Fantasy So Night Follows Day by TMaskedWriter

[Ramesh_Rocky]

So Night Follows Day Pt. 27

By T. MaskedWriter with special guest author Susan Bailey

"Abandon all hope, and don't rock the boat
and we'll all make a few hundred grand.
Everybody's tryin' a be a friend of mine.
Even a dog can shake hands.
You'll be making the scene, till they pick your bones clean.
No, they don't leave much for the fans.
Everybody's tryin' a be a friend of mine.
Even a dog can shake hands."
-Warren Zevon, "Even A Dog Can Shake Hands"

***

A note from T. MaskedWriter before we begin: As this story winds down, I'd like to say a word about feedback. I appreciate it. Even if you're telling me I suck, there might be something beyond awareness of my general suckiness to take away from it. It turns out that Comments Sections are for more than racism and political arguments. I know, I was shocked, too!

But seriously, on one of the sites that lets the writers see the numbers, my last short story got, as of this time, 5,417 views, 17 ratings, 2 favorites, and no comments. What this tells me as a writer: 5,375 people clicked on that last story (I figure 27 of those views have to have been me.), and of them, seventeen people had an opinion either way; two of whose were high enough to merit extra-special thanks, but none of which were strong enough to actually say anything about.

So yes, I'm aware that asking the internet for opinions is like standing naked and blindfolded with your hands tied behind your back, your dick dangling over a bear trap, and a box that says "Free Long Sticks" next to you. However, I'm trying to think what to do next after this story ends, so I'm open to ideas. A few things from comments have made it into the stories, too. Give it a try. I might be one of those cool people, I don't know.

But I'm interrupting Susan now. Thanks for listening.

* * *

Hi, Susan here. Troy Equals stood in silence, taking in the words that Contessa Helena de San Finzione had told him. That the woman who'd defeated African warlords, military coups, assassins immune to the secret power that she wielded, and the very Phone Company itself; had brought to our home something that even though she knew how to game, she was ultimately powerless to stop, and which he lived in fear of: The Media.

A few seconds passed. Then he walked to the closet, grabbed a handful of folded cardboard boxes, and went into the kitchen, all of us following him and asking what he was doing. Troy didn't say a word as he got a roll of tape and a pair of scissors from it. He walked toward their bedroom, dropping a couple of the boxes along the way. The questions continued until he sat on the corner of his and Julie's bed, over by the display of little best-friend gifts he and Julie had given each other over the years and started taping up the bottom of one of the boxes.

"Get the pictures in the living room and hall, Mistress. I'll secure these, then get to shredding everything in my office. Susan, you should take a couple up to your room and start packing too, I'll be up to help in a bit. I'll wipe the hard drives, all my business data's backed-up off-site, nobody's going to lose their money, I'll send a mass email to all my clients once we're on the way to San Finzione and I can set up shop again there. Looks like you're finally getting your wish, Helen. We're moving to San Finzione."

Helen looked like she expected an angry look and tone to go with those words but found a defeated grin and tone of "oh, well" instead.

"No!" I shouted. "This is not the end!" I turned to Helen. "What did that guy sign to you? How did he find us?"

"Julie's shoes." Helen replied. "He covered her art exhibit the week before this all started."

I began laughing. Troy set down the tape and scissors as everyone looked at me.

"Troilus, My Love." I told him, then turned to the others. "Julie, Helen; this 'problem,' this 'nightmare scenario,' has ALWAYS had a built-in solution!"