Life Is Good
Text ©2006 The Angst Guy
(theangstguy@yahoo.com)
Daria and associated
characters are ©2006 MTV Networks
Feedback (good, bad, indifferent,
just want to bother me, whatever) is appreciated. Please write to:
theangstguy@yahoo.com
Synopsis: A very short tale of an
evil Daria and a sympathetic Tom. Sort of.
Author’s
Notes: This
short-short story was written in response to two different “Iron Chef”
challenges on PPMB. One, from Ranger Thorne in June 2003, asked for Daria to be
made the “bad guy” of the story. The other, from Martin Pollard in September
2003, wanted a fanfic that portrayed Tom Sloane in a sympathetic light. This
story attempts to do both—sort of.
Acknowledgements: Thank you, Ranger Thorne
and Martin Pollard!
*
Daria Sloane could not wait for Tom
to die. Jittery, she watched the webcam image on her computer monitor. In
minutes, her husband would die, Sandi Griffin would be charged, and Daria would
inherit Tom’s financial empire. Trent Lane, her soon-to-be lover, would comfort
her in imaginative ways after the funeral. Life would be good.
The webcam showed Sandi’s bedroom,
with off-pink walls, a painting of a schooner, a door, and a bed with red satin
sheets. Sandi’s computer and webcam sat to the side of the bed, activated by
Daria after she had entered Sandi’s apartment four hours earlier, using a copy
of the key she’d found in Tom’s leather jacket. Weeks before that, she had
found the link to Sandi’s webcam in her husband’s desktop computer. Tom hadn’t
erased his Internet browser’s history. It was child’s play to imagine the live
bedroom scenes she had shown him, child’s play to uncover his faithlessness.
And it was child’s play to put a
half-kilo of plastic explosive in Sandi’s CPU tower, wired to the keyboard.
Daria was careful, a first-rate schemer. Tom would enter the bedroom carrying a
forged invitation from Sandi, inviting him over for a lunchtime tryst. He would
see the computer, get curious—then decorate those off-pink walls with his flesh
and blood. The handwritten note by the keyboard—“Type: S-U-R-P-R-I-S-E!”—ensured it.
The bedroom door opened. Daria
leaned forward and stopped breathing.
Trent peered into the room, saw the
computer and webcam, and ambled over.
Trent? TRENT? What the hell—?
Trent’s blue jeans filled the
screen. He picked up the handwritten note by the keyboard and studied it.
After a moment, his finger tapped a
key.
IMAGE CANNOT BE FOUND,
said the black print on the white screen where the webcam image used to be.
“No!” gasped Daria. She pushed the
Power button on the CPU tower, getting up to run and see if—
The Power button clicked twice
instead of the usual once. Damn it! she
thought, damn it, damn it, da—
IMAGE CANNOT BE FOUND,
said the webcam screen on a computer monitor in a Miami motel. A
better-than-first-rate schemer put his laptop away. He would drop it over the
side of the schooner on the way to the Bahamas, with the pen he’d used to write
the note to Trent. He was a widower now, but once on the schooner, Sandi would
comfort him in imaginative ways.
Life was good. It was very, very
good.
Original:
9/21/03; modified 07/23/06, 09/23/06
FINIS