_The Look-Alike Series_ Daria fan fiction by Canadibrit Season 2, episode 1: "Many Are Culled" prose adaptation by Austin Loomis
ACT 1 -- NONE SO BLAND...
"Yes, friends, coming right up, the Vocational Guidance Counsellor sketch!" -- Monty Python
There they were, the four of them, on a Monday in January 2000, sitting out front of the building, on the sign that says "Lawndale High School," looking inscrutably at the school itself. "Another semester throws itself at us," Daria Morgendorffer mused. "With the blinding speed and deadliness of a cobra," her look- alike Lynn Cullen added. "Oh, come on, you two," Jane Lane piped up. "How bad can it be? We got rid of Ms. Li -- it's bound to be better." "Yeah!" A.P. McIntyre added gleefully. "I mean, with Ms. Li under suspicion of child abuse, all the records she kept on us will be tossed out -- they think she's nuts!" "Whereas we have the benefit of hindsight," Daria reflected. "We know for *certain* she's nuts." "I see what he means, though," Lynn allowed as. "Tabula rasa time at our alma mater. That whole `Flack-Jacket Mafia' thing won't haunt us." "Not even with the students?" "Your average high school student has the attention span of a goldfish. Like they even remember our names at this point." Daria shrugged. "Fair enough."
* * *
Later, in the halls, Daria and Lynn were at their respective adjacent lockers. Jane was leaning in the space between them. A.P. was kneeling on the floor, going through his book bag. And a voice they'd never heard before came over the PA. "Attention, students! I am Mr. Caldwell, Lawndale High's new principal." "At least he can say the name of the school in a normal voice," Daria observed, remembering how reverentially the unlamented Angela Li had always drawn out the name of...Laaawndale Hiiigh. "Yeah," Jane shrugged. "Go figure." Caldwell continued. "I would like to ask for your cooperation with a complete update of the school's records. You will all have appointments with your guidance counselor at some point today. Please check the bulletin board for your time slot. Thank you." "Great," Lynn muttered. "Guidance counselors. I *hate* guidance counselors." "It's not a big deal," Daria assured her. "Just tell them you want to be a writer, and they can't be of any use. Usually it shuts them up." _If I'd known that going in, I'd never have ended up wearing a squirrel hat and working alongside Kevin._ Aloud, she simply said, "I learned that lesson the hard way." "Something I have never tried. -- I did once say that I wanted to work as an executioner on a Death Row somewhere." Jane's curiosity was piqued. "What happened?" "Three weeks with the school psychologist breathing down my neck. Then A.P. and I glued his office furniture to the ceiling and bolted the light fixture to the floor." "Method 10 -- a pure classic," A.P. referenced his magnum opus _25 Sure-Fire Ways to Drive Any Teacher into Early Retirement_ (visit this fic's sponsor, www.subversion_is_we.co.uk, and pick up your copy today). "He ran screaming from the building and wouldn't come back for three days! And he only came back to hand in his resignation!" "You two are twisted!" Jane smirked evilly. "I *like!*" "Let's see the order in which they have chosen to torment us," Daria decided. "Five bucks says alphabetical," Lynn countered. "Oh, come on. No one's that predictable anymore. They'll probably do it by age or homeroom." "So we're on?" "Yeah."
* * *
They stood by the bulletin board for a moment, not speaking. Still without a word, Daria hauled a bill out of the pocket of her jacket. Lynn took the portrait of the martyred railsplitter, then broke the silence. "Thank you. -- So `Mc' is a separate letter now? Right after M." "Hey, I am unique!" A.P. reminded them. "You're also dead last," Jane pointed out. "Great. You set him up, I'll knock him down!" "We say nothing," Lynn cautioned, "until all four of us go. Agreed?" Daria nodded. "Agreed. Pizza King?" "Sure. After two weeks of being in England, decent pizza is beginning to take back its old appeal."
* * *
A plaque on the desk in the guidance counselor's office identified the thin, scraggly-looking man behind it as ANTHONY HARRIS. At the moment, Harris was looking speculatively at Lynn. "So you want to be a writer." "Actually," she replied, "I always wanted to be...a *lumberjack!* Leaping from tree to tree..." She trailed off, disgusted at Harris' blank expression. She wondered what he would have done if she'd quoted the Vocational Guidance Counsellor sketch. "Never mind. There's no cross-cultural humor anymore. Yes, I want to be a writer." "No other goals at all?" "My goal is not to wake up at forty with the bitter realization that I have wasted my life in a job I hate because I was forced to decide on a career in my teens." It was ironic, on several levels, that once again, she'd expressed herself in the same words as Daria. "I see. Well, let's have a look at your other skills. After all, the writing profession is a tough one to get into. Many are called and few are chosen, that sort of thing." He shuffled some papers. "From your records, you have quite the typing speed. And you strike me as competent and having the ability to think on your feet." "It would be quite time-consuming if every thought I had required me to lie down." "Yes. Well, you seem like the sort who would take to the clerical profession as a duck takes to water." Lynn raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" _I come in here wanting to be a lion tamer, and I'm supposed to leave content as a chartered accountant. Who says life doesn't imitate art?_
* * *
Later, Harris was looking speculatively at Jane. "So your goal is to be an artist." "Art is my life," she informed him. "Problem?" "I just feel that students with more...hard to reach goals... should be particularly aware of their other options. Many are called and few are chosen, after all." Jane glowered at him, but he didn't seem to notice. "Now...um...let's see what we have here. Apart from your artistic abilities, do you have any other talents?" "You're the Grand Guru of Career Guidance. You tell me." "You show a certain flair for what is known as the `snappy one-liner.' Perhaps you could consider a career in advertising." Jane glowered at him again.
* * *
Later still, Daria was sitting before Harris, looking unfazed. "Now, Daria Morgenpheffer..." "Morgen*dorffer*," she corrected. "Illiteracy is a sad thing in schools...especially when it's seen in the faculty." "Yes. Um...well, you want to be a writer." "And you're going to try to explain to me why I *don't* want to be a writer. Isn't your job to help us find a way to reach our goals rather than to shove more quote-unquote `realistic' ones down our throats?" "Um...indeed. But the truth is, it's a tough market, Daria. Many are called and few are chosen, and all that. Now, from what I can see, your fine head for facts and cool, composed, didactic approach to your lessons might make you an excellent teacher." "Excuse me?"
* * *
After school, Daria was sitting across from Jane and Lynn in their favorite booth at Pizza King. They were all picking at their food and looking miserable. Jane decided to begin the postmortem. "Ad executive." After a short pause, Daria countered, "Teacher." There was a longer pause that time, and all three of them winced. "Secretary," Lynn announced. Daria and Jane looked at her, wide-eyed. With one accord, they confessed, "You win." "Don't put the crown and scepter on me yet. We still haven't heard from A.P. Maybe he got pegged as a sanitation engineer or something." As if on cue, the Psycho-Maverick came rushing through the door, beaming. He ran over to their table and stretched his arms out, a huge manic grin on his face. "*I am into computers and the world is mine!*" Still grinning like a lunatic: "So what'd he say to you three? Anything good?" Daria, Jane and Lynn all glowered at him. Clueless as usual in social situations, he wondered, "What? *What?*" "You have five seconds," Erudite Emerald informed him. "Five seconds to *what?*" "You know me well enough not to have to ask," the Purple Peril warned. "Five...four...three..." He got the message and ran for his miserable life. Daria, Jane and Lynn went back to picking at their pizza in morose silence for awhile. "Hey," Jane suddenly announced defiantly, "why should we listen to him, anyway? I mean, what does *he* know about us? All he knows is that we want to get into professions he wasn't talented enough to even *think* about." "You're probably right," Lynn acknowledged, then considered the point a moment. "On the other hand, what do *we* know about *him?* How do we know he isn't some wildly talented artist, poet, writer or whatever who just didn't get the breaks?" There was a pause while the other two digested this. "I've never met anyone who could kill a moment as well as you, Lynn." "So what *are* we going to do?" Daria queried. "What teenagers do best," Lynn replied. "Go on with our lives and pretend we never heard anything unpleasant." "Now *that* I can get behind." Jane took a bite of her pizza. Lynn and Daria just stared at theirs.
ACT 2 -- THE DREAM POLICE
"Well, *this* is good old-fashioned nightmare fuel." -- _Mystery Science Theatre 3000_
_Ten Years Later_ Jane Lane sat in her office, looking out the window and sketching the city skyline. She was wearing a three-piece suit that would have made her younger self cringe, but at least she'd kept her fireman's boots from high school. On her desk was a stack of papers. Someone slammed the door of her office hard enough to make her jump. "*Aah!*" For a panicked moment, she almost didn't recognize the older gentleman in the suit and tie. Then her heart calmed down, and she greeted her boss. "Oh. Good morning, Mr. Goodman." "Lane. -- Boots?" "Oh, yeah, the Fast-Track account meeting. I know." She took off the boots and slipped a pair of high heeled shoes out of a desk drawer. "So what were you sketching?" "The city," she enthused as she put on the pumps. "It's really interesting the way the sunlight almost sets the smog on fire." "Yeah," Mr. Goodman replied blankly. "It's all right." Jane sighed. She kept trying to open real dialogue with her cow-orkers [sic], but it never worked. Someday, though. "I'll be right with you." Goodman left. After stowing her boots away in the drawer, Jane looked at her sketch, sighed, and walked reluctantly towards the door. She paused to peer into the break room. People were chatting amiably as they drank coffee, smoked or whatever. Jane walked into the smoking lounge and sat down near a small blond woman. At once, conversation around her subsided a little, by the tacit agreement her co-workers seemed to have: _If she hears us talking she might join in._ Jane lit a cigarette and addressed the blonde. "Hey, Marie!" "Hey," Marie hesitantly acknowledged. Jane picked up on the tone and decided not to pursue the conversation. She turned away, sad and disappointed.
* * *
A key rattled in the lock of a small but nice apartment, and Jane stepped in. Her cat wound itself around her legs with a plaintive meow, and she bent down to pet it. "At least you appreciate me, don't you, Gauguin?" Then she had to acknowledge, rather morosely, "But you'd appreciate Hannibal Lecter as long as he could run a can opener. Or throw you a finger or two now and then." Gauguin meowed, as if in agreement, and Jane sighed. She looked up at the wall, at the picture she'd painted at graduation -- her, Daria, Lynn and A.P. in gowns and mortarboards, all with middle fingers up. She started feeling very lonely. "Wonder what they're doing now...or if they ask that about me."
* * *
Jane sat up with a start, surprised for a moment to see her familiar bedroom at Casa Lane. With a sigh, she hopped out of bed, turned on the lights, grabbed a paintbrush, then looked at the canvas waiting on the easel. Then she put the brush away and went back to bed.
* * *
In a story she'd written back in high school, Daria had imagined herself as a newspaper columnist -- "I get outraged, the readers get outraged, nobody does anything about it" -- married to a college professor named Marcello: "And every fall he has a new batch of freshmen to potty-train." Irony of ironies, *she* turned out to be the one with students to potty-train -- high-school students, at that. She'd written in her diary right after the move to Lawndale, "It's reassuring to know that no matter where you go, kids are the same...stupid and shallow." That much hadn't changed, sad to say. She looked out over the pre-processed meat products the school administration laughingly expected her to provide with some grasp of history further back than the Clinton era. For a moment, she saw herself from the outside; her white blouse and tan skirt reminded her of something, but she couldn't quite think what. On the board were the words INDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION -- an event that had as much personal meaning to these chimpanzees as the invention of agriculture ten thousand years or so earlier had had to her parents' generation, but she'd poured enough words into their ears that sooner or later, by sheer volume, they *had* to start spilling out of someone's mouth, even if none of them would bother to *think* about what they were saying. "Now, Calvin, can you explain to the class why the industrial revolution was so important to this country?" Calvin Watson, a blank-faced boy with black hair and a black T-shirt, looked a great deal like Kevin Thompson, the idiot quarterback at Lawndale High -- especially now, when he was desperately struggling to think. "Um...industrial death metal? Techno music?" Daria sighed and, removing her glasses, put a hand to one of her eyes, which had started to hurt. "Hey, you okay, Ms. M? Your eye looks...twisted!" "Oh, God..." She'd always feared this day would come.
* * *
"Ms. Morgendorffer," the ophthalmologist confirmed as he looked at her eye, "you have what is known as DeMartino's syndrome, named after the first known patient to have this stress-related disorder. The symptoms include a bulging in one of the eyes, an inordinate craving for caffeine -- which exacerbates the problem -- and a tendency to put excessive stress on some words or syllables. I'm afraid that, even at this early stage, there is no cure." "How serious *is* it, Doc?" She felt her eye popping on the emphasis. "The disorder itself is not fatal...but the related problems -- heart attacks, stomach ulcers, strokes -- can be quite serious. I'll write a prescription for some tranquilizers..." "No, *thank* you, Doctor. I'll deal with this *problem* on my *own.*"
* * *
Daria jolted awake and stumbled out of her padded room, down the hall to the bathroom, where she stepped up to the mirror and looked closely at her right eye. Nope, still normal size, thank God. _DeMartino's syndrome..._ she shuddered.
* * *
In a cluttered office, with many in-trays and paper everywhere, Lynn was typing very quickly while talking on the phone. "No, I'm afraid I'm not sure when he'll be back in the office today but I think you can catch him between nine and ten tomorrow morning. -- No, I'm afraid I'm not cleared for that sort of information. Perhaps I could give you his e-mail address; if you e-mailed him it would be likely that he'd be able to send you a reply sometime today. -- Okay, could I take your number and ask him to call you back? -- Mobile number? -- Right. Thank you for calling. Have a nice day." She hung up and made a face at the phone. A wiry little man entered her cubicle carrying a large file folder. "Hey, Mark," she greeted him. "Hey, Lynn, you know about computers, right?" "I've been known to dabble. Why?" "I just can't get this mail merge thing. Mr. Fitzgerald wants this letter typed and sent to about a hundred different people and I just don't know how to do it." "Want me to show you? I take lunch earlier than you do and I could show you then." "I don't know...could I just ask you to do it for me? I wouldn't ask but you're so *good* at this sort of thing!" "Look, Mark, I'm really swamped but I guess I could--" He didn't let her finish. "Thanks, Lynn! You're a star!" He dumped the file on her desk and made it to the door. "Jerk." The phone rang. "*Stop ringing, dammit!*" She took a breath, put on a professional face and picked up the phone. "Fitzgerald-Morris Associates, how can I help you?" She was pleased to hear the voice from the other side. "Daria?" She imagined Daria as she'd seen her on book jackets -- a little older, looking a little more professional, but still the same old look-alike. "Hey, Lynn. How's life?" "Oh, you know. Busy, busy." "I was just calling to tell you that I've been called into your part of the world on business and I'll be around for most of this week. Want to do dinner?" "God, *this* week? Let me check..." She pressed a few keys on the computer on her desk. "Okay, I'm looking at my diary. Hit me." "Um...tomorrow's bad -- drinks thing with the publishers. Wednesday?" "Can't. I'm working late on a project or three. Thursday?" "Not until ten or so. Being wined and dined by agents trying to buy my brain." "God, and I've got a six a.m. start Friday morning." "Friday night?" "I think so...just call the office at five-thirty to make sure Mr. Morris hasn't dropped some other crap on me." "Deal. I'll leave you to it. Bye." "Bye, Daria." She hung up and looked at the keyboard. _God, is this my life?_
* * *
In the Chamber of Dark Mysteriousness, a lump of dark blanket continued to shift restlessly, and at length, Lynn's face became visible to the hypothetical observer (also known as the omniscient narrator, and how are *you* today, Mr. Pollard?). She looked frightened and small. She sighed, grabbed her covers, wrapped them around her and curled up.
* * *
Next day in the cafeteria, A.P. was gobbling his food while the other three, pale and morose, just picked at theirs. "Come on, you guys, it's even worse cold! -- I had the wildest dream last night! I was sort of a cross between Bill Gates and Richard Branson, and..." He trailed off as he realized that the three girls were glaring at him in a way that clearly said _shut up or I am not responsible for my actions_. "Come *on,* guys, why won't you tell me what's wrong?" "Maybe because you won't shut up long enough?" Jane suggested. "Maybe," Daria theorized, "because your smug attitude makes you seem unsympathetic?" "Maybe just," Lynn further conjectured, "because we're too busy wondering what it would take to make you stop congratulating yourself about having such a great future ahead of you just because you prefer machines to people and open your eyes to the fact that we're not all lucky enough to be self-centered, techno-centric morons with the tact of a charging rhino." A.P. stared at Lynn, then Jane, then Daria. They all turned back to silent contemplation of their so-called food. In tones that reflected the hurt inside, he informed them, "I'm...just...gonna go over and eat somewhere else." With that, he made as graceful an exit as he could in the circumstances. The girls looked up guiltily. "Anyone else have bad dreams last night?" Daria wondered. "No one gave a damn about me or my talent," Jane replied. "I was just a weirdo in a suit trying to fit in...and failing. Seems depressing that nothing would change in ten years." "I taught history and developed DeMartino's syndrome." "Do we have to *ask?*" Jane punctuated the sentence with an eye- pop in imitation of the real Anthony DeMartino. "I hate you." "Busy office," Lynn summed up. "Only competent human being on premises. Constantly busy. No time for friends or life. -- Whole situation blew dead monkeys." "And once again, your astute analysis of the situation removes the need for any further statements on the matter." With that, they all went back to picking at their food.
ACT 3 -- HEY JEALOUSY
Dinner at Morgendorffer Home Base was just like usual -- the usual people at the table, the usual concentrated starch and protein squares in front of them, Daria not eating as usual, her younger sister Quinn reading _Waif_ as usual, father Jake reading the paper as usual, mother Helen looking resigned to the usual lack of communication. Daria looked up, undecided for a moment, then sighed and took the plunge. "Mom?" Helen was pleasantly surprised to find her elder spawn actually *starting* a conversation. "Yes, Daria?" "How did you decide you wanted to be a lawyer?" "Well...that's a good question, Daria. I think it was mainly that I was intrigued by the process of law. I wanted to play a part in upholding the rights that the Constitution gives us." Jake lowered his Times-Herald, frowning in confusion. "But Helen, when we were in college, you said you wanted to be a lawyer so you could slap people who tested on animals in jail and legalize--" "Shut *up,* Jake!" his wife hissed. "You pick *now* to pay attention?" "Okay, so it takes me awhile!"
* * *
After dinner, up in her room, Daria was lying on her bed as usual, staring at one of the more interesting cracks in the ceiling, when someone knocked at the door. "If it's Quinn, I'm broke. If it's Mom, I just wanted to know -- I have no interest in becoming a lawyer. If it's Dad, no offense, but the kiwi-papaya chocolate cheesecake smells weird and I don't think my stomach could take it." The door opened and Quinn poked her head in. "Um...will you promise not to take it the wrong way if I ask you something?" "No." "Oh." Despite this ringing response, she came in and sat on the bed. Daria sat up. "Um...can I ask it anyway?" "If you must." "Are you okay? I mean, you haven't been reading and writing and...stuff." "Not in the mood. Any other questions?" Quinn sighed. "Is this about a guy?" "Strangely enough, it's not. Things are going fairly well in that department for a change." "You mean I was *right* that night you came home late?" "In a manner of speaking." _I *had* been spending time with A.P., even if we haven't actually had a `date-thing.'_ "Well, what *is* it, then?" Quinn wondered, sounding a little bitter. "I mean, what else have you got to be depressed about?" "Excuse me?" "I mean, I have other stuff...especially after I quit the Fashion Club. I have all this homework and stuff, and Ted, and...And you're smart and it's so *easy* for you! I mean, we saw that guidance counselor and I realized that I don't know *what* I want to do with my life! I mean, I *can't* be a neck model -- I'd be..." After a pause for breath, she said the next word in a very quiet voice. "...bored. I want to learn but it's *hard* for me, and you can do anything you want to do. I bet you'll be a big history professor at a big important university and think about important stuff and really enjoy it and I...I'll probably never understand half the stuff you say." She managed to say all that on another breath, then went on, exasperated again. "So what's *wrong?*" "Oddly enough, Quinn...nothing anymore. -- And you'll be fine. You can ask Ted for help with your homework. He's a little naive, but he's smart. And," she sighed, "I'll help too, if you *really* need me." "I didn't ask..." "And that's why I'm prepared to offer." Quinn had to consider that a moment. "I think I actually understood that." "Good." Quinn turned to go, but stopped at the door. She turned around, but Daria waved her away, and she left.
* * *
In her room at Casa Lane, Jane was looking at a blank canvas and holding her palette, but she wasn't painting and didn't really look as if she were about to start anytime soon. Her brother Trent ambled in and came up behind her. "No inspiration?" "Ever heard of knocking?" she snapped. "You okay, Janey?" "Pretty much." "You'd tell me, right?" "Not unless it was life or death." Trent did his coughing laugh, thinking of the stories he'd heard about Janey's alleged flirtation with suicide. "Yeah. Um...can I talk to you?" "My door is always open...even if you don't remember to knock." "You know it's been tense with Daria, right? Well, I wanted to write a song about it -- just the friends part. Get it out of my system, you know. I didn't know where to start." "Well...try starting with something that you value her for. You know, something that she did or said or helped you with that only has to do with being your friend." "Yeah. Cool. -- Yeah, I could do that thing she said when we were on our way to Alternapalooza. Did I ever tell you that thing?" _What's this?_ "Nope." "She said that even if Mystik Spiral didn't ever go anywhere, at least for awhile, I did exactly what I wanted to do. And a lot of people never even get that far. So I guess it was like she was saying that dreams and memories carry you through darker times. -- I gotta go write that down. Thanks, Janey." He dashed out. Jane thought that over a moment, then smiled. _So all that yenta- ing wasn't completely wasted._ Then she picked up her paintbrush and dabbed it in some green paint.
* * *
Lynn was sprawled out on her bed, staring at the wall, when A.P. slid through the open window. "Hey ho, Purple Peril!" "Get bent," she helpfully replied. "That's not the right response! I mean, if I was a burglar or something..." "Then you'd be in trouble." He was confused for a moment, then he winced as a small crossbow bolt embedded itself into the window frame about an inch from his face. "I forgot I made you that." Lynn was holding a small crossbow. "Reminder of happier times. Did you want something?" "To say sorry. I shouldn't have crowed. I guess Mr. Harris really did a downer on you three." "Yeah. Many are called but few are chosen." She half-chuckled miserably. "Said I'd make a good secretary." "The man can't see past the end of his own nose, can he?" "Excuse me?" "Hell, Lynn, if that was all the talent you had, I'd say that being some fat-cat executive's secretary would be the best job for you. But think about what else you can do -- stuff that no one else knows about." "I reiterate -- excuse me?" "That whole Ms. Li thing proved you're an expert snitch. The blackmail, the bugging, the espionage...Hey, the FBI would snap you up!" "Like hell." "I'm serious. I mean, if all else fails and you don't get the whole writer thing going, we could be a team for the FBI -- just like Mulder and Scully. Uncovering all the cover-ups...raiding the equipment in the Pentagon..." "If you're only saying this to make me feel better..." "I'm not *only* saying it to make you feel better." "But that's part of it." "If you were feeling better, I wouldn't have to say it." "I see what you mean. -- Sorry about calling you a self-centered, techno-centric moron with the tact of a charging rhino." "Hey, that's cool. I've been called worse." "Who by?" "You." "Oh." She smiled sheepishly.
* * *
Later, they'd all gathered in Jane's room. Art-Smart Scarlet herself was standing proudly by an covered easel. The look-alikes were sitting on the bed, looking expectantly at Jane. "So what brought on the change of mood?" Erudite Emerald enquired. "Advice from a pulling-it-together sibling," Jane replied. "Same here." "Really?" "Yeah. Also kind of a jealous sibling, but that's a problem to be dealt with another day. -- You, Lynn?" "Job offer," the Purple Peril replied. Jane and Daria looked at her in surprise. "If the other thing doesn't work out." "Anyway," Jane cut in, "I wanted to show you this thing. I kind of got inspired." "Well, cast off the veil and let the art-life in!" With a little flourish, Jane unveiled the picture. First it showed Daria, Jane, Lynn and A.P., sitting on the LHS sign as they'd been -- God, was it really only yesterday? Above them were the graduates from the portrait Jane'd seen in her dream, with middle fingers raised at the world. Above each graduate was an older version of the subject -- Daria dressed as a news-hound as seen in black-and-white movies, Jane as an artist in terrifyingly stereotypical smock and beret, Lynn in normal clothes but as a book-jacket photo, and A.P. as Bill Gates. "I call it `The Three Ages of Cynicism.'" "That about caps it," Daria allowed as. "Now that we feel a bit better about ourselves," Lynn noted, "there's one more thing we ought to do."
* * *
Harris unlocked the door to his office and walked inside. As the door closed behind him, Daria, Jane, Lynn and A.P. approached. Lynn held out a hand to Jane, who passed over her Stikmata 5000 glue gun. Lynn sneaked up to the door with the glue gun and sealed the lock. Then she joins Daria, Jane and A.P. as they stood by and watched with matching smirks on their faces. "That smell..." Harris asked from the other side of the door, "...what's that smell? Ugh!" The door started rattling, but Harris couldn't shift it. "*Help! Help me, someone!*" "What'd you use on the door?" Daria wondered. "Industrial grade epoxy resin," Jane replied. "When only the *nastiest* will do!" A.P. added. "Did you do the windows?" Lynn checked. "All boarded and sealed!" the Psycho-Maverick confirmed. "What *is* he smelling?" Jane wondered. "I think it's best to leave that to your imagination," Lynn replied simply. "Bets on when he turns in his resignation?" Daria suggested. "I bet he starts working on it as soon as he gets out of there," Jane replied. "I don't agree," A.P. shook his head. "I bet he starts working on it while he's still *in* there." "*Please!" Harris was pleading now. "Someone! Get me out of here! That smell!*" Daria, Jane, Lynn and A.P. spared the door one last glance and then walked away from the sobbing beyond it. "*Someone please help me!*"
ADAPTOR'S NOTES The Vocational Guidance Counsellor sketch is the one I'd have thought of in the circumstances. John Cleese is the counsellor, Michael Palin is a chartered accountant who wants to be a lion tamer. The "And how are *you* today" aside refers to a line in Mary Chase's play _Harvey_ when somebody looks up _pooka_ in the dictionary and finds it defined as "a Celtic vegetative spirit, attracted to rum- pots, crackpots, and how are *you* today, Mr. Wilson?" Obligatory legal blap: Daria Morgendorffer was created (as were the rest of the Lawndale characters) by Glenn Eichler and Susie Lewis Lynn, and she and her neighbors are copyright 1993, 1997, 2000 MTV Networks, a Viacom company. (As Michelle Klein-Haess has pointed out, work-for-hire sucks the yolks from ostrich eggs.) Monty Python quotes and characters are copright 1970, 2000 Python (Monty) Pictures Ltd. They are here used, without the permission of their creators or owners, in the not-for-profit context of fan-fiction. The characters of Lynn Cullen and A.P. McIntyre are copyright 1999, 2000 Janet "Canadibrit" Neilson, as is this storyline, which was adapted by Austin Loomis (to whom the prose format version is copyright 2000) with permission. All other characters, locations and incidents (of which I don't think there are any, actually) are either imaginary or used fictitiously. Any coincidence of names is regretted, and any resemblance to persons living, dead, undead, or wandering the night in ghostly torment is either purely satirical or not my fault. As a "substantially transformative" derivative work, this story is protected by the Supreme Court's decision in re Campbell v. Acuff Rose Music. It may be freely redistributed as long as this copyright notice is maintained intact, but may not be in any way redistributed for profit without the permission of the legal owners of all concepts involved. The present author hereby gives permission for any and all keepers of Daria fanfic pages to archive this work (as if I could stop them). Any publication of this story for profit without the express written permission of Austin Loomis, Janet Neilson, Python (Monty) Pictures and MTV Networks (like any of that'll happen, especially the last) is strictly prohibited, and violators, if I ever decide to track them down, will be strung up by the thumbs, beaten about the head and shoulders with a free-range carrot, and then handed over to corporate lawyers who will do terrible things to them. On purpose.
Austin, and good day. Al D T0 W- Q Fw^Fr O+ Ow+OH+Of m c- MV+ F:111,208,313 BB+ FCT -DT+ q fJ^fj^fD