A/N: You know what's coming. I, Elflord, do not own Sunny, Klaus, or Violet
Baudelaire. Don't own Olaf. Don't own Lemony Snicket, though I wish I did.
Don't own the kind editor. Don't own any ASOUE characters at all . . . This
is getting depressing. Never mind. I don't wanna think about it.
This supposedly takes place after Hostile Hospital. At this time, as you may know, the Baudelaire's are hiding in the trunk of Count Olaf's car. They are frightened and cold and hungry, but for the time being, they are safe. However, according to my strange sense of plotline, our good, noble friend, Mr. Snicket, is not quite as lucky. . .
With All Due Respect. . .
The words of Snicket
Found in the files of a very wealthy, very kind editor, name unknown. . .
To my kind editor,
Please excuse the dust and sweat stains smudged on this letter. Though I cannot at this time disclose my exact location, I am fast on the track following the large maroon car. Along with containing an extraordinarily vile theatre troop, an absurd, exceedingly rude, and murderous fashionable woman, and perhaps the most terrible man that ever lived, this car contains, ingeniously hidden in the trunk, all three Baudelaire orphans.
As you may know, I have just recently returned from burying my dear brother, and now, every night and every day, I am plagued with unending guilt. You must understand my situation could have been characterized as a Catch-22, a phrase which here means a situation in which no positive solution is possible, no matter what choices are made. Had I not taken time to bury my poor, wronged brother, I would have had to endure incredible inner anguish, which sometimes I wonder if I had even one more bit of agony in my life, I would fall down and die. However, if I left my unending work reporting and protecting the Baudelaire children, I would be leaving them at a terrible risk. At this time, I felt the more pressing matter would be to pay my last respects to my dear younger brother Jacque. In my decision, I had the misfortune to find out only too late, that one of the Baudelaire parents, of which were formerly a couple of my very best friends, may indeed still be alive.
It is growing dark and I must find a place to sleep soon. I shall send you word as soon as possible.
With all due respect,
Lemony Snicket
To my kind editor,
Please excuse my absolutely erratic and illegible handwriting. Emotions have completely overtaken me at this moment, and I cannot find the mental strength to neaten my handwriting. I have only a few minutes to write, so unfortunately, my lithographical etiquette must be please excused.
The police are surrounding my room, but they will not be able to catch me. My pistols are loaded, my research is packed safely away in my suitcase, and the locket containing a portrait of my dear, precious, beloved, Beatrice, is guarding my heart. Do not fear for my safety. As you know, I have been in many such situations before and gotten out safely, and if I can do it once, I can do it again. I am sure that this surprise appearance of the police must be Count Olaf's doing, and I will not let him succeed in his dastardly agenda. If one of the Baudelaire parents is alive, and I am determined to find them myself. I will, at last, repent my sins. For the first time ever, I have a chance to change the circumstances of the Baudelaires' miserable lives, and I am not passing it up for anything, especially not a troop of flatfooted cops. They are dimwitted, I am intelligent. They are slow, I am spry. They will not catch me. I cannot let it happen.
I owe you everything, sir. Whatever may occur in the next few hours, always remember that I recognize that I owe you everything.
With all due respect,
Lemony Snicket
To my kind editor,
Please excuse these tearstained pages; it must be making all the words quite blurry. Of all my strength, I cannot stop crying. In all my days, save for those few grim, dark days directly following the death of my dear, dear Beatrice, I have not suffered such agony. Perhaps I must first explain all that has transpired since the last letter I sent.
Due to a certain miscalculation on my part, I have been taken into the authorities' custody. Why didn't I have the foresight to think they'd bring tranquilizers? Why did I go left when I should have gone right? Of that I cannot either answer or even begin to consider. That night I wrote that letter was one of the most unfortunate nights as I have ever endured. Of what Count Olaf must have told the authorities about me, I know not, but there is no doubt that most, if not all of it, was lies.
At this very moment, I am writing by the light of the moon, bracing my paper on the floor of my jail cell. This cell, however dingy and rank it may be, shall not be my abode for much longer. Somehow, someway, Count Olaf has convinced them that I am a terrible, terrible person. Cold and hungry, the night here is as close as a cloak, and I am drowning in it. In all my years, I cannot remember a time when I have been so very, very miserable, save for those few said days after I lost my dear, dear Beatrice.
My trial has been set for a week from now. I have been charged with arson of the Baudelaire home, stalking the Baudelaire children, sabotage of the 666 Dark Avenue elevator, and being involved with the Quagmire kidnappings. Such irony, as we both know that not only am I innocent of these crimes, but these are, in fact, Count Olaf's crimes. How he would have been able to convince them of my guilt, I could never imagine. Such irony. They will not even let me know who will be representing me. Whenever I ask, they only tell me that I am a cruel, sadistic, perverted psychopath, and I should thank what lucky stars I have I live in a state that would provide defense for a monstrosity such as myself at all. It's always that one same answer. I've stopped asking awhile ago. There's no use anymore.
I have nothing to do now but wait in this misery for another week. My fate is in the hands of my appointed attorney and (I hope) a fair and unbiased jury.
Whatever happens, please remember, you are the only way I have to inform the world about the Baudelaire orphans lives. I owe you everything, and I will never forget you.
With all due respect,
Lemony Snicket
To my kind editor,
Please excuse the grubby soot that covers the back of these pages, the floor here is rather dusty, but it is the only way I can brace against this page. I cannot even begin to explain to you how miserable and woeful my life has been since my trial took place. Even to this day, it absolutely boggles my mind. How could this be? It must be a nightmare. I only wish it was a nightmare. But from this nightmare I cannot wake.
I have been found guilty. Guilty. That word still rings like thunder in my ears. How could I be found guilty? How? My trial took less than four days. The jury was only out for a half hour. And now I am in a psychiatric prison, perhaps for the rest of my life.
Esme Squalor disguised herself as a defense lawyer and somehow got herself assigned to my case. I saw right through her facade. I tried to tell them. Oh, my God, how I tried to tell them. But they wouldn't listen. Who would listen to what they assumed to be the random rants of a madman? "That's not Esme Squalor," they would tell me. "Sources say she's in Denmark, hiding on a fishing barge. Don't be stupid, you ungrateful beast."
It was a complete disaster. Esme claimed the insanity defense; that I was just a poor psychopath, obsessed with the Baudelaire children, and am incapable of being able to know guilt as the result of being deranged. I tried to tell them she was lying. Oh, my dear God, how I tried. It was such a scene, I couldn't control my emotions. They had to drag me screaming from the courtroom. I suppose that just made it all the worse on me. Just more reason to think I'm a madman.
Now, on this dark night, in this room without a moon, my thought stray constantly back to the Baudelaires' lives. Where those three brave, dear, brilliant orphans could be now I cannot even begin to imagine. Are they safe? Have they found a way to catch Olaf at last? Has Olaf found a way to catch them? Are the Baudelaires even alive? And what about the rumor that one of the Baudelaire parents are alive? Is that possible? Questions, flooding my mind day in and day out. Guilt, hammering away at my heart every hour, every day. Fatigue, slowly overtaking my mind, body, and spirit as the days drag on. And more than anything, woe. Sometimes I wonder how I can still be alive after all the woe in my life.
My reason for writing this letter today is a plea: the desperate plea of a desperate man. You must, I repeat, you must continue to record and publish the occurrences of the Baudelaire lives. You must tell the world.
My dear editor, you truly are my last and only hope to inform the world of the Baudelaire plight. Please remember, above all things, that I owe you everything.
With all due respect,
Lemony Snicket
(Typed instead of handwritten)
Dear Sir,
Please accept my sincerest apologies for a letter you most undoubtedly received. A man known as Lemony Snicket, a severe psychopath and criminal, proven guilty of several crimes, including arson and kidnapping, must have somehow gotten your address. He claims you are his "editor, his "last hope," but as of the present, we can find no evidence that Lemony Snicket was ever an author, and, of course, you are clearly not an editor. He also claims that he it is his duty to record the "misfortunes" of the Baudelaire lives (which I'm sure you've read much of in the papers), but again, there is no such evidence supporting his explanation. Furthermore, Lemony Snicket claims that a villainous man named Count Olaf has framed him of his crimes, and that Esme Squalor posed as his defense attorney and further slandered his name. These claims, as you surely know, are clearly lies. It is true, little is known about the whereabouts of this infamous pair of escape artist criminals, but sources have told us that Olaf and Esme are far away, most likely somewhere in the frozen north, and surely nowhere near Mr. Snicket.
Now attending the matter of the letter that you received from Mr. Snicket. As you read it, please take into account: Lemony Snicket is a very sick man, and he feels no obligation to truth or logic. He is highly manipulative and very convincing, and has absolutely no reservations about fabricating stories in hopes of misleading you. No matter how benevolent his letter may have seemed, make no mistake; Lemony Snicket is a criminal and a psychopath, and he wishes you no well-being. I highly doubt that his letter was in any way truly sincere.
The letter that you received is more than likely just the deranged ramblings of a disturbed man, the truth hopelessly intertwined with his own delusions and his own twisted sense of morality. If I were you, I would ignore it completely, and think no more of it.
Again, I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience. I promise you, it will not happen again, of that I can guarantee.
Sincerely,
Erma Spats
Crow Memorial Psychiatric Center
To my kind editor,
Please excuse the excessive folds and ridiculous shortness obvious oddity of the transportation of this letter. Since my last letter, they have taken away my mail, and the only way to transport this note is by means of Peter, my one and only carrier pigeon, whom it took me months to train, and I do not want to weigh him down any more than I have to.
They think I'm crazy. You and I are the only ones who know differently, and they will not believe me. The only thing I ask, my dear, kind editor, is that you yourself do not attempt to prove my sanity. They will not listen. Not to me, not to you, not to anyone, and to attempt would only prove to tarnish your reputation.
I am now convinced, my dear friend, that Olaf's plan for my ruin has succeeded. I can no longer help the Baudelaires, can no longer protect them, can no longer inform the world of their epic plight.
Please remember. . .you are my only means to inform the world of the miserable happenings of the Baudelaire lives. My time has run out now. There is nothing more I can do. My purpose has been filled. But yours is not. I beg you, friend, please, continue my work. You are my only hope now.
Please give Peter some water and food and a warm little place to sleep for a night or so before sending him back to me. He is the best carrier pigeon I've ever had, and he deserves it. The fact that I will never know freedom doesn't mean that he cannot have that right.
Never forget that I owe you everything. . .
With all due respect,
Lemony Snicket
THE END.
This supposedly takes place after Hostile Hospital. At this time, as you may know, the Baudelaire's are hiding in the trunk of Count Olaf's car. They are frightened and cold and hungry, but for the time being, they are safe. However, according to my strange sense of plotline, our good, noble friend, Mr. Snicket, is not quite as lucky. . .
With All Due Respect. . .
The words of Snicket
Found in the files of a very wealthy, very kind editor, name unknown. . .
To my kind editor,
Please excuse the dust and sweat stains smudged on this letter. Though I cannot at this time disclose my exact location, I am fast on the track following the large maroon car. Along with containing an extraordinarily vile theatre troop, an absurd, exceedingly rude, and murderous fashionable woman, and perhaps the most terrible man that ever lived, this car contains, ingeniously hidden in the trunk, all three Baudelaire orphans.
As you may know, I have just recently returned from burying my dear brother, and now, every night and every day, I am plagued with unending guilt. You must understand my situation could have been characterized as a Catch-22, a phrase which here means a situation in which no positive solution is possible, no matter what choices are made. Had I not taken time to bury my poor, wronged brother, I would have had to endure incredible inner anguish, which sometimes I wonder if I had even one more bit of agony in my life, I would fall down and die. However, if I left my unending work reporting and protecting the Baudelaire children, I would be leaving them at a terrible risk. At this time, I felt the more pressing matter would be to pay my last respects to my dear younger brother Jacque. In my decision, I had the misfortune to find out only too late, that one of the Baudelaire parents, of which were formerly a couple of my very best friends, may indeed still be alive.
It is growing dark and I must find a place to sleep soon. I shall send you word as soon as possible.
With all due respect,
Lemony Snicket
To my kind editor,
Please excuse my absolutely erratic and illegible handwriting. Emotions have completely overtaken me at this moment, and I cannot find the mental strength to neaten my handwriting. I have only a few minutes to write, so unfortunately, my lithographical etiquette must be please excused.
The police are surrounding my room, but they will not be able to catch me. My pistols are loaded, my research is packed safely away in my suitcase, and the locket containing a portrait of my dear, precious, beloved, Beatrice, is guarding my heart. Do not fear for my safety. As you know, I have been in many such situations before and gotten out safely, and if I can do it once, I can do it again. I am sure that this surprise appearance of the police must be Count Olaf's doing, and I will not let him succeed in his dastardly agenda. If one of the Baudelaire parents is alive, and I am determined to find them myself. I will, at last, repent my sins. For the first time ever, I have a chance to change the circumstances of the Baudelaires' miserable lives, and I am not passing it up for anything, especially not a troop of flatfooted cops. They are dimwitted, I am intelligent. They are slow, I am spry. They will not catch me. I cannot let it happen.
I owe you everything, sir. Whatever may occur in the next few hours, always remember that I recognize that I owe you everything.
With all due respect,
Lemony Snicket
To my kind editor,
Please excuse these tearstained pages; it must be making all the words quite blurry. Of all my strength, I cannot stop crying. In all my days, save for those few grim, dark days directly following the death of my dear, dear Beatrice, I have not suffered such agony. Perhaps I must first explain all that has transpired since the last letter I sent.
Due to a certain miscalculation on my part, I have been taken into the authorities' custody. Why didn't I have the foresight to think they'd bring tranquilizers? Why did I go left when I should have gone right? Of that I cannot either answer or even begin to consider. That night I wrote that letter was one of the most unfortunate nights as I have ever endured. Of what Count Olaf must have told the authorities about me, I know not, but there is no doubt that most, if not all of it, was lies.
At this very moment, I am writing by the light of the moon, bracing my paper on the floor of my jail cell. This cell, however dingy and rank it may be, shall not be my abode for much longer. Somehow, someway, Count Olaf has convinced them that I am a terrible, terrible person. Cold and hungry, the night here is as close as a cloak, and I am drowning in it. In all my years, I cannot remember a time when I have been so very, very miserable, save for those few said days after I lost my dear, dear Beatrice.
My trial has been set for a week from now. I have been charged with arson of the Baudelaire home, stalking the Baudelaire children, sabotage of the 666 Dark Avenue elevator, and being involved with the Quagmire kidnappings. Such irony, as we both know that not only am I innocent of these crimes, but these are, in fact, Count Olaf's crimes. How he would have been able to convince them of my guilt, I could never imagine. Such irony. They will not even let me know who will be representing me. Whenever I ask, they only tell me that I am a cruel, sadistic, perverted psychopath, and I should thank what lucky stars I have I live in a state that would provide defense for a monstrosity such as myself at all. It's always that one same answer. I've stopped asking awhile ago. There's no use anymore.
I have nothing to do now but wait in this misery for another week. My fate is in the hands of my appointed attorney and (I hope) a fair and unbiased jury.
Whatever happens, please remember, you are the only way I have to inform the world about the Baudelaire orphans lives. I owe you everything, and I will never forget you.
With all due respect,
Lemony Snicket
To my kind editor,
Please excuse the grubby soot that covers the back of these pages, the floor here is rather dusty, but it is the only way I can brace against this page. I cannot even begin to explain to you how miserable and woeful my life has been since my trial took place. Even to this day, it absolutely boggles my mind. How could this be? It must be a nightmare. I only wish it was a nightmare. But from this nightmare I cannot wake.
I have been found guilty. Guilty. That word still rings like thunder in my ears. How could I be found guilty? How? My trial took less than four days. The jury was only out for a half hour. And now I am in a psychiatric prison, perhaps for the rest of my life.
Esme Squalor disguised herself as a defense lawyer and somehow got herself assigned to my case. I saw right through her facade. I tried to tell them. Oh, my God, how I tried to tell them. But they wouldn't listen. Who would listen to what they assumed to be the random rants of a madman? "That's not Esme Squalor," they would tell me. "Sources say she's in Denmark, hiding on a fishing barge. Don't be stupid, you ungrateful beast."
It was a complete disaster. Esme claimed the insanity defense; that I was just a poor psychopath, obsessed with the Baudelaire children, and am incapable of being able to know guilt as the result of being deranged. I tried to tell them she was lying. Oh, my dear God, how I tried. It was such a scene, I couldn't control my emotions. They had to drag me screaming from the courtroom. I suppose that just made it all the worse on me. Just more reason to think I'm a madman.
Now, on this dark night, in this room without a moon, my thought stray constantly back to the Baudelaires' lives. Where those three brave, dear, brilliant orphans could be now I cannot even begin to imagine. Are they safe? Have they found a way to catch Olaf at last? Has Olaf found a way to catch them? Are the Baudelaires even alive? And what about the rumor that one of the Baudelaire parents are alive? Is that possible? Questions, flooding my mind day in and day out. Guilt, hammering away at my heart every hour, every day. Fatigue, slowly overtaking my mind, body, and spirit as the days drag on. And more than anything, woe. Sometimes I wonder how I can still be alive after all the woe in my life.
My reason for writing this letter today is a plea: the desperate plea of a desperate man. You must, I repeat, you must continue to record and publish the occurrences of the Baudelaire lives. You must tell the world.
My dear editor, you truly are my last and only hope to inform the world of the Baudelaire plight. Please remember, above all things, that I owe you everything.
With all due respect,
Lemony Snicket
(Typed instead of handwritten)
Dear Sir,
Please accept my sincerest apologies for a letter you most undoubtedly received. A man known as Lemony Snicket, a severe psychopath and criminal, proven guilty of several crimes, including arson and kidnapping, must have somehow gotten your address. He claims you are his "editor, his "last hope," but as of the present, we can find no evidence that Lemony Snicket was ever an author, and, of course, you are clearly not an editor. He also claims that he it is his duty to record the "misfortunes" of the Baudelaire lives (which I'm sure you've read much of in the papers), but again, there is no such evidence supporting his explanation. Furthermore, Lemony Snicket claims that a villainous man named Count Olaf has framed him of his crimes, and that Esme Squalor posed as his defense attorney and further slandered his name. These claims, as you surely know, are clearly lies. It is true, little is known about the whereabouts of this infamous pair of escape artist criminals, but sources have told us that Olaf and Esme are far away, most likely somewhere in the frozen north, and surely nowhere near Mr. Snicket.
Now attending the matter of the letter that you received from Mr. Snicket. As you read it, please take into account: Lemony Snicket is a very sick man, and he feels no obligation to truth or logic. He is highly manipulative and very convincing, and has absolutely no reservations about fabricating stories in hopes of misleading you. No matter how benevolent his letter may have seemed, make no mistake; Lemony Snicket is a criminal and a psychopath, and he wishes you no well-being. I highly doubt that his letter was in any way truly sincere.
The letter that you received is more than likely just the deranged ramblings of a disturbed man, the truth hopelessly intertwined with his own delusions and his own twisted sense of morality. If I were you, I would ignore it completely, and think no more of it.
Again, I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience. I promise you, it will not happen again, of that I can guarantee.
Sincerely,
Erma Spats
Crow Memorial Psychiatric Center
To my kind editor,
Please excuse the excessive folds and ridiculous shortness obvious oddity of the transportation of this letter. Since my last letter, they have taken away my mail, and the only way to transport this note is by means of Peter, my one and only carrier pigeon, whom it took me months to train, and I do not want to weigh him down any more than I have to.
They think I'm crazy. You and I are the only ones who know differently, and they will not believe me. The only thing I ask, my dear, kind editor, is that you yourself do not attempt to prove my sanity. They will not listen. Not to me, not to you, not to anyone, and to attempt would only prove to tarnish your reputation.
I am now convinced, my dear friend, that Olaf's plan for my ruin has succeeded. I can no longer help the Baudelaires, can no longer protect them, can no longer inform the world of their epic plight.
Please remember. . .you are my only means to inform the world of the miserable happenings of the Baudelaire lives. My time has run out now. There is nothing more I can do. My purpose has been filled. But yours is not. I beg you, friend, please, continue my work. You are my only hope now.
Please give Peter some water and food and a warm little place to sleep for a night or so before sending him back to me. He is the best carrier pigeon I've ever had, and he deserves it. The fact that I will never know freedom doesn't mean that he cannot have that right.
Never forget that I owe you everything. . .
With all due respect,
Lemony Snicket
THE END.