Britt the Naughty Cowgirl: Volume Eleven

By William A. Patrick III

Britt the Naughty Cowgirl finally reaches the big time, but it's not all it's cracked up to be; instead she finds a crazy world of egos, sex and addiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William A. Patrick III
• Release date: May 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215017968

William A. Patrick III

William A. Patrick III resides in Tustin, CA, and travels with Linder.

Book preview

Britt the Naughty Cowgirl - Volume Eleven

By William A. Patrick III

Copyright © 2023 by William A. Patrick III.

Published by William A Patrick III at Smashwords. Smashwords Edition.

All rights reserved. Any similarity between persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction and is of an adult nature and is not meant for minors. All participants in this story are over the age of consent.

Warning: this Britt volume is a lot more preachy, weird, and unfunny, maybe funny, and maybe with less hard-core sex. It will also probably wrap up the series. Some quotes in this tome may have been stolen from G. Murphy of MC, and the ‘Dow’ in this story is definitely NOT him.

CHAPTER 1

A lone drop of sweat, moving from her jawline to her shoulder, vainly tried to ward off the panic building inside her. The Joey Knight Late Show was the highest rated after-hours talk-show on television. It beat the other network’s Neilson ratings by double digits. Any appearance on this lauded show by any artist doing any act could make or break a career. Britt was furiously trying not to think about.

Just sing, her inner voice told her. "Just do what you’ve always done – sing Ash’s song. Sing your song." But the voice was only talking to her conscious mind. Her unconscious mind was absolutely screaming: ‘YOU’RE GOING TO DIE.’

She was shaking. Britt, through a trembling fear, wished with all her might that she wasn’t there. She wished she wasn’t anywhere. She especially wished the stage manager wasn’t looking at her. She finally decided she was going to beg off – she was sick, she was going to say. She wasn’t up to it she was going to say. The show would be better without her, she was going to say. Then two things happened – her name was called and the stage manager pointed to her.

A moment later she found herself sitting on a stool with her guitar, under the most impossibly bright light she had ever seen. To her it seemed brighter and hotter than the sun. Her throat closed. Her arms froze. Her fingers just hovered above the strings. She sat. The silence was deafening. She knew there would be people behind her squirreling around in a panic as the silence and seconds ticked on. Then, like the Grinch’s heart growing three sizes that day, something wonderful, marvelous, amazing and spectacular began to happen. Britt began to sing…

Britt stared around at her dressing room in a fog. When she sang, and the words, rhythms and melodies sprang out, a sort of magic bubble engulfed her. Sooner or later it would burst; she would return to what Ash called the ‘machine world.’ The walls would return to gray instead of technicolor, the air would change from light and sweet to cold and static, and she herself would re-materialize back into the heart-pumping, itchy and achy, energetic and tired physical form she was used to. It was always a little depressing and it only really happened when she sang Ash’s song. Ash. Ash and Branden. Since she became famous her old life and old friends seemed more and more far away. Almost invisible, she thought. The past was fading. As her ‘former’ life became more distant, and her ‘new and improved’ life became more encompassing, existing became more and more repulsive to her. She was BIG now. Not as big, as say, Madonna, but big. Big enough to wow the fuck out of them on the current version of the ‘Tonight Show.’ That they only wanted one song, she tried not to think about. Remember when it was all fun and sex? Her mind mused. Remember when it was natural? Remember when it was about the right stuff? Remember when it was more than the money and advancement of a career that now many people depended on? Remember the Alamo, she thought, because it really doesn’t matter, does it, it’s all bullshit that morphs into more bullshit, period. Where’s the person, she wondered, that was supposed to tell her that being famous was shit. That being famous was living in a bubble – with expectations of future grandeur, and the all-but-certain reality of future failure. After all, how can one be IT, all the time, everywhere and always? Of course, the money, don’t forget the money, her mind echoed. The almighty dollar will make it right, right? More bullshit. Shit-tons more.

A knock on the door brought her back, more out of the fog than ever. A thought, foreign except for her new ‘famous’ self, floated into her head. ‘Let them wait.’ Everybody wants, needs, asks, hopes, pleads for something, from her, now. A new appearance, a new venue, a new gig, A NEW SONG… ‘let’s keep the ball rolling.’ Ride the gravy train. Ride and ride. Round and round we go ‘til Britt is a used-up has-been.’ Fuck them. Fuck them.