Categories > Celebrities > Michael Jackson > The King and the Princess of Pop
"Michael and Britney"
The dance club went silent as the grave as Michael Jackson walked in. He stepped across the floor in a casual sashay that effortlessly won him the admiration of the patrons. But Michael's brown eyes were fixed on a dancer-slash-singer with beautiful blond hair...
Britney Spears.
A smile was on his face as he watched her dance. Her eyes were closed as she wrapped herself around the pole. She wore a black dress. Michael's smile grew bigger as he remembered...
"So Happy Birthday to my friend, the King of Pop."
Then Michael walked onstage. He looked...well, beautiful.
He thanked everyone, then turned to Britney and said,
"Britney Spears, you look wonderful."
Michael, as he pulled himself out of the flashback, kept watching Britney.
She, in his eyes, looked beautiful.
"Hey, why isn't the music playing - aah."
Britney, when her eyes were roving the club, and stopped on Michael, suddenly looked shocked.
Her eyes grew wide.
"Oh, my gosh," she whispered. "Michael."
Without knowing it, she loosened her grip on the pole and fell. Luckily Michael, smiling still, reached over and caught her, then snapped his fingers. Instantly it was just him and Britney. They were in...his hotel room!
Fortunately, the blinds were closed, so no one would see the act he would perform with her.
/"Perfect," /he thought. Moving silently to one of the bedrooms, Michael carried his prize to a bed pushed against the wall. The sheets were the color of cream, overlaid by a smooth brown blanket. He pulled them back and lay the stationary body down.
Quietly still, as if fearing to wake the dead, Michael made his way to the cold box, extracting a Pepsi. The label was worn from the brown bottle and it was cold in his hand as he forced the cap off. He took a sip, the cool liquid with a sweet taste, drenching his tongue and throat. But then he remembered...
19-year-old Abigail Watson, Michael's bodyguard, stood at the top of the stage, waiting for her cue. Then, when the drumbeat of Michael's "Billie Jean" began playing, Abigail began to dance down the steps, and fireworks exploded. All went well...at least until the accident happened. A mistimed firework set forth sparks, which landed in, of all places, Abigail's brown hair.
"Aah! Aah!" Abigail yelled. She then rolled down the stairs, and once at the bottom of the stage, began to roll around, trying to put her hair out.
"Abigail!" her girlfriends called as they ran to her. "Abigail!"
"My hair! My hair!"
An ambulance was called. Abigail's friends wheeled her to the ambulance on a stretcher. "Abigail, you're gonna be OK."
"You'll be fine."
Abigail's eyes were focused on the crowd. She raised her hand, covered with one sparkly sequin glove, and waved. Then she was unconscious...
"Abigail."
She opened her eyes to see her employer smiling down at her. His smile showed his beautiful white teeth.
"It's a miracle your clothes didn't catch fire. Second and third degree burns on the back of your head," he said.
"My beautiful brown hair," Abigail said. Michael smiled.
"You'll get your hair back. I did."
He returned to Britney's side. Looking down at her, he felt a sudden chill. He watched her carefully. She barely seemed to breathe as she lay motionless on the bed, and Michael narrowed his eyes slightly.
How strange it was. She looked so eerily peaceful, a sleeping beauty. He sat down on the edge of the bed, hardly aware of his actions. The Pepsi found its way onto the mahogany nightstand next to the bed. His hand lay on her cheek.
It was slow, unintentional even, but he slowly bent down, his lips brushing her own softly. For a moment, it didn't register with him, but when it did his eyes snapped open and he pulled back, stumbling off the bed and away from her.
There was...shock.
"Marvelous, Prince Charming," he hissed, slowly advancing again. But he grabbed his drink instead, watching her as pale slits of moonlight struck her face. His hand moved to his pocket, pulling a card from it. He held it in his hand, staring at a picture of the girl on the bed. She was etched there perfectly, every detail in place, from her hands clasped in front of her pleadingly to the honey-colored eyes, large and brimming with tears.
"Time to wake up, Little Princess," he whispered. Taking a breath, he cast his breath across the surface of the card. Gold, dust-like substance floated into the air and drifted down to Britney's form, disappearing instantly when it touched her. With the picture gone, there was left only a velvety darkness on the card's face. She turned in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Michael smiled, almost like a vampire, yet his eyes softened. Now he was left with the question of what he would do when she woke up...
The dance club went silent as the grave as Michael Jackson walked in. He stepped across the floor in a casual sashay that effortlessly won him the admiration of the patrons. But Michael's brown eyes were fixed on a dancer-slash-singer with beautiful blond hair...
Britney Spears.
A smile was on his face as he watched her dance. Her eyes were closed as she wrapped herself around the pole. She wore a black dress. Michael's smile grew bigger as he remembered...
"So Happy Birthday to my friend, the King of Pop."
Then Michael walked onstage. He looked...well, beautiful.
He thanked everyone, then turned to Britney and said,
"Britney Spears, you look wonderful."
Michael, as he pulled himself out of the flashback, kept watching Britney.
She, in his eyes, looked beautiful.
"Hey, why isn't the music playing - aah."
Britney, when her eyes were roving the club, and stopped on Michael, suddenly looked shocked.
Her eyes grew wide.
"Oh, my gosh," she whispered. "Michael."
Without knowing it, she loosened her grip on the pole and fell. Luckily Michael, smiling still, reached over and caught her, then snapped his fingers. Instantly it was just him and Britney. They were in...his hotel room!
Fortunately, the blinds were closed, so no one would see the act he would perform with her.
/"Perfect," /he thought. Moving silently to one of the bedrooms, Michael carried his prize to a bed pushed against the wall. The sheets were the color of cream, overlaid by a smooth brown blanket. He pulled them back and lay the stationary body down.
Quietly still, as if fearing to wake the dead, Michael made his way to the cold box, extracting a Pepsi. The label was worn from the brown bottle and it was cold in his hand as he forced the cap off. He took a sip, the cool liquid with a sweet taste, drenching his tongue and throat. But then he remembered...
19-year-old Abigail Watson, Michael's bodyguard, stood at the top of the stage, waiting for her cue. Then, when the drumbeat of Michael's "Billie Jean" began playing, Abigail began to dance down the steps, and fireworks exploded. All went well...at least until the accident happened. A mistimed firework set forth sparks, which landed in, of all places, Abigail's brown hair.
"Aah! Aah!" Abigail yelled. She then rolled down the stairs, and once at the bottom of the stage, began to roll around, trying to put her hair out.
"Abigail!" her girlfriends called as they ran to her. "Abigail!"
"My hair! My hair!"
An ambulance was called. Abigail's friends wheeled her to the ambulance on a stretcher. "Abigail, you're gonna be OK."
"You'll be fine."
Abigail's eyes were focused on the crowd. She raised her hand, covered with one sparkly sequin glove, and waved. Then she was unconscious...
"Abigail."
She opened her eyes to see her employer smiling down at her. His smile showed his beautiful white teeth.
"It's a miracle your clothes didn't catch fire. Second and third degree burns on the back of your head," he said.
"My beautiful brown hair," Abigail said. Michael smiled.
"You'll get your hair back. I did."
He returned to Britney's side. Looking down at her, he felt a sudden chill. He watched her carefully. She barely seemed to breathe as she lay motionless on the bed, and Michael narrowed his eyes slightly.
How strange it was. She looked so eerily peaceful, a sleeping beauty. He sat down on the edge of the bed, hardly aware of his actions. The Pepsi found its way onto the mahogany nightstand next to the bed. His hand lay on her cheek.
It was slow, unintentional even, but he slowly bent down, his lips brushing her own softly. For a moment, it didn't register with him, but when it did his eyes snapped open and he pulled back, stumbling off the bed and away from her.
There was...shock.
"Marvelous, Prince Charming," he hissed, slowly advancing again. But he grabbed his drink instead, watching her as pale slits of moonlight struck her face. His hand moved to his pocket, pulling a card from it. He held it in his hand, staring at a picture of the girl on the bed. She was etched there perfectly, every detail in place, from her hands clasped in front of her pleadingly to the honey-colored eyes, large and brimming with tears.
"Time to wake up, Little Princess," he whispered. Taking a breath, he cast his breath across the surface of the card. Gold, dust-like substance floated into the air and drifted down to Britney's form, disappearing instantly when it touched her. With the picture gone, there was left only a velvety darkness on the card's face. She turned in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Michael smiled, almost like a vampire, yet his eyes softened. Now he was left with the question of what he would do when she woke up...
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