“Late-Avril, early-Britney,” Larry the manager flipped the newspaper in half, running his fingers along the crease.

“Tha’s what the tabloids are calling your genre of music. Is tha’ what you want? Is tha’ kind of music going to match the image we’re creating for you?”

He tugged at the lit cigar in the corner of his mouth, pulled it out and puffed, then snorted.

“Well, at least they’re comparing u to some of the greats. Heck, ur album just came out 3 months ago, tha’s not bad. You’re already in the middle of your debut tour, and so far the critics love you. I can hardly believe it,” He ran his hand through his balding hair, scratching his head. “Well, heck, we’ll take it. We’ll take all the publicity we c’n get. But I don’t want you burning out af’er the first tour, see, I’m kind of worried about tha’; how’ll you-”

“Dah-ling, dreading Larry. What would I do without you? I won’t burn out. I won’t stop touring. And I certainly won’t stop being fabulous. After all, the media just loves a bad girl.”