Short summary:


Ms. Li got LH staff to fix her newest acquisition – wooden camp buildings. Set before “IIFY?” movie.


Daria (and associated characters and locations) is copyright © 1997-2000 MTV Networks.


This story is copyright © 2002 by Bacner ( and has been written for personal enjoyment. No infringement of the above rights is intended.


Repairs – a mighty complicated thing.


Mr. DeMartino put the drill down on the floor, a began to clean his eyes, full of wooden dust. Trying to drill the necessary openings in the wooden walls, he already broke a third auger from supposedly stainless steel. First he mentioned Christ, Virgin Mary and the Holy Ghost in respect to Ms. Li’s determination, as she had bought this cam building so thoughtlessly. Then  - the Holy Ghost, Virgin Mary and Christ in respect to the inventor of stainless steel. His ears blushed, he hiccupped and dropped the hammer. Mr. DeMartino sadly watched as the heavy hammer, also put on a very long handle from suspiciously Whiter wood from the height of a step ladder flies straight into the Timothy O’Neill’s noggin. One could only hope that the feeling of peace won’t abandon the New-Age man even after such unpleasant event. As expected, nothing terrible didn’t happen – the hammer missed Mr. O’Neill noggin by a hair’s breath and shuttered on the floor, leaving the Irishman still absent-minded, or not, as Mr. O’Neill looked up, traced the falling route of the last for 300 leagues around hammer, and also mentioned Christ, Virgin Mary, and the Holy Ghost. Then also St. Peter. For a better, supposedly, expression. Into the room, that was supposed to be a dining room, flew infuriated Ms. Barch – somebody again stole from her a knife for wallpaper and she had to cut them with her huge two-hand shovel. Also Ms. Manson again covered her favourite “funny” wallpaper in elven style - twigs, leaves – with skulls and skeletons. A hangman was added to each branch.

“Where’s the knife? I’m asking you, where’s my knife?!”

The knife wasn’t found soon. In the Ms. Benson’s pocket, of course – she just couldn’t walk pass a thing, that wasn’t watched by anybody. Her thrifty nature prevented that. ‘Course, the Ms. Li preferred to call such thrift with a fancy word “kleptomania”, but out of all LH teachers only DeMartino and Manson knew its’ meaning. And didn’t tell anyone, what it meant.

Barch and O’Neill for some reason chose exactly the-lying-in-a-corner rolls of wallpaper and linoleum, to submerge in a discussion of some ideological problems.

Morris and DeFoe just fell asleep. On the sun. Pulling down the cowls and pulling the capes higher, they lay on steps, and on all questions answered, that they tan their legs, and that it’s the last word in fashion among the women of their age.

Manson coloured the living room’s platband, and, judging from the expression of the true happiness on her face, skulls, skeletons, ripped-off limbs and tomb-stones were again part of the decoration.

“God, what a mess!”, DeMartino mentally groaned, watching from the height of step-ladder’s second-to-last step what was happening around here. Barch busily restarted trying to sweep-off the garbage from the porch using her two-hand shovel. It wasn’t quite successful, but she seemed to be little bothered by it - apparently, she seriously became involved with inventing a new school of sweeping. Something like “Cleanness – clearly Woman”.

“Somebody, give me a nail?!” he yelled from the ceiling and looked down. Somebody didn’t respond. Morris half-opened one eye and thoughtfully stared at the DeMartino, looming somewhere above, like a giant compass. He reminded her of shadoofs of the wells in her native town. Benson responded after a few minutes. She dug in her pocket, chose among all nails must rusty and bent, and handed it over to the DeMartino.

“Give a good one!” DeMartino snapped.

“Right! So high, nothing is seen anyway. Why waste good nails?”

Mentioning all generations of English kings, DeMartino hammered the crooked nail into the wall. Because of its’ truly unique curvature, the ¾ of the blows – with the handle of his wood-carving knife, nothing else was left – happened through the hand. DeMartino emphatically wished good luck to students, who spoke of him, as of unfeeling jerk. And hoped, that their legends would be truth for at least this half an hour. The hand hurt.

Morris finally tore away from the discussions about Art and Phys-Ed and deigned to begin to wash the floors. DeMartino spitefully watched, as Ms. Muscle squeezes the mop. Apparently, the mop seemed to her something average between a cable and a dead cat.

O’Neill imitated her so well, that watching him DeFoe and Manson couldn’t restrain from laughter. The result of laughter was completely sad – Manson dropped the can with black paint, the oily paint spilled under O’Neill’s legs, he released the step ladder...

When O’Neill finally got-out from the ladder and DeMartino, on his usually pale physiognomy was such an excellent disguising colouring of black spots, dots and stripes, that one just wanted to sent him to resse. DeMartino did send him. Not to resse, of course, there’s barely anything worth to resse about in such parts. But – he sent him. Far away and in categorical form.

From the next room came a loud rustle, sound of something not-too-heavy falling and loud curses in all known and unknown speeches. Hurrying there, LH staff discovered almost buried under the mess of unstuck wallpapers Barch.

“I said so! I said so – we must glue using vinyl!!! Again couldn’t do it, parasite?!” she clearly planned to through this whole stick mess onto the Benson.

“Why at our place, why at our place... Why at our place the glue was always boiled from rabbits! Why my mother, she was such a housewife, you, scow, could never reach her, glued only with that...”

The moralizing voice of Morris came from the stairs.

“In the books of the Wise it is written: “Take one rabbit of average girth, the bark of Nurchaus tree, taken in the first full moon of the decade’s first year, shake it, boil it, and glue.”

“E... When will we reach the beginning of the new epoch?” O’Neill naïvely  asked.

“They who walk the paths of Modernity, remember, that the bark of that tree can be replaced by the substance “Bu-sti-lat”, dissolved half with water.”

Morris even rolled back her eyes, in the ecstasy of prophesying the great wisdom. This wisdom, unfortunately, was too dark. To complete misunderstanding.

Barch hysterically giggled, watching the disappointed faces of failed repairmen. Sitting on a mess of unstuck “funny” wallpaper, she looked most like an overgrown owl in its’ nest. Then her gaze stopped on Benson, who was trying to leave the room – quietly, sideways. Something suspiciously stuck-out from under her clothes. Like a Harpy or a Fury Barch lunged at her. After a second nothing could be distinguished, only loud shouts came.

“Give the glue back! Give the glue back, you accursed miser! Give it back, I’m telling you!”

“I’m won’t you great fool! I won’t!”

“Give it back!!!.

“Never! You uneconomically use it!!! A package for ten rolls – it’s unthinkable!!”

DeMartino pulled the aforementioned package of glue from under the combatants legs. On it in clear English letters said: “Vinyl glue. One package for five-six rolls”. DeMartino’s mood turned completely sour.

When the couple was calmed-down at last, he gave the package of glue to Barch, putting on the shoulder of Benson, who jerked towards her treasure, a heavy hand. Royally, one may say. It worked. DeFoe finally deigned to come into the room, intrigued by the noise. The rest followed. Something suddenly rustled in the corner, somewhere under the wallpaper. A hedgehog’s muzzle appeared from under the paper. The most adorable hedgehog, ever seen by any LH teacher.

“Breeding hedgehogs... No bedbugs?” Manson grumbled, foresightedly – what if they get dirty – raising the ends of her clothes. Then all momentarily turned deaf from the DeFoe’s lively squeal:

“He is so cute!”

The rest shuddered. This cru of joy usually came before a total anatomically-pathological examination of any object that caught the woman’s curiously, no matter how big or small. She grasped the poor hedgehog, quickly grasping it by hind legs. The hedgehog demonstrated its’ cute grey belly. From the window’s direction came a dreamy voice of the Manson:

“Let’s nail him to the window! It’ll look good...”

DeMartino examined the room. The wallpaper lay in a mess in a corner. The whitewash dripped with disgustingly white and juicy drops from the ceiling – Benson dissolved her four times more from her thrifty nature once again. The plinth lay in a terribly twisted position. Wooden chips, wallpaper clippings, a spilled box of excellent nail and a huge two-handed sword lay underfoot. All others raised more fuss around the hedgehog, than the football team with the football ball. DeMartino raised the hand with the whistle.

A terrible howl ripped the silence.

After ten minutes an ideal order reigned in the castle. DeMartino, whose ladder with firmly grasped by O’Neill, whose mouth was trustworthily closed by squeezed by the lips nails, hammered the dowel into an opening for the shelf. The hammer, found, as expected, in the Benson’s suitcase, hanged on his belt, firmly tied by the rope. The same Benson, after inserting a new auger into the drill, determinedly drilled the stone wall. The Morris saw a new plinth in the yard, finally armed with a plumb. DeFoe washed the floor in the dining room with her own hands. Manson carried the pails with the water. Barch stuck the fragmented wallpaper. Manson painted-over her artwork with some decent black paint. Overall – truly an idyllic picture...

DeFoe stumbled on the stairs and dumped water straight on Barch. She luxuriously got off the knees, took the mop, twisting it into an elegant mop, swung, and threw far over the castle’s wall. Tracing its’ way, she mentioned simultaneously Christ, St, Paul, Virgin Mary, the holy Ghost, St, Peter, Abraham and his descendants. O’Neill painfully blushed and dropped the drill. Judging by everything, it just had to fall on Manson’s leg. DeMartino bent and covered his ears...

“Repairs – a mighty complicated thing...” DeFoe said lyrically.