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Elasticity: now that’s the ticket!

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A Series of Unfortunate Debaggings, Chapter the Third: The Chivalrous Shibboleths

“Duncan Quagmire, Associated Press, reporting the morning news.” The Quagmire triplet spoke his most illustrious reporter’s voice into a conical black microphone connected by cord to a shiny recording device. “The air was abuzz last night with news that the Baudelaire orphans, Violet, Klaus, Sunny, and Beatrice, were recently and miraculously rescued while lost at sea. I’m with them here and now on the Great Unknown to catch their story. Baudelaires: how do you do?”

“I’m doing splendidly, thank you very much, Duncan,” replied Violet. “And thank you for asking. My father always taught us that ‘how do you do?’ is an excellent way to begin a conversation with someone you don’t know or haven’t seen in a long while.” 

“Our mother gave us exactly the same advice!” cried Isadora. “I cannot *wait* to discover all the similarities in the ways we were raised. It’s like our lives rhyme!” 

“Plenty of parents teach their children to ask, ‘how do you do?’ when starting a conversation, you know,” Klaus pointed out dryly.

“No reality has the power to dispel a dream,” Isadora quoted in response.

“Our mother taught us that, too,” said Violet, slightly unsettled now. “I always assumed *she* was the one who coined the phrase, but maybe she learned it from someone.”

“And maybe our father learned it from that same someone,” said Quigley.

“Such a specific phrase may have origins in antiquity,” speculated Klaus, scratching his chin. “Philosophy often deals with the interface of the realm of dreams and empirical reality. Perhaps it was an aphorism of Aristotle’s, passed through the generations, just as--” 

“Aaaand, that’s why we’re here to record your story now, Baudelaires,” Duncan interrupted, bringing the conversation back to reality. “To tell a story worth our future children’s time. I’m sure plenty of fascinating adventures have come your way in over two years, Baudelaires.”

“One was on the island,” interjected Sunny.

“I’m sure plenty of fascinating adventures have come your way in over *one* year, Baudelaires,” repeated Duncan in the same tone with the addition of only a slightly irritated edge. “Any fancy, glossy moments come to mind?”

The Baudelaires looked at one another, trying to condense all their experiences, from traumatic to thrilling to transcendent, into a single narrative. Then words began to spill out, tripping one over the other.

“Briny Beach was just as foggy the third time,” began Klaus.

“But the Beatrice was wearing thin after all the storms,” said Violet.

“Nobody liked my white bean miso,” whined Sunny.

“What about those reptiles we followed?“ suggested Violet.

“Don’t ever ask a peddling law clerk for directions to the library,” advised Klaus.

“Where our parents got into a piano,” recollected Sunny. 

“But none of you witnessed our day at court, did you?” asked Klaus.

“We finally found the Sugar Bowl!” spurted Violet.

“Lots and lots of falling pennies!” squealed Sunny.

“Klaus was nearly molested” remarked Violet.

“And the female pirates took Violet captive,” added Klaus.

“Pushing him into the fountain!” cackled Sunny.

“CO-CO-NUUUT!” cried Beatrice.

Duncan pursed his lips, stopping himself short of a full pout. “Well--thank you for all the material! But you know, Baudelaires, why don’t we start with how you ended up finding us and go on from there.”

“That’s *my* part of the story,” Klaus claimed self-importantly. “I’m sure you’ve all read An Incomplete History of Secret Organizations, so I don’t have to go into the masterpiece now.”

“Oh...Yeah... I’ve read that one,” said Quigley, spaced out and scratching the back of his neck, working out how he’d find a copy.

“My siblings and I, however, didn’t have a chance to read it until one *finally* washed up to the Island, as part of Kit’s vaporetto. That’s when we realized we had to leave the Island for the City, to interrogate the few survivors. Along the way, we learned all about the bombinating beast and its calling device.”

“I remember!” volunteered Sunny, “The Question Mark in the sand.”

“Yes, you were astute enough to remember the statuette that washed up, you’re right Sunny!” Violet confirmed for the Quagmires. “That’s why I improved the design of the Beatrice and we set sail once more, visiting VFD ruins for clues before returning to the Island.”

“...and blowing us the signal,” finished Quigley, making the connection himself. “I immediately pinpointed the source of the sound and helped Fiona plot the speediest course to retrieve you. Widdershins and Josephine assumed you’d be volunteers, since who else on the Island would know to blow the bombinating bugle?” 

“I, on the other hand, thought it was a commoner with a suicide wish, trusting the ancient legends,” contributed Isadora, darkly.

“In other news,” came Duncan’s baritone reporter’s voice again, “a co-captain of The Great Unknown has reported a debagging to the authorities. Co-Captain Widdershins--about the same age as Hector and Josephine and the Snickets and other volunteers from that whole generation--well, the Co-Captain claims another sailor stole all of his outerwear while he was in the shower, leaving him with no garments but his off-white woolen union suit underwear, extending to the wrists and ankles. The perpetrator of this grave crime is still at large. And now a question for Klaus Baudelaire: how do you feel about your status as a potential victim of debagging? Does the threat make you feel uncomfortable?”

Duncan stuck the microphone under Klaus’s spectacled face, drawing all eyes to the bookworm orphan. He squirmed silently for a moment, clutching his sandy off-white trousers. “This question makes me feel uncomfortable,” he responded eventually. “The question you should have asked is, ‘How are we going to come together to bring this debagger to justice?’. And why was the question directed at *me*?”

He shrugged. “You’re the only one I see with trousers on.”

“You mean the only Baudelaire with trousers on,” corrected Quigley. “We could both be debagged, too, you know.”

Duncan shooed his brother off with a flick of the wrist, “Nah, this whole conundrum started when the Baudelaires arrived. And the three of us do so little on the ship that I doubt anyone cares enough to debag us.”

“Speak for yourself, Duncan,” Quigley replied. “With Fiona’s hectic duties, she certainly appreciates my assistance.”

“Can I get de-bagged?” asked Sunny in adorable broken-up syllables before Duncan could retort.

“Nope, sorry, Sunny,“ replied Isadora. “ ‘Oxford bags’ is another word for ‘trousers.’ So getting de-bagged while wearing a dress is physically impossible.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if I got debagged.” Quigley followed up thoughtfully. “Just pull my trousers back up and laugh it off, I guess.”

“And if it happened to me,” said Duncan, still in his professional baritone reporter’s voice, “I would scream like a little baby and wiggle my naked legs around. This has been: Duncan Quagmire, reporting from The Great Unknown.”

He clicked off the clunky cassette recorder and turned to Violet, flashing her a proud, expectant smile. She returned it with a unimpressed glower.

“It really is remarkable we recovered this statuette.” When Klaus began talking about a passion, it was difficult for him to stop, even when he realized no one was interested anymore. “Would you Quagmires like a look?”

Duncan and Quigley hurriedly excused themselves for lunch, but Isadora humored her old prep school crush. “Alright, Isadora, but it’s in the men’s bunk, so you’ll need to wait here as I retrieve it.” 

“Your brother is well-read and charming,” said Isadora shaking her head fondly. “But has he always been this... self-assured?”

“I’ve found that small victories like the recovery of an ancient artifact can get to his head,” Violet explained to her.

“I think I liked him better at Prufrock Prep, when we broke every rule together,” giggled Isadora. “Remember eating gazpacho with our hands tied?” But before the girls could further reminisce, Klaus had returned with a panic-stricken look.

“Egad! While we were in the interview, the statuette was stolen!”

#baudelaire #asoue #fanfic

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Chapter the Second: The Terrorizing Pteropods (A Series of Unfortunate Debaggings)

“It’s just a few dozen meters below the surface: the mesophotic stratum, also known as the Twilight Zone.” 

Violet, Klaus, and the Quagmire triplets sat on stools around a table in a bright but subdued tearoom while listening to Josephine tell her story. This was just down the passage from the antechamber where the Beatrice still lay. Wobbly and narrow, the dark passage they had just traversed was, the Baudelaires assumed, the neck of the beast.

“A little known fact,” continued Josephine, “even among VFD agents, is that the tunnels of Anwhistle Aquatics have many entrances, from the Island to the mouths of Curdled Cave and the Gorgonian Grotto to a whole complex lattice underneath Ike’s and my Lake Lachrymose.”

“Most maps call it Lake Pontchartrain,” clarified Quigley.

“Life’s too short to learn French,” Josephine replied with a dismissive wave. “Besides, their nasal phonemes frighten me.” She shuddered as she sipped her thé à la menthe. “Where was I? Oh, yes: when Olaf pushed me overboard, all I did was doff my life jacket (smeared with a juicy banana peel, of course) and dive to the twilit lake bed where an underwater opening I had constructed years ago lay.”

“According to archival records,” said Duncan, flipping through his commonplace book, “The tunnels of Anwhistle Aquatics were completed not long before we and the Baudelaires were born. And didn’t you mean to use the intransitive form of ‘lay’ just now, which is ‘lie’?’

“I did use the intransitive form: ‘lay’ is also the simple past tense of ‘lie,’ you wily little fox! And yes,” Josephine sighed nostalgically. “that was the golden age of VFD. If only you youngsters could have seen it! Those tunnels are one of the grandest works VFD has ever undertaken! While many in the city, your parents included, helped the expansion of the old catacombs on the south shore, Ike and I spearheaded the construction of multiple tunnels throughout Lake Lachrymose.”

“But how did you find the entrance?” asked Klaus suspiciously. “No matter how many tunnels underlie such a large lake, it’s still statistically improbable.”

“Our trip back to Damocles Dock passed directly overhead one of the largest ones. I directed us that way! I wasn’t taking any chances with Olaf around.” She shuddered. “And at the end of the tunnel was the light of this old submarine! Ike and I used it to explore every crevice of that lake. Those were also the years when we raised our dear son.”

“The best years of our lives,” said Fernald, stepping into the tea room, swinging his hooks.

“But how on Earth did you survive the leeches?” Violet probed further.

“All those rumors of death by leech bite are overblown,” said Fernald with a snort, setting down a sugar bowl.

“Your poor father would beg to differ, Fernald,” said Josephine with a sigh. “I understand why you and Fiona ended up leaving for the Queequeg: my mourning period was nearly interminable.”

“Ike was the exception,” Fernald explained for the sakes of the orphans. “He was coagulopathic, like me. Coagulopathic is a word which here means--”

“That his blood didn’t clot normally, leading to excessive bleeding?” finished Klaus.

“Why do I even bother explaining my life,” Fernald said contemptuously. “You think you know it better than I do, don’t you, bookworm? Then explain these!” he brandished his hooks menacingly.

“You just told us you were coagulopathic,” reasoned Klaus, “so I surmise your hands had to be amputated by tourniquet after the Anwhistle Aquatics incident, to slow the bleeding?”

“May we please talk about something other than death and injury to my close family?” interjected Josephine desperately. 

“I’m sorry, Josephine,” said Klaus. “Where were you in your story? The, uh, ‘deadly’ leeches?”

“I apologize for bringing up the subject,” added Violet hastily, “It’s perfectly understandable if you’d prefer to talk about something more--”

“Oh, I can handle leeches!” interrupted Josephine with a dismissive wave of her hand. “But please, never ask me about... tuna fish,” she shuddered and peered through the submarine window to make sure no tuna were swimming nearby. Then she breathed deeply and launched into her zoological explanation: “Lachrymose leeches are a misnomer, like the Incredibly Deadly Viper, or koala bears. Lachrymose leeches aren’t annelids, sea serpents aren’t reptiles, and the bombinating beast isn’t a mammal. All of them are, in fact, one and the same: a hybrid devised by VFD from highly advanced species of mollusk.”

The phrase “one and the same” of course, is a hackneyed redundancy, but the Baudelaires were too polite to point this out to Josephine in the moment.

“Es-car-go(t)?” said Beatrice, popping out from under the table cloth.

“Oohh! That baby gives me such a start,” cried Josephine. Then she leaned down to Beatrice. “You’re right, Sunny! Snails are mollusks! I see your brother has already taught you taxonomy! And French...” she finished under her breath with a guffaw.

“That’s Beatrice Baudelaire II, actually,” Klaus corrected. “She’s wearing Sunny’s old clothes.”

“Oh, that’s right--Sunny’s with Phil in the kitchen. Then where did this baby... Violet? Klaus?” She eyed the Baudelaires sternly. “Do you have something you’d like to tell your Aunt Josephine?”

“Beatrice is Kit Snicket’s daughter, Josephine,” Violet said hastily. “Her father is Dewey Denouement, we think.”

“What a fortunate woman! And why didn’t Kit come with you, Baudelaires? I know, she must be on a VFD mission herself. That woman has always been the adventurous type! Where is she off to now, Baudelaires?”

Only the bombinating white noise of the submarine filled the air before Klaus finally broke the news. “She’s dead, Josephine.” 

“The Medusoid Mycelium killed her,” added Violet in low monotone.

“Oh, good Lord!” wailed Josephine, clutching her heart. “I was wondering why she never sent a single line of Volunteer Factual Dispatch.”

As the Baudelaires recollected the painful and tragic death of Kit Snicket, they couldn’t help breaking into tears, despite a desire to look strong in front of the Quagmires. When others close to you experience or relive unfortunate events, it is only natural for you to feel some of their pain, even if you don’t truly know what they’re going through. Quigley hung his head and shook it slowly in mourning. Isadora appeared melancholy but fulfilled--perhaps already drafting her next sad poem. Even Phil and Sunny came in to investigate the din, a word which here means, “the tears of noble volunteers confronting the ubiquity of evil.” But it was Duncan who sobbed the most uncontrollably. “I don’t even remember what she looked like!”

“And what about Olaf?” demanded Fernald. “Did you orphans kill him, too?” he asked coldly, like a cold-blooded cobra out in the cold with no clothes on, who’d caught a cold, on a night that happened to be unusually cold.

Violet and Klaus exchanged red-eyed glances. “Ishmael did it,” said Sunny. “With a harpoon.”

“He preferred ‘Ish,’“ clarified Klaus.

Fernald drummed the prongs of his hook against the table menacingly. “And you just let it all happen?”

“I suppose we could have done more to help Olaf’s wound,” conceded Violet when pierced by Fernald’s gaze. “But it all happened so fast! And Kit didn’t want the antidote we offered; she sacrificed herself for Beatrice.”

Before anyone could respond, Co-Captain Widdershins made a highly unusual announcement that I hope you, dear reader, have never had the misfortune of making, using a word that I hope you, dear reader, have never had the misfortune of learning. The word, chiefly British, refers to the action of stealthily approaching another person and yanking down their trousers before they have the chance to defensively clutch their waistband. However, a broader definition entails any circumstance yielding a person trouser-free without their free volition. There are many reasons a debagger may perform such a nefarious act. Often, it is performed as a prank among friends. More often, it is performed as a cruel act in an involuntary social venue, such as Prufrock Preparatory School, by an insecure underachieving bully, such as Count Olaf, on a self-righteous rule-abiding victim, such as Bertrand Baudelaire. But in the case of Co-Captain Widdershins, I am sorry to report, this humiliating act was intended as a threat.

“Blasted barrels of barnacles!” came Co-Captain Widdershins’ fuzzy British accent over the submarine’s intercom system. “I’ve been debagged!”

#asoue baudelaire

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A Series of Unfortunate Debaggings, Chapter the First: The Wretched Reunion

If you are looking for happy-go-lucky Tumblr posts, dear reader, then exit out of this browser tab this instant. Then open your search engine of choice and enter “octogenarian makes friends with a hummingbird.” Or, better yet, destroy your electronic device in a fire and never open an internet browser again, sparing yourself from the cruelty and misfortunes of the world.

You see, dear reader, it is a sad truth in life that order continually diminishes. A cracked egg may never uncrack, yet clean, white eggs everywhere continue to fall off refrigerator shelves, adding to the world’s misfortune and chaos. A secret organization, however brilliant, talented, and kind its members were, may never truly heal after a devastating schism. And the corpse of a cherished loved one will never, ever unburn, no matter how grievously an author weeps over the pitiful tale. 

In the story I am about to tell, I am sorry to report on a panoply of augmenting disorganization, a phrase which here means “not what you want to read.” Orphans grow two years older, and with those years develop styles and interests ever more macabre and meterless--which is to say, one orphan does that. Mystery and intrigue each grow heavier and more complex, like how the derelicts that fill your recycling bin grow heavier and more complex with each passing day. And finally, all the young men in this tale (with the exception of one) are eventually separated from their clean-pressed trousers, left for the remainder of the tale with their scandalously mid-twentieth century underpants exposed.

This story begins like many before it: Violet, Klaus, Sunny, and Beatrice Baudelaire were charming, resourceful children, each with pleasant facial features and each with certain precocious gifts in the arts or sciences, such as memorizing and reciting passages of British Modernist poetry.

“We shall not cease from exploration,” recited Klaus, expertly steering the Beatrice onward. The outrigger bobbed in the gentle waves as it approached a safe gap in the line of ominous jagged rocks on the horizon that Violet had identified.

“And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.”

As the four Baudelaires walked across the sand and then through the waterfall of foliage on the hill separating the halves of their island, Violet recited the next stanza:

“Through the unknown, unremembered gate,” When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall.”

All at once, fond and wretched memories swarmed together. At last, the Baudelaires were back at the tree. The tree where their parents had lived and ruled. The tree that held secrets below the root. The tree that had saved them from a sad, painful death.

“And the children in the apple-tree” finished Sunny.

“I’ve always found T.S. Eliot opaque,” noted Klaus, “but that poem of his is clearly relevant to our situation today, don’t you think? Who would have thought we’d return to this apple tree?” 

“Before you wax too romantic,” Violet said warmly but firmly, “Don’t forget our purpose here: to collect supplies and leave this evening. If we leave too late, we may be living on this island another year thanks to the tides.”

“Yeah, I’ll be in the library” said Klaus vacantly rushing away, past the old elephant skeleton and into the open arboretum. Violet shook her head, knowing exactly what silly trinket Klaus would be fruitlessly searching for all day.

As afternoon rudely pushed into evening, desperation rudely pushed Klaus to the ground, as he kicked and tossed flotsam around near his feet. The most interesting artifact he had found today was his old concierge shirt, which he now wore to complement his sandy trousers. “I know it’s here...” he murmured to himself. “Father--what would you have done?” That’s when a new idea struck the middle Baudelaire, a bit like the moment when Violet’s hero Sir Isaac Newton was struck by his big idea.

“Last year,” he asked Violet breathlessly as they rushed past each other in the arboretum, “Did you ever look behind the book case in Ishmael’s upper room?”

“No... but remember, Klaus: no matter what, we’re leaving this wasteland tonight at the violet hour. If the tide recedes too far, the Beatrice will scrape the rocky atoll and may sink!

But Klaus was already gone. Up the stairs of the massive apple tree Klaus ran. In Ishmael’s upper chamber, bookcases had been carved into the tree itself, with centuries of histories of the island filling the space. Klaus spent several minutes finding the volume that about the first arrival of “Ish” to the island. Reaching deep into the carved space behind this volume, Klaus finally touched what he was looking for. Greedily grabbing the long, mahogany object, he blew, long and steadily, even though it was Decision Day and not Rosh Hashanah.

Satisfied, Klaus joined his family. They took Beatrice on a visit to her mother’s grave to place flowers and recite to the young girl their precious few memories of her mother. After Sunny and Beatrice went off to finish dinner preparation, Violet and Klaus stood pensively over Olaf’s grave. Then Violet spoke, flatly:

“We learned so much from him.”

Klaus stared. “I mean, he was a horrible villain,” Violet clarified, “but if it hadn’t been for the pressure he placed on us, I never would have thought of so many inventions, and you never would have learned about nuptial law, for example.”

Klaus nodded. “And I doubt he’s responsible for our parents’ deaths, anyway.”

“Oh, don’t bring that up again, Klaus,” said Violet shaking her head and walking away. “Of course it was him!”

“But he didn’t confess, even when we finally pressed him!” Klaus called after her. “Even on his deathbed! Even after he saved Kit!”

Later, over a parting supper of smoked oysters, seaweed wraps, and coconut smoothies, the cook confronted her brother about his wasted hours during the others’ laborious day: “What’s in the box?” Sunny asked perkily. After a day of labor, all Klaus had to offer the boating party was a light, tightly wrapped package shaped like a question mark.

“Oh, it’s just an old artifact I was researching. You know, once we have our fortune, I think that’s what I think I’d like to do with my life: collect artifacts, become a successful archaeologist. I think VFD has prepared me well for decrypting ancient languages.” 

“Maybe we’ll find more artifacts on the next island we come by,” Violet replied, passing the seaweed to Beatrice. “Sunny and I made sure our supplies will last another year if need be.”

“Excellent work,” Klaus congratulated them. “And what method of propulsion will we be using this time? How can I help with that?”

“Generally, the sail should be sufficient. The tide is receding, so we don’t need any additional thrust: the water pressure on the single opening in this atoll will generate a current swift enough to propel the Beatrice outward to sea.” Violet took a sip of unfermented coconut smoothie. “Swimmingly. This day has gone swimmingly.”

As you may know, “swimmingly” is a word which here means “well” or “splendidly” or “lacking a villain to inflict unfortunate events upon you.” But anyone who, while swimming, has gazed into the murky depths beneath their vulnerable, dangling legs, or who has been subjected to a physical education class in a swimming pool will know just how ridiculous this definition of “swimmingly” is. Too often, swimming is an involuntary, unnecessary, and downright cruel activity. For instance, my day once went “swimmingly” because I was pursued through a fire pond by a pulchritudinous platypus. I’m sorry to report that the Baudelaires’ day was about to become worse than that one.

The Baudelaire’s evening continued to go swimmingly, or perhaps sailingly. Just as Violet predicted, the Beatrice was pulled by the receding tide toward the gap in the atoll, which would free them into the open sea. Out of the blue, Sunny asked, “What’s that?” happily pointing. Out of the blue sea, exactly behind the gap in the atoll, a sharp, scaly plate covered in seaweed was emerging. Then came another, and another, until The Great Unknown had fully reared its ugly, pointed head. Enormous and slippery, desperate and hungry, it hung its jaw agape, ready to let in any driftwood, sea water, or passing sting rays past its six shiny rows of very sharp teeth. Even if the Baudelaires had abandoned ship right then, the current would undoubtedly have swallowed all who traveled--whether swimmingly or sailingly--into the jaws of The Great Unknown.

Beatrice screamed as the bombinating beast obscured the setting sun. Violet wept profusely, thinking of the promise she made to keep her siblings safe. Klaus stared fixedly into an eye of the beast, as though hypnotized. Sunny simply smiled.

“Come, sweet death!” she cried as the jaws of the bombinating beast crashed down, enveloping all four Baudelaires, Beatrice and all.

***

“Baudelaires!” As soon as the children came to, they found themselves inside what could have been the Curdled Cave but warm and oddly lit. “Oh, Baudelaires! I’ve been so afraid! I’ve been absolutely panic-stricken on your behalf! But you’ve returned to my care!”

“Josephine?” asked Klaus, astonished. Indeed, the Baudelaires’ second cousin’s sister-in-law whom they knew as Aunt Josephine stood on a ledge, glowing in a white robe over the confused, distraught Baudelaires.

“Don’t be afraid! I would come down to hug each one of you if I wasn’t afraid of the germs and leeches that may have washed in along with all that kelp and sea water.”

“Ike?” asked Sunny, suddenly recalling the image of Josephine’s late husband the cave explorer resting in a warm place in the afterlife. Then, with wide eyes, Sunny asked more softly, “Parents?”

Josephine looked at Sunny confused for a moment. Then she cocked her head to one side, smiling poignantly at the young girl. “I don’t know where your parents are. I’m sorry, honey. And you really must learn to speak in complete sentences someday, Sunny,” she added with disappointment.

“But look on the bright side:” yelled a figure, emerging on crutches from the dark. “You’re alive!”

“Phil!” cried Violet, rushing in to hug the optimist. 

“We’re alive?” mirrored Sunny with confusion.

“‘Baudelaire orphans found alive!’ That’s the headline I would submit to The Daily Punctilio if nefarious villains intent on hunting us all down weren’t lurking around every street corner.”

“Duncan!” shouted Violet running further into the cave to hug yet another friend from her past. “And Quigley?”

For a brief moment, Duncan’s face dropped. The thrill in Violet’s voice, the distance in her eyes, the emphasis she placed on his brother’s name--all of it indicated to Duncan that he was her second favorite. But just as quickly, Duncan returned to grinning and stepped aside for his triplet brother to hug the eldest Baudelaire. 

“Words:“ began Isadora in the tone of a slam poet, everything about her style now black and bleak as she leaned against a wall obscured in shadow. “Why torment me? Why needle and prod me as you do with meaning? If I repeat you, words, over and over, meaningless you become. When our Selves defy measure and lilt and vowels--even grammar!--who dares, dares to confine this Ether reality, this cryptic vivacity, this Great Unknown! inside of--words.” She and Klaus smiled shyly at each other while others sounded their approval.

“But how did you find us here?” Violet questioned after a few pitying snaps. “What brought you to this island?”

“Do you have food?” Sunny demanded. “Can I help?”

“What even is this place?” Violet enquired. “A camouflaged submarine?”

“Why are you alive?” Sunny asked Josephine.

“Selmo!” shouted Beatrice.

“Calm yourselves, Baudelaires! For once, all that is mysterious to you shall soon be revealed--I promise.” proclaimed Josephine, still perched authoritatively from her ledge.

“Even to those of you without any questions...” remarked Quigley, glancing askance at the middle Baudelaire. 

“Why so quiet, Klaus?” asked Isadora with a teasing smile.

The middle Baudelaire orphan had remained remarkably calm this whole time, as if non-plussed by the situation. He shrugged nonchalantly “After you’ve read the book that answers the questions that burn like a fire in the mind, the act of asking feels--hollow. There’s just one burning question I’d like an answer to: where’s Fiona?”

“Oh, Klaus! You mustn’t end an independent clause with a preposition,” Josephine chided with motherly concern. “My daughter is busy on the command deck with my husband. The two are co-captains now!”

“Actually, Aunt Josephine, I find that preposition rule antiquated nowadays. Plenty of authors simply ignore it.”

“Hmph, your grammatical proclivities may be on the, er, modern side, Klaus Baudelaire, but for as long as you’re under my submarine walls, I insist that yo--”

“Wait!” interrupted Violet. “Fiona is your daughter, Aunt Josephine?! Does that mean she’s our,” Violet gulped, “cousin?”

“All of your questions will be answered, dear Baudelaires! For example, ‘technically speaking, second cousins once removed,’ is the answer to your most recent of inquiries, Violet, darling.”

“First let me serve them tea, Josephine!” pleaded Phil angelically. “I want to try a special recipe: bitter as wormwood and sharp as a two-edged sword.”

Sunny yipped in agreement, following Phil down a shady corridor, deep into The Great Unknown.

“After you, Violet,” said Duncan with an unctuous smile and hand gesture. I needn’t tell you, dear reader, how eagerly the three Quagmires and four Baudelaires came together for tea, ready to reconnect after years of cruel wrenching apart. But one detail that may intrigue you remains. For in the interim, a word which here means, “the duration in which Phil offered the Baudelaires tea and Josephine offered the Baudelaires her tale of survival,” or “Chapter 2 of this narrative,” a mysterious figure reentered the anteroom to rearrange the kelp that had washed aboard The Great Unknown along with the Baudelaires. I regret to inform you, dear reader, that this rearranged kelp formed letters on the wall, and that those letters formed a cryptic couplet, and that cryptic couplet formed a threat to all aboard:

“Abandon ship or abandon pants./ Your fates are sealed; leave naught to chance.”

And so began, dear reader, a series of unfortunate debaggings along the eerie corridors of The Great Unknown.

#lemony snicket #fanfic

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Such were the “boxing shorts” to which we all owe a debt of gratitude