= = = WARNING = = =
As desperately as I wish I didn't have to write out this horrid entry, I must, for Mr. Snicket is compromised at the moment and cannot reach a typewriter in Antarctica. It is rather cold where he is, you see, and the ink could very well freeze as he types.
He thought it was the end. I admit that I even brushed the sweat off my brow as my employer informed me the Bauldelaire story was over. That was all we could find. The orphans who I had become so close to over these past years were at peace.
But no. It was not to be. More unfortunate events were to come, and escaping the island was just the first bit.
You see, next to the warehouse, (location undisclosed; We can't be found) where Mr. Snicket writes and I support, there is construction. It is very loud and obnoxious, but no one would think a writer could hide out in such a place. Hiding in plain sight works out very nicely on the occasions it decides to work out in your favor. Anyway, this construction involves tools that crack things, and, well, one day as they were cracking the ground, a wall in our warehouse burst open. Upon inspection, it was discovered this wall was hollow. And what lay within was the worst discovery possibly ever made.
We recovered yellowing papers in folders used for too long in a dank, hollow wall. With shaking hands, my employer opened them slowly. Contained inside were more Bauldelaire stories. With a yell, he dropped the papers (which I later discovered were anagrammed with V.F.D. all over), and departed in a haste I had not seen him use in years. I picked the discarded information up and scanned it, sighing with resignation as I eyed the typewriter on the table nearby.
Although the uncharacteristic leave of Mr. Snicket puzzled me, I assumed quickly he must have a plan. Mr. Snicket always had a plan. I tried not to focus on it too much as I sat down slowly at the writing machine, loading a beige and worn out paper onto the top mechanism and slowly turned the knob to lower it, much like an executioner adjusts the guillotine.
And I began to write, which is what you see here. My, it's already nightfall and I haven't even begun to tell you the frightening tales that descend upon the Bauldelaires this time. Reader, beware. If this doesn't concern you; or if you feel like having sweet dreams tonight, and many nights to come; or if you don't like unhappy endings that will raise the hair on your neck; or if you'd rather be satisfied at the end of a story; Don't turn the page.
Reader has been warned.