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Britney awoke shortly after in a park. She recognised the surroundings straight away. She had grown up nearby and had spent much of her childhood in this very place. She heard the familiar sound of the playground, the creaking of the swings, the trundle of the novelty roundabout. She then heard the familiar sound of Mickey Mouse screaming. He was running at her from a bush spewing his magical powder high into the air. “Not again”, she groaned. Instinctively she turned and ran, hoping to make it to the playground before the mouse could catch her. The screaming grew louder as he gave chase, and Britney was almost deafened by the stupid, infantile noise. Although she was running at her approximate top speed she seemed not to be gaining any ground at all. The playground continued to hover in the distance like some ever-elusive mirage. Suddenly her path was blocked by a line of riot police. She ran straight into them and was forced to the ground. Terrified, she glanced back fearing that the mouse was upon her. He was nowhere to be seen. She got up and turned again to the line of police. To her horror she saw Mickey’s evil face peering back from beneath the perspex glass of every police helmet. Then they all got out cans of mace and sprayed their cheap glitter dust into her eyes. She wheeled in agony, crying out. Yet somehow in the confusion she managed to break through the line of mice-police. She legged it to the playground only to find it was overgrown and dilapidated. The brightly coloured paintwork was rusted and peeling, and Michael Jackson was lassoing young boys with pieces of barbed wire. “Shit”, she thought. He was running about, among herds of scuttling children, whispering obscenities into their ears and whipping their necks. Britney caught sight of the younger Michael Jackson, cowering in a corner. The older version ensnared him and drew him in with his length of jagged, bloody wire.
He then started to manhandle the boy, cursing him for his youth, good-looks and dark skin colour. “I want you back!” he screamed amidst his profuse weeping. His tears soon corroded his pliant, gelatinous skin and his pretend face dribbled off like wax, into the mouth of his younger incarnation. Macaulay Culkin was there too, tied to a see-saw whilst being ridden by a cackling, aged, Joan Collins. All around the playground there were various acts of iniquity taking place, each utilising a piece of play apparatus for a different sordid purpose. The cackling and screaming began to sound like song: “There’s no business like show business! There’s no business like show business!” This refrain repeated endlessly like some head-fuck mantra, until all the children were singing along. The resultant dirge was truly awful: like Andrew Lloyd Webber doing a Wagnerian production of Annie. “They fuck you up”, warned the paraphrased spirit of Phillip Larkin as he strode through the throng of terrified kids, “they may not mean to, but they do.” Arnold Schwarzenegger, however, took issue with Phil’s bleak prognosis. “Not me, arsehole”, he quipped as he macheted a passing pair of legs. The poor child fell to the ground and was soon seized upon by a ravenous 70-year-old Jackson. Britney recoiled in horror and ran towards the woods. The police reappeared and gave pursuit, followed by an assorted swarm of molesters and show-biz freaks. Once in the woods Britney found she was running alongside a young girl dressed in a 19th century pinafore. “Hello”, said the girl, “my name is Alice.” Britney sensed Alice was in some way a friend. It helped that she was carrying a white kitten. Suddenly they found themselves trapped in a ditch. The sounds of crazed yelling were drawing near. “The only way out is the way in”, riddled the young girl. “What do you mean?” panted Britney, breathless.
The kitten meowed. “Through the looking glass…” replied Alice as she produced a hand-held digital interface. Britney jumped through the portal, and felt herself multiplying and dividing simultaneously. As she passed through the glass she shot out in every direction, like a ray of light shone through a prism. Instead of transporting her to another dimension, as she had hoped, Britney came out the other side to find she was still in the forest. Except now there were loads of her, and none of them knew what to do. Or who was who. An infinite number of Britney Spears gazed at each other with dumb incomprehension. They would have surely fled wailing if it were not for the fact that they were all tied to trees. The girl with the cat was still there, only now her head had been replaced by that of Madonna’s, but it was a grotesque, oversized head seemingly crafted by a deranged Punch & Judy man. Madonna was laughing, clawing at her own chest, and whirling like a rabid gypsy-dancer between the trees: “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the Brittyist of them all?” Each Britney shouted out in unison, hoping to lay claim to being more Britney than the others. The sound of an infinite number of Britney’s all shouting the same thing had the bizarre effect of cancelling itself out. When they realised this they began to wail, but again no sound was made. Before they could work out the causes of this peculiar acoustic phenomenon, they were distracted by the arrival of a great mass of onlookers. The forest fell silent. This was no longer the group from the playground, but a far larger mob consisting purely of men. Out of this huge multitude queues began to form, one for each of the tree-bound Britneys. Given that there was an infinite number of Britneys there shouldn’t really have been any need to form queues - unless there was an even greater number of men which would have been impossible. Anyway, that’s what they did. The silence was suddenly broken by Britney’s latest single which boomed forth with a devastating intensity. Signifying nothing. The man at the front of each queue advanced towards their respective Britney and undid their flies. An almost-infinite number of limp penises became an almost-infinite number of rigid, raging cocks – all accompanied by a violent, vengeful right hand. Within seconds every Britney was splattered with the pent-up love bile of frustrated manhood. As soon as the first wave had finished they went to the back of the almost-infinitely long queue and another took his place. This procession continued for hours, each man donating his personal fund of spermatozoa to the cause. By this point much of the globulous deposit had encrusted and hardened, burying each of the Britneys to their necks in sticky congealed, cum-heaps. After a few more hours they had become fully submerged in the stuff and many were gagging or already dead. Eventually all but one of the infinite Britneys had drowned in the relentless gush, and the only reason she was still alive was because she had gone into hibernation. Embalmed within the soft cocoon of male virility-produce, Britney began to metamorphasize. She emerged in the shape of a slug and was thus able to crawl slowly away to safety, but not without passing through several puddles of salty semen (which made her sluggy skin froth and foam). Britney soon resumed her original form and the men started chasing her again. She ran back into the open only to be confronted by the line of riot police with cartoon heads. The officers unbuckled their batons and started ruthlessly bludgeoning her. “One more time!”, they chanted in fascistic harmony, “one more time!”. Soon their powerful truncheons were bruised and bloody, but still they chanted. Still they bludgeoned. The horde of men had caught up now, and they surrounded her. Britney ran through a door and found herself back in her bedroom. She tried to hide beneath her duvet but found that it was made of clingfilm. Through the window a lewd, ugly face leered at her with insatiable lust. Another window appeared, and another face. Then another. Now the room took the form of a greenhouse. A transparent box, with Britney imprisoned within. The men jostled for a better view, their eager groins gyrating against the glass. Suddenly the greenhouse gave, and the men surged forward. Broken shards flew into their exposed pricks, and whole sheets of glass slid down castrating a dozen in an instant. Every feature of the landscape faded, leaving only a vast sea of faces. Britney soon found herself stood in the centre of a world comprised entirely of randy men. Countless eyes staring at her, lecherously. They gravitated around her as if she were the only sun in the universe. Yet she was inert, providing neither warmth nor light. She drew them in with all the irresistible force of an imploded star, sucking them inexorably towards her black hole. All at once they penetrated that dark abyss, turning her body completely inside out. A frenzy ensued. Like zombies devouring a corpse they each seized upon a portion of her internal organs - some rubbing themselves up against her kidneys and bladder, others finding a bloody vascular orifice through which to insert their stiff sperm-nozzle. Then some of the men started climbing on each other's shoulders, as if they were preparing to do some form of circus act. More and more of them clambered up, going higher and higher, forming an increasingly complex human structure. It soon transpired the men were constructing a single collective man - resembling Hobbes’ image of the great Leviathan, or those Transformers that all slotted together and made a bigger one. The precariously-balanced individuals merged into one huge gigantic entity, taller than any national landmark. Dwarfed by this towering pillar of manhood, Britney knew she had met her nemesis. Suddenly it grew a penis, bigger even than its own body. The sheer size of it blotted out the sun and darkness fell. At the tip of this giant, genital extremity was mounted a single, glaring eye. It winked, and without warning the metaphysical manifestation of collective male lust aimed, and lunged. Britney could do nothing as she was brutally raped by a titanic abstract phallus. She shrieked in torment and her beautiful, petite body disintegrated.
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