulling her down.

SKLLCHH!

His thick shaft punches into her pussy, shunting in deep, gorging on the moist gaping slit between her legs.

"AHHHH!"

Britney looses a wild, grunting scream as she's split in half. Her breasts shake and wobble. Streams of sweat pour down her skin. Between her legs, he sees her pussy lips stretched out obscenely by his girth.