It was 2008 and Britney was just a baby, her soothing coos only audible to her conservative playmates and the people of her homeland of Washington. He was the guy in the stockroom, logging tape and loading cameras, a grunt trying to make it as a cameraman in Los Angeles. He worked for the central system, hired after the consolidation, fresh out of UCLA, his beard unkempt, his hair long with pride. She was a young intern, working her way through UCLA. She'd get the coffee, answer the phones, and arouse the workers with her gentle face, naturally blonde hair, and short skirts. Her name was Patricia, never Pat or Patty, although most of the guys called her that when they whistled at her. She was really a shy girl but she still liked some attention.

"Robert, is it?" she said with a smile.

"Yes, yes it is, how can I help you?" he replied, still all business.

"Oh, nothing in particular, just wanted someone to talk to. My name's Patricia," she said with a laugh as he dropped his tape reel.

"We... well, would you like to hang out somewhere less, I dunno, disorganized?" Robert stammered, trying to get the courage to ask her out.

"Well, if you put all that film down, yeah, right after work. See you then!" Patricia teased as she walked away.

And from that day they were inseparable. For the next year their love grew and grew, but they still saw her as just the young girl and him as the scruffy tape room guy. They laughed at this even as things changed, slowly, though faster in the controlled area of the studio. Then they arrived, all 10 of them, their mindless smiles shining blindingly.

"Man alive!" said Robert. "Where did they come from? I've seen dumb actresses but never like that!"

"Boston, dear, what did you expect?" Patricia replied with a smile.

It was a month later and strange things were up in the backlots; production schedules were increased and they were too busy to notice what was happening. Work was work; they hardly even noticed his beard becoming more trimmed and his hair shorter, or that she was becoming slightly more clingy and girlish. Britney was growing slowly, her claws becoming imperceptibly longer and sharper, but she was closer than they realized and she cast her eye for likely prospects.

June 5th. He would always remember that day, the soft black skirtsuit she wore, the pure white blouse. She came to him in the morning. She wasn't even fed a line about being discovered; they owned her so they'd send her where she'd have to go and she'd oblige. "The craziest thing happened to me today, honey. They want me to visit the screening room, I guess to edit something. But, well, you know, that's where the actors work! I'll try to snag some autographs," she said with a giggle.

He kissed her and waited for her in the backlot after work but she never showed. He went into the office to investigate, and then he saw her, with about 12 others, unconscious, some in various states of undress, drooling and sighing in a state of bliss. He could feel himself becoming attracted to the images on the screen and he slammed the door and gasped. He still did not understand the depth of the situation or what was going on. She wasn't there the next morning and he was told that she was reassigned to the screening department for the next few weeks, and that she was in line for a major promotion and he should be glad that he was blessed with such an acting talent as Patty.

He knew now something was dreadfully wrong, because no one would call her that without a death wish and the best acting she could do was an impression so bad that she only did it to mock those who did impressions. But he again waited for her after work and again she didn't show. Grimly, he sneaked into the areas where the screening rooms were, and that was when he clearly saw her. She already looked different, her hair undone and strewn out all over the place, and she wore an outfit that she wouldn't be caught dead in- tight jeans with a tighter T-shirt. He could hear her muttering under her breath religious doctorine and messages of hate so extreme they came across to him as a foreign language, yet he could hear the words lodging themselves in his brain. Again he ran, this time knowing she was lost for good but still he didn't know what was going on.

Two weeks passed. He buried himself in his work to try to forget her. Then he saw her walking by with the same goofy grin and vacant eyes that he saw from those Bostoners. He saw her picture everywhere, another channel 2 cutie. He tried to avoid her, forget her, and remember instead the woman he loved, the smart and beautiful one he was going to marry one day.

That was when the infatuation began.

He left his job, no longer able to take it. He became wrapped up in these mindless puppets, but not in the way everyone else did. While everyone else saw an object of affection to steer their minds toward the open arms of Britney, he saw them as the machine that would destroy, yet at the same time as innocent and helpless. He was captivated by their plight, and he saw himself as doing a service.

He started slow, with the baseball announcer. She was a blonde who knew baseball more than most men but her chest looked more like she should have taken up basketball. She was there to draw women closer to their husbands by healing the divide between men and women by giving them an equal love of sports.

He saw the hypocrisy of making women more female by attracting them to sex and baseball, two traditionally masculine interests. He began to trace her every move and destination, and he smiled when his first object of infatuation came to town.

Then came the day, June 5th once again.

He used his past as a cameraman to gain access to the back areas. He saw enough of Britney to know what to say and how to act. And then they were alone and he smiled and she knew nothing but to smile. He originally tried to kill her with his bare hands but she knew enough to throw a book at him with the same curveball that she used in her days as a pitcher. He gazed back at her, but all she could do was giggle and ramble off some prerecorded baseball jargon. He laughed at her then shot her in her overgrown chest.

"Ow, that hurts," was all she could say as she fell to the ground, still smiling, not realizing or feeling her own mortality. He smiled. Her death was still painless to her as he ran away, dodging the police before he escaped into the hills.

The attacks continued, every June 5th every year for the next 4 years. One year a reporter, the next a model, after that a B-movie actress for those who couldn't sleep, and lastly he grew the courage for his biggest attack. His board filled with pictures of her, the one he thought turned his girlfriend into a mindless giggler. She was the leader of Channel 2 while his Patricia did the morning show. He had Tracy's picture all over his apartment. His infatuation was fueled with more rage than past attacks. And the day came...

On June 5th, 2014, he set out, he knew it would be difficult and decided that the best way would be to attack her limo. He learned to drive the cursed SUVs the brainwashed used and readied himself. He saw her leave the studio and hop into her limo as always. Same time, after filming the same show. Just like everyone else. He was taken aback by how fast the driver drove her and he struggled to keep up but he got near the rear bumper and rams it. The limo swerved but the driver regained control and got the car safely off the road. Robert spun the SUV onto the shoulder and attempted to hit the limo head on. Faster, faster, and the driver saw him coming and drew his gun. As the shot to the head felled Robert, he jerked the wheel and the SUV rolled over out of harm's way.

Tracy's brush with death made the news that evening, sandwiched between manufactured stories of American success in China and lies about heinous crimes committed by homosexuals. The busty blonde reporter breathlessly interviewed the chauffeur and fawned over him as he described how he protected his charge from her would-be assassin. Back in the studio, the dapper anchorman declared that "those people" should not be allowed on the streets, and in homes across the country, people nodded and agreed. Robert, anonymous and lifeless, was forgotten, even by his former colleagues, even by his family. The only one left was Britney's precious.