There’s been no sign of life within the lair–not for weeks, if not months.
A television drones in the living room with the sound of an old I Love Lucy re-run playing on repeat. Mice chew away at discarded marshmallows on the floor from a spilled box of Bits ‘N’ Pieces cereal. A copy of Lotus gleams inside of a cobweb dangling from the ceiling.
Within the lair’s dark boudoir, a huge mass of pink curtains, red confetti, torn up pieces of a contract from The Voice, unsold copies of Bionic and Taco Bell wrappers gently rises and falls in the center of the room. Rising up like a lotus. Falling like “Just A Fool” on the Billboard charts. Every now and then, a heavy snore rings out from somewhere in the mound, lasting 17 seconds and running through several octaves.
Suddenly, a bedazzled pink Motorola Razr V3 lights up and buzzes next to the tangled mess. The mountain of fabric and faded dreams stirs slowly and lets out a groan. An arm juts out, clutches the ancient device in between its talons and brings it back into the messy pile.
“Google Alert,” a groggy voice reads aloud. “Christina Aguilera played during Mayor Bloomberg’s final State of the City address.”
The tattered curtains go flying off and she hops onto her feet.
“SAY!”
Without even taking a breath, Legendtina rushes over to the 1996 IBM rusting in the corner, excitedly stabbing at the power button while taking a seat on the giant red swivel chair. The machine grinds, wheezes and moans viciously after months of dormancy.
She rubs her eyes. How long was she asleep for? Did the Grammys happen? Was Adam Levine dead yet? She looks outside at the dusty window to her left. A raven stares back, perched on a rotting willow tree, and angrily caws. Sounds like “Army of Me,” she thinks to herself.
After three hours, the computer is finally up and running. She denies a Skype request from Oranum and minimizes several MS Word documents she was working on months ago: “The Bionic/Lotus Experience Set List.” “Reasons Why Shakira Is Irrelevant.” “Harry & Louis: Forbidden Love.”
She logs into her Prodigy account. Username: “Legendtina.” Password: “Tru3MusicLuv3r69.”
“Christina Aguilera Mayor Bloomberg New York Times.” And there it is.
“HA!” she calls out, satisfied, as she pours some wine into her dusty, promotional Bionic glass chalice and begins to read.
She spits the wine out onto the monitor and screams.
No. It just couldn’t be. Her eyes jut back across the newly purple-stained screen: “Christine Aguilera.”
Christine Aguilera.
CHRISTINE AGUILERA.
“SAY!” she roars, her fists crashing down on the keyboard before hurling the chalice against the wall, which shatters like the record for lowest-selling #1 in UK history. Not since that rodeo clown Lady Gaga tried to drag her last year has she had to deal with such shade–and from an institution of supposed true lovers of music, no less!
She grabs her phone and dials in a blackout rage.
“Hello, New York Times!” an effete voice answers.
“SHUT YOUR MOUTH. Who did this?” she roars. “Christine? Was it that bitch, Kelly Osbourne? Did she put you up to this?”
“Ha!” the young man responds, seemingly amused. “Thanks for catching that. That’s fucking hilarious. I doubt anyone else noticed. I mean, that tired flop hasn’t had a hit since–what? 2006? So sad. Like, will.i.am got Britney to fart into a microphone for 4 seconds and now she’s #1 worldwide. Where’s Aguilera at, anyway? Hawking her stank-ass dollar store perfume at Sears or something? Am I right?”
The voice within stirs. “I see. What was your name again, fan?”
“Fan?”
“D–Dan,” Legendtina quickly corrects herself. Don’t blow your cover, she reminds herself. Her sharp fingernails dig into her leg so hard that she begins to bleed.
“No, my name’s Billy.”
“Great. Thank you, Billy.”
“Uh huh. And what’s yours?”
A smirk breaks out across her Blu Red lipstick-stained mouth. “I think you already know my name.”
Click.
The legend gets up from her seat and grabs a bat from the closet, as well as a crown and a leftover Cheesy Gordita from months ago which–with a single sniff–she decides is still edible.
Outside, her personal driver is sleeping soundly in a beat-up 1989 Geo. “WAKE UP!” she roars through the window, slapping him against the face with the Gordita. “We’re off to New York!”
“B–but, Your Legend, that’s over 3,000 miles away!” he shrieks, wiping off the rotten cheese residue on his face.
Too late. She’s already sitting in the backseat with her bat. “Just drive,” she growls, spitting out a piece of gum and throwing it at the back of her driver’s head.
A bloodcurdling cackle rings out above the sound of “Let There Be Love” blasting on the stereo as the car drives off into the sunset, heading East.
Four days later, the following correction surfaces online:
Billy was never heard from again.
Legendtina is an ongoing fictional series regarding the life and times of Miss Christina Aguilera.
