THERE'S SOMETHING ABOUT FIONA

Looking out through the grease streaked window of The Diner, Fiona watched the silver Mercedes wagon come to a stop in front of Andre’s Yoga studio. As was her habit, the bitch slid effortlessly out of the car and stood for a few moments beside the door. When she was sure everyone nearby had noticed her, she slowly and leisurely stretched like a cat waking from a long nap in the sun.

God, how I hate her, thought Fiona.

As usual, Mercedes Lady’s trim, beautifully toned body with all those not so subtle curves was showcased to best advantage in her usual royal blue Onesie from Lululemon. That must have cost Liam a couple of hundred bucks easily, mused Fiona. And what was even worse, that bitch has a different Onesie outfit for every day of the week. 

Fiona had been watching her for several months now and knew it to be true. 

I bet she just loves to spend his hard earned gig money on those fancy clothes and all she has to do for it is spread her legs from time to time. 

Fiona smiled at the thought of it all. In her imagination she could easily put herself on his bed, giving him a real workout.

Moving away from the car, Mercedes Lady turned and pointed the key at the door, followed by a soft beep and a quick flash of the lights. 

On her slim, delicate wrist, a silver Patek Philippe watch sparkled in the sun. From her on-line research, Fiona knew that it was a Calatrava model with a price tag of close to four thousand dollars. 

Bitterly, Fiona quickly did the math and knew that just the high-end yoga gear, the daily private lessons for the past six months at eighty bucks a pop and the Patek, all of it cost way more than Fiona’s wages and tips brought in over at least three, maybe four months.

God, how I hate her, thought Fiona.

Fiona placed the two hot breakfast plate specials – crispy bacon, two eggs over easy with multigrain toast and home fries – in front of the customers at Table Four and moved closer to the only smear free patch on the front window.

Damn, that bitch even moves like a well fed, satisfied cat. She doesn’t even walk the way normal women do. Look at the sassy swing of those hips and that tight, rippling ass. Jeez, she’s not even wearing any panties under that Onesie. If that isn’t advertising the product, I don’t know what is. 

Ho, thought Fiona. She’s probably getting it on with Andre right there on the sweat-stained yoga mat in front of that fake gas fireplace in his office. 

Fiona smiled at the thought, remembering how damned uncomfortable it had been for her in front of that very same fireplace. Of course, that was before Mercedes Lady came on the scene and Andre abruptly dumped Fiona with no real explanation.

How old is she? wondered Fiona. Maybe mid-thirties? Perhaps a carefully Botox’d the early forties? An expensive nip-tuck here and there along with a boob job can do wonders to turn a man’s head. Or other body parts. 

Fiona chuckled aloud at her private joke. Several nearby patrons looked up curious about the unexpected soft laugh.

Fiona moved slightly to the right so that she could better see her own reflection in the front window glass. She smirked admiringly. It’s all natural, baby. Eat your heart out. And just like she often did when checking herself out in The Diner’s window or more often, the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door, Fiona imagined herself naked, lying on Liam’s king size bed among the damp tangle of high thread count, Egyptian weave sheets.

Liam Brown was a music industry A-lister. A near legend in the country music scene across North America. Fiona knew all his musical stats by heart.  Four CMA awards. Third highest grossing concert act last year in the United States. Forty-four years old. Once divorced, married again three years this December to Mercedes Lady. When fans and even the folks here in town saw her with him, everybody immediately thought Trophy Wife. No kids from either marriage. The nicest guy you’d ever want to meet. Or sleep with, fantasized Fiona.

Of course, Fiona had all his albums. Knew the words to every one of his songs. Been to just about all of his concerts in Canada and a few in the US when she could afford it and get time off work. Her cherished collection of twenty-three of Liam’s concert T’s were all lined up in chronological order in that section of her bedroom closet exclusively reserved for Liam’s merchandise and the carefully chosen outfits she had worn to his concerts.

Fiona even had a small collection of the serviettes Liam had used whenever he had come in for breakfast at The Diner. Sometimes, when she held one of them to her face, she could smell his citrus scented after shave or even better, the intoxicatingly musky smell of his beautiful body and sweat. She kept them locked tightly in a zippy bag so his delicious scents wouldn’t disappear.

I bet that bitch hasn’t been to even half of his concerts. And better still, based on what Fiona had overheard Liam telling Teddie his road manager over breakfast at Table Two back on the July long weekend, the bitch was like a cadaver in bed. 

We don’t have sex anymore, Liam snorted between noisy bites on the crunchy bacon. Teddie laughed and said Liam sure as hell deserved better. Damn straight I do, said Liam.

It was just after that when he had glanced into the deep crease between the tops of Fiona’s boobs as she bent over to pour him a third cup of java. She lingered just a touch longer than necessary to give him a good look and get his imagination fired up. She was sure his strikingly blue-green eyes widened involuntarily. Fiona was happy that she had decided to wear her sexy black push-up that day. She knew from a whole lot of experience that it was a sure fire man-killer.

Shortly after Liam had eagerly stared down the front of Fiona’s blouse, he and Teddie had left the diner and headed out to Liam’s Durango with the distinctive bright red paint job. 

From her on-line research, Fiona knew that it was called Rock Lobster and was only available as an expensive custom order. Fiona could easily imagine herself in a matching Durango or maybe even a Ram Diesel that Liam would give her as a gift just to use when she was running around town doing errands for both of them.

That boob flash looky-loo was the precise moment when Fiona decided that bitch Mercedes Lady just had to die. And when that happened, Liam could have all of her. 

Fiona Eileen Webster, the next Mrs Liam Brown. Fiona repeated it several times to herself and really loved the sound of it. By the way, Liam always checked her out when he came into The Diner, Fiona had absolutely no doubt that he would quickly get over the unexpected death of Mercedes Lady.

Serious research on the net began when she got home from waiting tables that evening. 

Fiona was amazed at the amount of helpful information she could find that described various techniques for killing someone. After careful consideration of all the alternatives, Fiona decided that a small explosive device would easily kill the bitch. Yes, a bomb would do quite nicely.

But Fiona would need some help making it. Somebody that had the technical know-how to build it small and deadly but whom she could trust totally to keep their mouth shut. It took her only a moment to decide who she would get to help her.

Kyle Dunlap. Computer nerd and electronics whiz. Social inept. A loner. And best of all, hopelessly in love with Fiona. 

Ever since grade nine, Kyle had been like her own little puppy dog, always following Fiona around, willingly doing almost anything she asked of him. Whether it was writing her essay assignments or regularly scoring a large baggie of BC Gold from a dealer in Toronto. All of this for just a smile or a lingering soft fingertip brush on his cheek. Or starting about a year ago, the occasional romp in the sack whenever she felt the urgent need of it. Friends with benefits, she thought, that’s what the younger kids called it these days.

Ever since Fiona had turned her attention to winning Liam’s favours about six months ago, she had cut Kyle off. She never returned his pathetic, pleading emails or brutally ignored him when he came into The Diner for his usual noon hour BLT on toasted whole wheat, hoping desperately for a chance to speak with her. 

If she was going to permanently take care of Mercedes Lady she would need Kyle’s help with the bomb. So what if it meant a few bonus booty calls to ensure his help, it was all a small price to pay for soon having Liam all to herself.

It didn’t take Fiona much work at all to bring Kyle back under her spell. A carefully worded, slightly suggestive email here and there. A tongue tipped, pouty type smile whenever he came into The Diner. Sometimes a slim finger gently brushing across his hand as she put down his plate at the table. Soon they were having sex a couple of times a week and occasionally, Fiona even let Kyle sleep over. 

Men are so easy to manipulate, mused Fiona. They never seemed to learn that every gift of a sexual favour always comes with many strings attached. 

During her first week in grade nine, Fiona had quickly figured out that even if a girl with a body like hers over promised and under delivered, the guys would always come back panting for more.

After about a month of her deliberate campaign to seduce Kyle, Fiona shared her wish to teach the current Mrs Liam Brown a permanent lesson about the heavy cost of marital infidelity. 

Kyle was sipping a mug of freshly ground Brazilian coffee at her small kitchen table while openly ogling her naked body as she fried up some eggs before they both showered, dressed and headed off to work.

To her surprise, Kyle seemed eager to help her out. He asked a few more questions about the habits of Mercedes Lady and where and how Fiona imagined the bomb would be detonated. 

Give me a couple of weeks, Kyle said and I’ll have it ready for you. 

Fiona smiled and turned slightly into a backlit, side profile that she knew from experience would cause Kyle to forget the eggs and lead her eagerly back into the bedroom for yet another uninspired quickie.

First thing every weekday for the last few weeks, Fiona would watch that bitch park her car and swing her way into the yoga studio. There was a beat up, metal garbage can to the right side of the front door, sitting just below the ledge of the shop window. That was where she would have Kyle place the bomb.

Of course, when he had proudly shown it to her last night after work, Fiona made sure that she never touched any part of the small device. She noticed that Kyle always wore a pair of lightly powdered latex gloves whenever he handled the bomb. 

It was the size of a small milk carton which he carefully wrapped in plain brown shipping paper, securing everything with old used garden twine double knotted about the sides and ends of the package. He assured her that everything was untraceable.

You activate it, he said with some noticeable pride, by pre-dialing double zero into memory then pressing the Talk button on a throwaway phone that had a transmission range of just over a hundred yards. Kyle enthusiastically told Fiona how he had trial tested a prototype of the bomb and cell phone transmitter in McConnahie’s abandoned gravel pit out on the Fourth Line. Everything had worked perfectly.

The morning of the killing, Kyle came into The Diner sharp at 630. He sat at Table One just inside the front door. He had a well-used Goldie’s Gym bag with him that they had decided was the best way to carry the bomb and not arouse suspicion. 

Fiona came over to him, lightly touching his right hand which was still cool from the early morning air. She flashed him the warmest, sexiest smile she could manage.

And of course, as this was a very special day, Fiona wore her favourite blue denim blouse with the top three buttons undone to the point where the fringed top of her black lace bra that he so much loved to see her wearing, peeked invitingly out. 

As sure as ducks quack, Fiona knew that if Kyle was having second thoughts, the glimpse of the bra and the promise of the delights within would boost his courage, giving him the final push he needed to go through with it.

Kyle smiled and winked at her, then set upon his BLT with great, noisy gusto. Another customer came in and went to the table at the back of The Diner. Fiona excused herself and went back to take her order.

Kyle smiled to himself and slowly opened the gym bag on the floor beside his feet. He took out a small paper bag and pushed it under the bench of the booth. He checked to make sure it was almost out of sight and looked up to confirm that Fiona had now moved off to place the order at the cook’s window.

Satisfied, Kyle got up slowly and appeared to briefly lose his balance as he leant over to pick up the stained nylon bag. Using his right foot, he kicked the paper bag all the way under the bench. Apparently regaining his balance, Kyle straightened and whistling softly to himself, went out the door and casually jaywalked across Church Street toward Andre’s studio.

After Fiona had brought the pancake special to the woman at Table Nine, she moved back to the front window beside Table One. Through the window, she watched Kyle stroll up to the garbage pail, remove the lid with a slight tug and gently place the gym bag into the container. Carefully, he replaced the lid and looked up briefly at Fiona. With a slight nod and a wide, full smile, Kyle moved off down Church Street toward the large stone arch gates of Memorial Park. 

Everything was going as both he and Fiona had planned.

Kyle sat down on the rusted metal bench under the Four Soldiers statue and waited. Since the air still had a noticeable chill, he kept both of his hands tucked deeply into the side pockets of the Tough Duck brown canvas work coat that he always wore at this time of year.

At 730 the silver Mercedes wagon moved down the nearly empty street and parked in front of the yoga studio. Just as Fiona had promised, the woman easily slid out of the car, slowly and leisurely stretched like a cat waking from a long nap in the sun and moved easily to the door of the yoga studio. 

She’s a damn fine looking woman, thought Kyle. Liam was lucky to have her in his life. 

Mercedes Lady knocked twice and a man Kyle recognized as Andre, opened the door and said something to the woman. She laughed and stepped back slightly to move in through the opening.

Kyle took a deep breath and firmly pushed the Talk button on the phone in the front pocket of his Tough Duck. He smiled and held his breath for just a nanosecond before a sharp, deep explosion, instantly followed by a rolling, rapidly expanding bright red-orange fireball, blew out into the street.

The entire front of The Diner seemed to bulge out like an overfilled balloon and burst into a million deadly shards of wood and glass. A twisted and leaking pile of burning rags tumbled crazily through the air and plopped heavily into the middle of the roadway, with small pieces of smouldering debris from the explosion settling like wounded butterflies all around it. 

In the centre of the bundle’s bright yellow, flickering flames, Kyle could see the shredded bits of a blue denim blouse. Further across the street, beside the badly damaged Mercedes, a red stained, white Adidas runner, laces still tied, lay obscenely on its side.

Kyle smiled and got slowly up, walking briskly deeper into the park to the south end where he had parked his beat-up Jeep YJ.

Crazy bitch, he thought. You can play me once. Maybe twice. But you can’t play me for a sucker ever again. Fuck you, Fiona darling. May you rot in hell.

As Kyle turned right out of the parking lot, he thought that he would treat himself to a large Dark Roast double-double at the Tim’s drive-thru out on the Trans Canada before heading north toward a new life and identity waiting for him in Kenora.

First Publication: On December 4, 2014 in the UK e-zine www.close2thebone.co.uk. The above version has been edited slightly from the original story.

The Backstory: Someone I know has had first hand experience with being stalked by a crazed super-fan. I began to wonder what would happen if a super-fan decided to resort to extreme measures in order to be with her country music star. This story
is the result of my musings about just how this might play out.

Legal Rights. ‘There's Something About Fiona’ is the intellectual property of the author, Don Herald. No part of this story may be reproduced in any format without the written permission of the author.