Thanksgiving with Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Martha Stewart and Lindsay Lohan

This Thanksgiving, Britney Spears fans will be dancing to her album Blackout. As the pop queen's beat carries them to a world beyond this world, they can forget, for the moment, all Britney Spears' woes from the past year. But can Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan forget? Can they spend Thanksgiving in merriment and good tidings, or will this Thanksgiving be a woeful dud? By now you are probably wondering what Martha Stewart and Patricia Cornwell could possibly have to do with any of this. Read on and I will tell you.

Emily, my agent, banged on my door at 3 a.m. When I opened it she rushed in.

"Martha Stewart has been kidnapped!" she said.

I had no idea what this had to do with me, especially at that hour of the morning, but I listened as she told the story. Emily had heard that Britney Spears was planning to spend Thanksgiving with Paris Hilton. Spears was supposed to move to Paris Hilton's house in the weeks preceding thanksgiving in order to help with the preparations and to give Paris Hilton, and guests, a select copy of the Blackout album. Emily had also heard that Paris Hilton had kidnapped Martha Stewart and was forcing her to do all the cooking.

"Britney Spears will be there?"

Emily looked at me, "Yes, but-"

"You have to get me in there. Get me invited," I said.

"That's why I am here. If anyone can save Martha, you can."

"Me? Why me?"

Emily appeared puzzled. "You are always solving crime and rescuing people," she said.

"Sure, in my fictional stories, Emily. Not in real life."

Her face fell and she sighed. "Well, if you don't want to do it, I guess I will just call Patricia Cornwell."

She turned toward the door to leave but I grabbed her arm. "No! Don't call her. I'll do it."

Cornwell gets all the good gigs. I wasn't about to give her this one.

The next day, Emily called Paris Hilton to try to get me invited. She told Paris a ridiculous story--that my name is Lyons LaRue and that I am a writer and socialite from Bitschwiller, France.

"From where? Could you please repeat that?" Paris said, her voice quavering with suppressed excitement.

My agent repeated, "Bitschwiller," and poked me hard in the ribs with a manicured finger as she stifled a laugh.

"Oh my god. Well yes, tell Lyons LaRue from Bitschwiller (snort) to come on over."

And that's all it took.

I borrowed a spy video camera (it was disguised as a lapel pin) from my good friend, Valerie Plame, and rushed over to the Hilton mansion. Being the stealthy undercover reporter that I am, I was able to capture my entire experience with Paris, Britney, and Lohan all on the tiny video camera. The camera was later destroyed, however, in an unfortunate incident involving Martha Stewart and five pounds of baklava. Martha had been using cheap cookware and was upset to find I had filmed it all. I have a good memory and a mind for details--no matter how trivial-- and offer this verbal report. The following is exactly what happened.

Paris answered the door herself, immediately embraced me, and spoke some French to make me feel at ease. She told me to make myself at home while she finished getting ready for the day. After she had disappeared upstairs, I crept to the kitchen and opened the door.

There she was. The Martha Stewart. She hummed as she stirred a spoon in a simmering pot--a pot of questionable quality-- on the stove. Martha wore charcoal grey sweats and a plain white t-shirt. Her feet were bare and one ankle was shackled, by an eight-foot gold chain, to the oven.

"Martha Stewart?" I said and stepped into the room. She turned and stared at me. The terror and trauma of days of captivity had carved deep wrinkles into her face. Her eyes were puffy, her gaze was vacant, and she reeked of cooking sherry. I could smell it from the doorway.

"What have they done to you?" I asked sadly, forgetting to use the French accent.

She scowled and raised the slotted spoon. "Who the hell are you?"

I stepped forward and whispered, "Don't worry. Everything will be okay. I am getting you out of here."

I even meant it for a second, but then heard the front door slam and a voice say: "It's Britney, B_ _ _ _h." Britney Spears had arrived!

"I'll be back, Martha. I promise," I said and left her.

In the front room, Britney was removing her jacket. She tossed a Blackout CD to Paris. Lindsay Lohan arrived at that moment as well. But she was hopping on one foot and moaning.

"What's wrong with you?" Paris asked her.

"Britney ran over my foot!"

Paris patted her shoulder, "There, there. You know she didn't mean it. Just sit down."

Britney handed a CD to Lindsay. "Merry Christmas early."

"I wish you'd picked a different title," Lindsay said and scrutinized the cover.

"Like what?" Britney asked, and ran a hand through her hair extensions. "Like, It is a cruel world? 'cause that is what I should have named it after all the crap this year." She paused, noticing me. "Who's this."

Paris put a thin arm around my shoulder. "This is Lyons Larue from Bitschwiller, France." Britney tossed me a Blackout CD and then went to fix drinks.

"What do you all want?" She yelled from the bar.

"No alcohol!" Lindsay said.

Paris smiled. "Lindsay, love, don't worry. We know you aren't doing that right now. Don't we, Brit?" Britney just scowled and downed a glass of vodka. I joined her at the bar.

Paris went to the kitchen to check on the pre-thanksgiving taste-test dinner. She emerged minutes later and announced it was ready.

We all sat down as Martha Stewart began bringing the food to the table. She narrowed her eyes when she saw me, but said nothing as she dumped spoonfuls of food on my plate. She poured wine in our glasses (except for Lindsay Lohan's glass. Lindsay had ginger ale), bent towards Paris and said something to her (it was inaudible to me) and then left to wait, silently, in a corner of the room. Paris looked at me and smiled broadly. She seemed to be about to say something but was distracted when Britney suddenly spoke.

"This is delicious!" Paris seemed delighted at the compliment--although it is sometimes hard to read her moods, and Martha had done all the cooking.
"It is my new thanksgiving recipe: sauteed turkey brain and boiled fava beans," Paris said.

"Gimme more," said Britney. Paris refilled Britney's plate and then looked at me. She stared at me for several uncomfortable moments.

"You need some more wine, Lyons," Paris finally said. "Martha, bring our special guest the special reserve wine--the bottle I put on the kitchen counter."

Britney caught a glance from Paris and turned to me. She grinned. "Yes, Lyons, you must try the special reserve wine."

----
I regained consciousness the next morning in the pansy bed, outside the mansion. I opened my eyes and saw blue eyes staring down at me. I flinched, then realized they were not the eyes of Paris Hilton. I focused on the face.

"Patricia Cornwell?"

She was crouching over me. "Emily called me after you didn't come home last night. They really did a number on you. But you'll be okay. I am glad I won't need to use the body bag," she said.

I grimaced.

She laughed. "Just joking. I didn't really bring a body bag." She withdrew a plastic baggie from her jacket pocket and donned latex gloves. "Excuse me a minute," she said and lifted my knee an inch off the ground. She scooped some of the soil beneath my knee into the baggie. While she worked, she continued: "Emily was worried about Martha Stewart. But I was more worried about you. I knew I had to come here immediately. I know how cruel people like Paris can be. Also, I've read your work and knew you would barely make it out alive after they found out who you really are. Martha recognized you before Britney Spears did." She closed the baggie and slipped it into her pocket, and then removed the latex gloves.

"What's with the soil sample?" I asked.

"Oh, this is for Dr. Bass." (Bill Bass is the head of the Body Farm, a forensic science facility near Knoxville, Tennessee. )

"But I am not dead."

"No, you sure aren't," she said, " and you are very lucky."

As she helped me up from the pansies, she explained that not only had Paris and Britney gotten me horribly intoxicated but that they had slipped me something extra in my wine. Then, after I'd passed out, they autographed my abdomen in permanent marker and pierced my belly button. She also told me that Martha was a willing participant in the dinner.

"But she was shackled to the oven. They treated her like a servant."

Cornwell smirked. "It turns out she likes that sort of thing." She looked at my abdomen. "Does it hurt?" She meant the belly button piercing.

"No," I lied. I didn't want to seem like a wimp.

"At least it wasn't your tongue. I've seen a lot of cases where the perps pierce the tongue ( here she shivered and shook her head). Trust me, it is not a pretty sight." We walked towards the iron gate.

"Just a part of living a writer's life, I guess," I said.

"You got that right. Never a dull moment."

"You want to go for breakfast?" I asked.

"Can't. I have an appointment with Dr. Bass at The Body Farm."

Cornwell's bodyguards were waiting for her by her helicopter.

"If you are going to continue to write controversial and/or creepy stuff, you should look into getting a few for yourself," she told me, motioning towards her guards. I nodded, understanding.

"My Ovaltine article," I said. But she didn't hear me. She was already climbing into the helicopter. She waved to me as the engine turned.

After Patricia Cornwell's helicopter had disappeared from view, a car engine revved loudly and tires screeched on the Hilton driveway. And then I heard voices.

"Ow! That hussy!"

"Calm down, Lindsay."

"She ran over my foot again!"

Disclaimer: This article is a work of fiction and is for entertainment purposes only. This article has not been reviewed for safety. Read at your own risk. This article is not a flotation device. Do not place this article over your head.