The Jennifer Morgue by Charles Stross.
Stross seems to have had more fun with this piece than SingularitySky; from diction to denouement, he just comes across a bit more in control of his literary shit. Although I can't shake the feeling that Scott Adams actually wrote this book after being dumped and forced to spend a recuperative week on absinthe with Clive Cussler.
She menaces me with her perfect dentistry again.
He stabs at the mouse mat with one finger and I wince, but instead of fat purple sparks and a hideous soul-sucking manifestation, it simple wakes up his Windows box. (Not that there's much difference.)
It's funny how she's nothing like as glamorous when I'm sharing my eyeballs with Ramona; or maybe it's something to do with the combat fatigues, life preserver, and smudged make-up, not to mention the stench of ancient death she drags around like a favorite toy that she can't bear to let go of.