Britney Spears took a shower in the pink and white checkerboard tiled bathroom that was on the second floor of her Los Angeles beige stucco house. The bathroom was actually two rooms, one containing a toilet, a bidet, two sinks and a closet. The other, just as large, was entirely tiled as a shower with four shower heads. It was about two hundred square feet in size, and Britney had all four shower heads going at once. She moved around the shower room from shower head to shower head, letting the water hit her nearly bald head, something the public had not seen lately. She also massaged her belly and buttocks as she moved with a bit of a bounce, humming to herself Mary had A Little Lamb. Britney had been biting her nails to the quick to the point where they had started to bleed, which, in addition to the wig, required her to wear fake nails when she went out in public. Britney thought of how it was easy to put a wig on and put fake nails on, but it was not so easy to put on a thin body. Afterall, she had gained weight. Lots of it.
About an hour before stepping in the shower room, Britney had stepped on the digital scale. It read 169, as in pounds. Britney had not been on the scale for two months. So it came as a shock to see that she was now two pounds more than her weight immediately prior to giving birth to each of her children. She stepped off the scale and started to cry. In fact, she became hysterical. She fell to the floor of the bathroom, naked and sobbing. She tried to curl up into a fetal position, but her girth prevented her from achieving that goal. She rose and looked into the mirror above the double sinks. Britney had forgotten to remove her makeup, and because of the tears, her face was lined with streaks of eye liner. She grabbed her breasts and felt that they had dropped like balloons half filled with water. She opened the medicine cabinet and surveyed the dozen or so prescription pill bottles. Britney grabbed one after the other. Vicodin. Hydrocodone. Percoset. Demerol. Oxycontin.
“No. I can’t. I am not going to,” Britney muttered to herself.
She slammed the medicine cabinet door shut and grabbed her purse that was sitting on a pink wood chair. She removed a pack of Marlboro Lights, pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a 18 karat gold lighter from Tiffany. She took a deep drag on the cigarette and returned to the mirror. There you go. The cigarette gave her some comfort. The smoke shielded the face, and she looked, well, she looked cool. Sort of. But this moment of contentment lasted for maybe a minute. Britney felt the panic return, and so she opened the medicine cabinet and grabbed the Oxycontin bottle, removed the cap and swallowed four pills, without the assistance of water. She actually took a drag on the Marlboro as if that would help get the pills into her stomach. Britney had never taken four Oxycontin at the same time before. So this was new. This was going to be exciting. But she needed it. And that is when Britney turned on the four shower heads and stepped into the shower room, totally naked, her arteries filled with the drug and the Marlboro in her mouth.
“Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb. Mary had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow,” whispered Britney as she slowly danced around the shower room.
“Britney had a little life, little life, little life. Britney had a little life, its time was sure to go,” lip synced Britney as she slipped and fell to the floor of the shower room. Because of the Oxycontin, she did not feel the force of the fall. Britney’s elbows were bleeding, and if she could see her buttocks, she would see a large blooming bruise that was quickly turning from red to blue.
Britney lied on the shower tiles, the shower heads going full blast, and she laughed. To herself, just above a whisper. Almost a cackle. She grabbed her fatty stomach. She grabbed and grabbed as if she was looking for something.
“I can’t find my stomach muscle. I can’t find my stomach muscle. I know you are there. I know you are there. Come out., come out wherever you are,” laughed Britney Spears.
Britney’s head slowly came to rest on the shower floor, her eyes closed and her mouth opened. She went into a very deep sleep. An unconscious sleep. The kind of sleep where there are no dreams. And that was good for Britney. Because any dreams right now would be bad ones.
The sound of the shower mixed with Britney’s snoring and the steam from the shower room billowed out into the bathroom fogging the medicine cabinet mirror which revealed Britney’s fingerprints.
The Ford family was against the idea. The medical profession did not think it could be done. But the Governor of Michigan signed into law the exhumation order which had the gravediggers remove Henry Ford’s body from his grave at the Ford Cemetery in Detroit. The casket was shipped to the Chemistry Department of the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor where something very secret was performed on the body of Henry Ford. The Board of Directors of the Ford Motor Company were in one of the lecture halls in the same building waiting nervously, including Henry Ford’s grandson, who was the current CEO of the Ford Motor Company.
When Henry Ford walked into the lecture hall, he appeared almost green and very frail. His hair was grey and he walked with the help of two assistants. They brought him to the podium which was off to the side. Mr. Ford grabbed the side lips of the podium to steady himself. One of the assistants positioned the microphone near Henry Ford’s mouth. The audience was in shock. How could this be? They were told that Henry Ford could be raised from the dead for only an hour, and that during that time he could probably muster some kind of speech. But the chemists and biologists who had worked on the body were as startled as the audience at how vital the old man was. Afterall, he had died back in 1947 at the age of 83, almost sixty years ago.
Old Henry Ford tapped the mike and it made a loud clack throughout the lecture hall. The Ford family, including all the cousins and great grandchildren, as well as the Board members, were all there. The old man smiled at the thundering clack he made with the tap on the mike. The audience jumped from the noise.
Henry Ford, with his dry cracked lips that had the color of eggplant, leaned into the micorphone. His voice was raspy but bellowed with a deep pitch, stronger than one would expect from a man temporarily raised from the dead. “I am told I do not have much time. So let me keep this short and sweet. You people are idiots. Every goddamn one of you. You have no guts. You have no foresight. You have no vision. You have taken this great company that I built with every bead of sweat in my body and turned it into shit. You have let events control the company rather than the company control events. Why the fuck do my cars still run on gasoline? You are still using the internal combustion engine? That piece of shit is a hundred years old. Do you have a research and development department? Or do you assholes have stock in the oil companies? What? Oh, are you scared of the oil companies? Or are you just fucking lazy? And why the fuck did you turdheads bend over every three years and let the UAW ram anything they wanted up your asses? Don’t get me wrong. I don’t blame my workers. But you know what you jerks taught them? You taught them if they asked for it, you would give it to them. So as far as I am concerned, the UAW was smart. The UAW took care of their members. But you half-brains just sat on your fat asses and let the dividend checks come in without thinking of the future. So I am here to tell you to all go to hell. I am ashamed of what you did to this great company. I am ashamed that you people come from the same gene pool as me.”
At that moment Henry Ford started to cough. The assistants came over to help. Henry Ford pushed them away, holding his index finger up with a gesture that he had one more thing to say.
“Maybe you have one last shot at saving this great company. Maybe. But you are going to have to break some balls and piss a lot of people off and spend a lot of money to do it. Good luck. And try to make me smile when I am lying in my casket. Because recently all I’ve been doing is getting pissed off.”
With that, he turned and walked out slowly with the aide of the two assistants. Everyone in the lecture hall was silent. As silent as a Ford assembyline.
Britney Spears wore a flowered skirt with wedge shoes. She sat on a nondescript metal chair with a vinyl seat. Britney was alone in a white room with a medical examination table and acountertop replete with medical supplies. The window had venetian blinds that created horizontal slits of the white hot Los Angeles light. Britney held a T-Mobile Sidekick cell phone in her right hand and a pack of Marlboro cigarettes in her left hand. She was tapping the Marlboro pack on her left knee that crossed over her right leg. Britney’s left foot was air tapping with the same beat as theMarlboros. The door opened and in walked Dr. Harriet Schwimmer.
“How are we doing?” asked Dr. Schwimmer.
“We are doing fine,” said Britney Spears.
“Well, not so much. I have your blood and urine tests results here,” said Dr. Schwimmer.
“And there is a problem?” asked Britney.
“Your liver. It is showing signs of fatty tissue,” said Dr. Schwimmer.
“I am starting to aggressively diet,” said Britney.
“Caloric intake is not the issue. It’s the alcohol. The drugs. Or it may be something else,” said Dr. Schwimmer.
“Like what?” asked Britney.
“Well, may I suggest that we clean up our act for a month or two to see if the blood work goes back to normal. And you might want to give up tobacco, Britney,” said Dr.Schwimmer.
“I never heard of cigarettes being bad for the liver,” said Britney.
“They aren’t. But it was not a good thing that you smoked while you were pregnant,” said Dr. Schwimmer.
“Let’s stay on topic. My liver. What did the urine test show?” asked Britney.
“Your kidneys are stressed. Your urine is very dark. You are either dehydrating or your kidneys are struggling. Again, I suggest we change the life style issues before we start down a road of tests,” said Dr.Schwimmer.
“I’m barely drinking. And I don;t really take drugs, OK. So now I am worried,” said Britney.
“Britney, when we took your blood you were drunk. You drove here during the day with a blood alcohol level that was above the legal limit for driving. Focus on that. It was during the day, and you drove to your doctor’s office for a medical checkup and you were drunk,” said Dr.Schwimmer.
“I was not,” said Britney.
“And the file says you were here for a 1:30 PM appointment,” said Dr. Schwimmer.
“I had lunch. It was like a business lunch. I may have had a drink or two,” said Britney.
“And you stink of tobacco. When was the last time you bathed?” asked Dr. Schwimmer.
“What? What is this? Are you my mother?” said Britney as she stood.
“It is typical for alcoholics and drug addicts to eschew personal hygiene,” said Dr. Schwimmer.
“Eschew? I don;t even know what that means? Is that a medical term?’ asked Britney.
“No…”
“Screw this. I don’t need to listen to this stupid lecture. If you think you can have a medical practice here in Beverly Hills and get away with this shit, you’re fucked up. We celebrities don’t take this crap from just any old doctor. So just, so just stick those blood tests up your ass,” said Britney as she opened the door and walked out.
Lindsay Morgan Lohan opened her small leather bag by sliding the fat metal zipper from end to end. The sound of the club was supposed to be music, dance music, but it no longer was landing on her ears that way. It was more like a hammer coming down on her forehead. She was alone in the back sitting on a plush booth behind a table. Paris Hilton and Britney Spears were dancing with what must have been a hundred patrons, Paris attracting the most attention as usual. Britney, though piggishly fat and soft, was dancing with better moves than Paris, but she seemed to be more of a quaint curiosity than Paris. Britney had a cigarette dangling from her matronly fat lips as she danced from the memory of some concert choreography. But paris gyrated falsely with her eyes closed, as if she was feeling the heat of her own glow.
Paris and Britney would be irritating to Lindsay except for the fact that Lindsay was not feeling well. This was starting to happen more and more lately. The Vicodin pills that Lindsay was downing daily were starting to become a fixture in her life. And Lindsay had told herself that when she clubbed, she would avoid drinking if she was popping Vicodin. But the fact was that Lindsay was clubbing daily, or more accurately nightly. And tonight she had several glasses of white wine and three Vicodin pills in rapid succession, the mixture sloshing her brain around, making the room dizzy and the music a jackhammer.
When Lindsay opened her leather bag she spied the following: a Blackberry cell phone, a Motorola Razr cell phone, a vile of Vicodin, a pack of Merit Light cigarettes, a solid gold cigarette lighter, three marijuana joints, a purple ultra fine point Sharpie, a palm-size leather notebook which contained phone numbers, emails and other private information, and a set of keys. The nanosecond after she opened the bag, Lindsay forgot what she was rummaging for. Was it for a cigarette? A joint? Did she want to check her email? Make a phone call? She picked up the vial of Vicodin which did not have her name on it. It was the name of a friend who seemed to have an unlimited supply, and gave her dozens of vials that she kept at home in her closet in a wood box behind a pair of cowboy boots. The vial was half filled. These were the strong Vicodin pills, the heavy dose ones. The label said “Take One Every Twelve Hours As Needed.” She had already popped three in the last two hours and she knew that if she popped oned more, she would feel better for about an hour before feeling bad again. But in that hour, she could get home, take some sleeping pills and maybe sleep it off till tomorrow.
“Hey, Lindsay, you want to dance?” asked Britney Spears, startling Lindsay. Lindsay clumsily held her hand over the vial betraying that she was hiding something.
“Not really,” said Lindsay. Britney still had the lit cigarette at the corner of her mouth, with smoke shooting from her nostrils and puffs forming with each word she spoke. She looked disgusting, thought Lindsay who was confident that she smoked a cigarette with more grace than Britney Spears.
“What you got there?” asked Britney, referring to Lindsay’s cupped hand covering the vial of Vicodin.
“Tylenol,” said Lindsay.
“Yeah. Is it like strong Tylenot, if you know what I mean,” said Britney with a smile.
Lindsay hated nosey bitches, and it was none of Britney fucking business what she was doing and what she was taking.
“I have back pain,” said Lindsay.
“Yeah. I had that too. I love having back pain because then I can get Oxycontin. Is that what that is? Oxycontin?” asked Britney.
Damn. Britney can get Oxycontin, thought Lindsay. I mean Vicodin was cool and fun, but the one time Lindsay had Oxycontin it was one of the best nights she ever had. But her friend told her that it is impossible to get, and if caught with the stuff, it was seriously bad news.
“You can get Oxycontin?” asked Lindsay.
“Yeah. So what’s that?” asked Britney.
“Vicodin,” said Lindsay.
“Yeah, I guess you were right. That is like Tylenol,” said Britney as she backed up with a shuffle, to the music, and slowly turned with her hips and arms moving to the music, disappearing into the crowd.
Fuck Britney Spears. She was trash but Britney Spears had made millions with her stupid music and her stupid songs, and had now gotten fat and sloppy, looking like she was living in a trailer park with her two stupid kids. But she had one thing that Lindsay did not have. She had access to Oxycontin. Lindsay tossed the vial of Vicodin back into her bag, pulled out a Merit cigarette and lit it, taking a deep drag, inhaling the smoke so deep it filled every air sack of her lungs. Lindsay remembered that she had to be on the set tomorrow, and it was already 1:30 in the morning, which meant she had to be on the set in five hours. Shit. She picked up her Blackberry to call her manager. The Merit cigarette dangled from her mouth. She was going to tell her manager that she was not feeling well and would be at the set by noon. Yeah. By noon. She started to relax and decided to pop another Vicodin as soon as she got off the phone with her manager.
Continued From Yesterday.
Dr. Sarah Sheehan filled a hyperdermic by stabbing a small glass bottle with the needle.
“I am going to wake her. So tell me, what did she take for her pain? I need to know right now because I am giving her this medication and I do not want it to ract poorly with what she took,” said Dr. Sheehan.
Yikes. Now Harry Morton had to be honest. If he told the doctor a lie, and things went poorly, then he would be responsible. Dammit. Maybe she won’t give a shit where he had gotten the pills. Hell. Just be honest. There are times when you have to be honest.
“Oxycontin,” said Harry. There he said it. But he was not going ot tell the doc about the cocaine. That would be a mistake. She would have to report that one. But they won’t pick it up. The Oxycontin wold cover any sign of cocaine.
“Strong stuff. But this will wake her,” said Dr. Sheehan.
Harry did not know that Dr. Sheehan already suspected it was some kind of narcotic and that what she was giving Lindsay Lohan would not create a problem.
Dr. Sheehan jabbed the needle in Lindsay’s arm and pushed the plunger of the stimulant into her. A huge lungful of rancid air came out of Lindsay’s open mouth with a gurgling sound, as if the air pushed through mucus.
“Where, what, owwww, my arm,” said Lindsay Lohan as she stirred on the gurney.
“I think the arm is broken. We’ll have to take an x-ray. Hi. I am Dr. Sheehan. Your name?”
“What? My name? Is Harry here?” asked Lindsay, her eyes barely open because the lights were bright.
“Yes. I’m here,” said Harry.
“Your name?” asked Dr. Sheehan, who already knew who it was.
“Lohan. Lindsay Morgan Lohan,” said Lindsay.
“Well Lindsay, it appears you may have broken your arm. And it also appears that you have been combining a narcotic with alcohol. You shouldn’t do that. You came in here to the emergency room unconscious but with a strong heartbeat. And you are OK. But you should consider yourself lucky,” said Dr. Sheehan.
“Narcotic? I don’t take narcotics,” said Lindsay.
“Your friend here, Harry is it, said you took Oxycontin. That is a very strong and addictive narcotic,” said Dr. Sheehan.
Dammit doc, thought Harry Morton. Did she have to get into this right now. He had introduced Lindsay to Oxycontin a few months ago, and he never fully explained to her that it was sort of a narcotic. But then, Lindsay was not stupid. She read the label. She could read. Harry was sure she had Googled “oxycontin.” It’s not like he was trying to pull the wool over her eyes. Although, he did tell her it that it was no big deal. Of course, he did not really take it. Oh, he told Lindsay he took it when she popped a pill or two. But he didn’t. Harry did not want to get addicted. He knew the stuff was strong. And the whole purpose was really to addict Lindsay. Well, not rally to addict her. Just to control her. To make her want Harry around. And so far it was working. In fact, he could not believe how well it was working. The sex games, the drugs , it all was keeping Lindsay Morgan Lohan close to him.
“Can I get this x-ray like now and get out of here. I want to go home and sleep,” said Lindsay. She was starting to wake up.
Good. Harry saw that the word “narcotic” had not fully landed in Lindsay’s brain, and she was already on to the next topic, which was to move on, get out of where she was, and find some new place to rest and make believe she was healthy.
“I want to take a shower. I have to wash my hair,” said Lindsay.
Great. Great. Now Lindsay was thinking purely of how she looked. The whole talk of drugs is history. At least for now.
“OK. I’ll have the nurse come in to prepare you for an x-ray. But I am gong to have to admit you for one night. You can have a private room. It is very private. And you can take a shower there,” said Dr. Sheehan.
“Thanks. Thank you so much, Doctor,” said Lindsay.
“You’re welcome,” said Dr. Sheehan, who then turned and walked out through the curtain, leaving Lindsay and Harry alone.
“You OK, sweetheart,” said Harry.
“No, asshole. I am not OK. I feel like shit. My arm is killing me. And I am here, back in the fucking hospital,” said Lindsay.
“I love you, Lindsay. And I will take care of you. I will make certain that you get out of here looking great, and you will have like a little cast or bandage on your arm and it will look like a fashion statement. It will be cool, with your long black flowing hair and great clothes with a little wrist cast. The media will love it and think you are strong,” said Harry.
“You think?” asked Lindsay.
“Leave it to me, baby. You will come out of this looking better than before. You are strong. And you are beautiful,” said Harry.
“And talented,” said Lindsay with a smile.
“Of course. And talented,” said Harry.
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