Disclaimer: Shockingly I don't own any of Snicket's works or characters. I do however own all of my spelling/grammar errors. Trust me I try, but sometimes I fail.
As a child Kit Snicket had weakness for Westerns, most likely brought on by her status as a closet romantic. Dark, brooding anti-heroes who hid their true compassion behind masks of grit and too much alcohol, but always came through to save the day in the end. The pages even smelled of trail dust and the sweet flowery perfume of the helpless heroine. It was enough to make a normally mature young woman giggle quietly to herself under a sea of blankets with only a flickering flashlight as witness to her girlish fantasies.
Later in life, an associate, not a member of V.F.D., he was far too illiterate for that, told her that she and Olaf were like cowboys and Indians. At the time Kit had shrugged off the comment as a result of too much time in front of the television set. Looking back years later as she tried to occupy herself with something other than the low rumble of the cab's idling engine Kit had to admit he had a point. They both loved to hate the other.
The malicious natives that kidnapped settlers and burned down towns, fought off by the brave cowboys who rallied the townspeople to the wells before dashing off in hot pursuit of their foes. It was enough to make her feel almost sick with the irony. Of course her baby's incessant kicking could be the true cause, but that wasn't nearly as appealing.
Life wasn't always as black and white as traditional Westerns portrayed it, but then again neither was the genre. Sometimes Indians were the protagonists, protecting their land from the vicious ranchers. Kit's particular favorites had been the ones were the lone cowboy befriended a local Indian girl who saved him from some sort of disaster. The ends of those kinds of books were the happiest because the cowboy's adaption to the native culture would spread and the pioneers and the Indians would live together in perfect harmony. During the last few pages, there would be a beautiful wedding between the rugged rancher and his dark skinned lady love, cementing the bonds of peace for all eternity.
Kit could still fondly remember bits and pieces of the tomes she had locked up carefully in that worn gray suitcase whose access combination had been the birthday of Virginia Woolf's dog. It was all gone now, burned up in a blaze started by her own anti-hero. Kit knew it would stay that way too, all those dreams reduced to scattered ash on the soles of her shoes.
For all his drinking and grit Olaf had no mask of indifference to hide a bleeding heart. If anything it as the other way around. Not that he'd ever been that wonderful of an actor anyway.
Besides what would that make her, the chief's rebellious daughter? The idea was so absurd Kit couldn't help but laugh, carefully so as not to hit the steering wheel with her stomach.
No, she was no brave young maiden in deer skin moccasins, and he most defiantly wasn't a rugged outdoors-man trying to cover up a heart of gold (a heart for gold maybe, but that was no secret). So then why did it make the corners of her drawn mouth turn up to envision them as such? Maybe it was just the idea of Olaf in the hat.
Please review. Knowing you care enough to say "Gah my eyes!" makes my world go round. Kudos to anyone who notices the cheesy joke I slipped in.