Cut at the stalk

The Celebrity never looked uglier. She'd asked Consuela, her trusted, freshly imported maid, to go down to that part of the city where her less fortunate Hispanic friends lived and to get the cheapest possible sports jacket and jogging pants from the worst store. 'Oh, and throw in a pair of sunglasses while you're at it', she'd added. She'd had to take actual cash out of an ATM for this, she, who'd paid with plastic since her sitcom hit it off several years ago.
Now, dressed in this outfit, she'd shaken off Ed and Ted, her most faithful paparazzi shadows, and sat in a diner, nervously chewing on fries her diet didn't allow. A blackhaired man, eyebrows grown together, suddenly came and sat opposite her without saying a word. To her surprise, he looked anywhere but at her. When his supersized order had been slammed on the table, he started talking. 'I'll need information to work with', he said in a tone of voice that did not expect to negotiate. 'When did it start, how does he contact you. What has he told you about himself.'
She explained in detail the 'harassment' as she called it; he stopped her short when she went into the details of his diatribes, references to specific bodily organs, the blatant incompetence of the police, how the press had joked about her 'nutty admirer'. She wasn't used to being interrupted when she complained about something, and it annoyed her. As he got up, burping from the extra large Coke, she looked up at him.
'I can count on your discretion?'
'You can count on a quiet, simple solution to your problem.'
He left, and she finished both their fries, starved.

Every night, the calls kept coming. As did the densely scribbled letters, rambling and psychotic. She began to doubt that her problem would be solved at all. She listened to the radio and watched TV, paying more attention than usual to the daily barrage of cruel murders, gang slayings and freak accidents. She tried to somehow decode the events, to see if they somehow contained a message to her. But they didn't. And then, after two weeks, it all stopped, from one minute to the next. She never thought it could be this simple. Things back to normal, and that, apart from some discrete payment to her benefactor, was that.
He called the same night.
'This is great,' she said, 'you've been a great help.'
'Glad to be of service', he replied. There was something informal and friendly in his voice that hadn't been there before. 'I was happy to help out, you know, being a fan and all.'
'Oh, you're a fan? That's great. Listen, if you'd like something special, a signed DVD or glossy..'
'I actually had something else in mind.'
'All right then, tickets to my show.'
'No, no, no.' And he told her. She hung up in mid-sentence, pale. Immediately, the phone rang again.
'You OWE ME!' he bellowed. 'I can tell the cops. You BELONG to me now!!'

In the next week's tabloids, the headlines ran, 'HER NEW MYSTERY BOYFRIEND SLAPS WAITER IN JEALOUS RAGE' and 'SHE'S ON CLOUD NINE WITH HER NEW HEARTTHROB -- BUT DOES HE HAVE A PSYCHIATRIC PAST?'