Freda was playing her Gamegirl when she heard the noises. She had finally managed to complete the 94th level of ‘Monotonous Block Tessellation', and was trembling with anticipation, eager to explore the next level. She had been working towards this moment for several months - ever since she had taken on the nightshift. Now, having honed her eye-to-thumb co-ordination and assiduously cultivated a thorough understanding of geometric-rotation, she was at last making progress.

Alas, when the frantic banging noises started she assumed they were a special feature of the 95th level. Likewise, when the piercing screams of anguished torment began, she merely attributed them to a crafty slot-trick she’d just pulled off. Soon, however, the 95th level proved too difficult even for Freda, and within a minute and a half she had lost the game. Only then - whilst briefly but seriously considering taking her own life - did Freda realise that the sounds were coming from Britney’s room.

She immediately leapt into action, running down the corridor, taking the lift to the ground floor, and returning half-an-hour later with a small slip of cardboard from a ticket machine. This was a warrant and it authorised her to enter Britney’s room.

The door opened. Freda peered inside. The room was dark, but she could see the floor was littered with broken glass and bits of broken teddy bear. Freda had never seen the inside of Britney’s room before, and she was awestruck. Mechanically she fumbled in her pocket for her mobile phone, raised it, and took a photo. She planned to send it to her friends down at the snooker hall. “That will impress them”, she thought to herself. A little while later, once Freda had satisfied her curiosity and overcome her excitement, she realised Britney was lying amidst the broken glass. Writhing like a spastic and screaming like an ape having his testicles severed with a blunt hacksaw. Freda took another photo.

“Ermm, excuse me...”, she stammered, “Ms. Britney? Hello?” Britney awoke, startled, terrified and covered in blood. She started screaming again, but this time it sounded more like a gibbon having rusty nails hammered into his eyes. Freda decided to record it and use it as a ringtone.

Eventually help arrived and Britney was taken to the ‘Emergency Room’, which was the only room in the house Zelta couldn’t think of a new name for. Anyway, Britney was tranquillised, cleaned up and examined. When the in-house doctors ascertained that there was no serious damage, Elsa decided they might as well send her to the Britney Parlour and get her dolled up while she was still unconscious. She was then dressed by Zelta (who had insisted on a conditional contractual prerogative which allowed her to pick Britney’s clothes when her mind was declared non-active). Elsa didn’t dare object as she was dreading Zelta’s reproaches for forgetting the sedatives. Besides, Zelta had gone for a cute little tutu with lime-green toggles.

Britney had still not come round, so after much consternation, it was decided that she should be wheeled out in front of the crowd for the usual cheering and clapping. She was, and everyone cheered and clapped. Even Gerta was there, having found someone to cover her shift in the central control room. Britney was subsequently wheeled back to her room and put to bed. This time Elsa was perhaps a little over-zealous with the sedatives.

Later, at the daily summit, once the issue of the relapse had been fully exhausted, the discussion turned to the Asian man with the placard: “Who was that Asian man with the placard?” asked Bella, the Central PR-Sergeant. “Which Asian man are you talking about, Bella, the Central PR-Sergeant?” asked Ulla, the Primary Catering Representative. “The one with the placard, Ulla, the Primary Catering Representative, like Bella, the Central PR-Sergeant just said”, answered Zelta impatiently. “What is his problem?” asked Freda, having been recently promoted from lowly Night-Watchwoman to Honorary Head of Night-Watchwomen due to her recent act of heroinism. “What is whose problem?” queried the somewhat tedious Ulla.

Before Freda could respond, Elsa spoke up. “Here, read this…” she snarled, as she tossed an A5 pamphlet onto the table. Zelta seized it, scanned the opening paragraph and blurted a profanity. In a voice that betrayed both fear and contempt she began to read aloud:

"My name is Trevor Wallace. I am a taxi driver from Dalston. Two years ago, my 12-year-old daughter, Suzie, was raped by Britney Spears. I mean this figuratively of course, because really she was raped by a man called Ted Hollerton. However, it is no coincidence that she was attacked on her way home from school whilst wearing a sexy schoolgirl uniform. Although Ted is now serving several life-sentences and is victimised daily by his fellow inmates, it is my belief that justice has still not prevailed. The real culprit of this crime, Britney Spears, is still at large. While she has been allowed to continue her career as an innovative pop diva, my daughter was so traumatised by the incident we were forced to put her down..."

What a load of crap”, interrupted Ulla, “Trevor Wallace is hardly an Asian name is it?” “That’s fairly racist, Ulla”, commented Freda. “I know! Why is he using Britney to discredit Asian men in this way?” rejoined Ulla, completely missing the point and confusing everyone.

“The question is”, said Zelta before Ulla could say anything more, “why does he blame Britney for this terrible act?” Elsa, who had bothered to read the rest of the pamphlet, began to explain. “Apparently when the police raided Ted Hollerton’s house they found inordinate quantities of Britney merchandise, including several inflatable sex-aids. He was a big fan apparently...” “Now you mention it”, chirped in Jenna, “I seem to remember opening some fan-mail from a Ted Hollerton a while back, it contained, well, the usual...”. “Hang on”, interjected Bella, “I don’t recall ever sanctioning the manufacture of Britney sex-aids, there must be some mistake”. Zelta smirked, “No mistake Bella, just intuitive merc-opportunising”.

Elsa continued: “He was particularly obsessed with the school-girl video we did, you remember that one don’t you Zelta?” “Liquid”, reminisced Zelta smugly, “liquid genius! That one truly had legs...” “And plenty of stockings!” added Bella. They both enjoyed a short self-indulgent chuckle.

“Don’t you see?” implored Elsa, “Trevor blames us, or rather, Britney, for feeding this man’s sick fantasies.” “But that was the objective was it not?” sarked Zelta, “mission accomplished as far as I’m concerned!” “Was that the mission? To make an Asian man’s daughter get raped?” asked Ulla ingenuously. Zelta started laughing, but quickly checked herself.

“There’s a nice aphorism at the bottom here”, observed Freda who had taken the pamphlet and who had once studied Oratory at the Open University. “It says: HAIL BRITNEY! QUEEN OF THE PAEDOPHILES!” “I like the first bit”, remarked Bella, “we could definitely work with that.” ”That’s more of slogan than an aphorism isn’t it”, asked Gerta, on her lunch-break from the central control room.

Suddenly a loud scream called the summit to an abrupt halt. Everyone rushed towards Britney’s room, and general calamity ensued. Some got knocked over, crushed, or lost in parts of the building they’d never been to before. Some even managed to fall down the lift shaft. Freda, however, who had gone via the ticket machine to collect a warrant, avoided the rush and was the first to find Britney in bed, crying. She was not hurt and claimed she had only screamed because she thought she’d seen a spider (it was really a holographic termite-illusion from another dimension, but no-one knew that). Everyone decided the best thing to do was to tranquilise her again. So that’s what they did.