Hello to all of my accommodating, basic, calm, darling, emblematic, frisky, grinning, human, innocent, jumping, kept, limited, meek, nap-loving, official, pretty, quarantined, recent, scheduled, tidy, understandable, victorious, wholesome, xylophone, young, and zippered readers and reviewers:

My, I fell spiffy today! What does that word mean, anyway? (looks it up on a search engine) "smart, stylish"… well, not exactly, but close enough!

Anyway, a few reasons for why I haven't updated: The main reason is homework, followed by a trip to the beach and dwelling on the fact that my favorite series are drawing to a close. (Seriously, I dwell on that kind of stuff.) I've also been working on finishing my Harry Potter fic, "Trapped Within." I've also had writer's block, and rewrote this chapter several times. I'm afraid that all of my lovely readers and reviewers will not stick around after Quigley's done. Please don't abandon this story! You're one of my main inspirations!

Anyway, to all of my wonderful reviewers:

Spyzeh: Counterfeit Concierge would have been a very cool title, I agree. And my thoughts exactly on who should come next!

Zavi: Thank you so much! Don't you just love that when things like couplets and certain lines just come to you while you're writing? And yes, as much as I also love Quigley (and a certain Ronald Weasley), I agree that Duncan should come first.

Klaus-Izzy Girl: Glad to hear it! And I did send you an e-mail, I hope you got it!

Proud shipper: Thanks! I actually thought that cliffy was a little lame, but not any more, thanks to you!

SUPERBRAIN: I know, and that's why I was a Klaus/Fiona shipper at first. (dodges several bludgers from K/I shippers who also happen to be Quidditch beaters, if that's possible) But if you think about how she broke his heart, and how it was more of a one-sided romance, she doesn't really deserve him. And that's where Isadora should come in. And some people even complain about age difference, but they don't say anything about Sunny/Duncan or Quigley fics! I even saw a Sunny/Olaf one once… (shudders) And yes, I happen to have TBB, rare edition, and have read "Beatrice"!

Imanishotgirl: I'm glad you liked it!

SnicketSister: You really think so? I thought I just made them all sound the same. Thank you, though, you really encouraged me!

ChoFrog09 (all four times): Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! Yours and others praise is like eating a yummy batch of chocolate chip cookies, my personal favorite!

Oblivion: Don't worry, Quigley will be next!

Sugary Snicket: Woohoo, we do rock!

Reviewer: thanks! This one is about Duncan.

Anyway, the tally for whether Duncan or Quigley comes next was:

Duncan: 6

Quigley: 3

And so, this chapter is about Duncan! But don't worry, Quigley will most definitely be next!

And now, without any more of my drawling, the disclaimer: It would be most unfortunate to say I own A Series of Unfortunate Events, as this is in no way true. With all due respect, Ginny Baudelaire.

And, finally, the chapter itself!

Chapter 5: D u n c a n Q u a g m i r e

Everyone has their own interpretation of events. Everyone thinks they're right, and everyone wants their story told. What many people don't realize is, there isn't enough time for everyone to tell their side of the story. There isn't enough time in the world to decipher what is true, and what is not. It really is impossible to find "black and white without the gray." But I do the best I can, to find the truth.

You see, I've always wanted to be a reporter. Even as a child, I could see the corruption in the media, especially in The Daily Punctilio. So-called reporters only reported sensationalism, and used shock value to attract readers. And the sad thing is, well-known, supposedly reliable newspapers were just as bad as tabloids, just covered with a fancy font and official-looking headlines. At times, I felt only I knew the truth. But as I said, everyone wants to tell their story, but not everyone can.

And so it was, when my parents died in a fire, that I wanted my story told.

But, of course, the shocking and sudden deaths of loved ones isn't nearly as important as the city's sixth most important financial advisor making a profit out of it. Mine and my sister's story was smoothly glossed over and snugly fit into a smudged sentence in a side article. The rest of the article was about the grand reputation of the boarding school we were to be sent off to, so that the newspaper consumers would quickly forget about us and our untold tale.

And so, we were rushed off to Prufrock Prep. A school as dark and depressing as the character from T. S. Elliot's first major work it's named after. I couldn't understand why our parents would send us here, they just wouldn't. This couldn't be happening to me. It just couldn't. That was the only way I could keep myself going, to convince myself it was all a dream.

But it wasn't a dream. It was real. The realest thing that had happened to me in my entire life.

I remember one night in the Orphan's Shack especially well. Leaning my aching head against the moldy straw, my feet numb from the crabs biting them, and listening to Isadora crying herself to sleep, it hit me. This wasn't a dream. Our parents weren't coming back, I didn't have anyone to run to, no one to tell me it would all be alright. I had never felt so alone in my entire life. For the first time that I could remember, I cried. Tears rolling down my face felt so foreign, so unnatural. I was forced to grow up that night. I thought all hope was lost.

But not all hope was lost. The Baudelaires were proof of that.

The Baudelaires were so much like us, it was as if we had known them all our lives. Violet had the same patience as my mother, and Klaus had the memory of my father. And Sunny loved carrots, just like Quigley. They, too, wanted their story told, and were confused about the complex organization that was V.F.D. We all felt like we were helpless flies, slowly being wound into a black widow's web, not sure what would happen to us, or under what circumstances. But we could reach out to each other, no matter how tightly we were wound in this web of secrecy, of confusion.

And then the black widow came, in the form of Count Olaf. Isadora and I were looking out for the Baudelaires so intently that we didn't realize how much we were in danger as well.

That night, after Count Olaf had taken us away from the Baudelaires and locked us in a cage, I knew I wouldn't be at peace until our story was told. Olaf could put me in a metal cage, but he couldn't cage my memory. He didn't realize that.

And so I wrote. I wrote until pencils were stubs and pens ran dry. I wrote until my finger were cold and numb and trembling with fear. I wrote with a fierce determination, a longing for vengeance. I wrote for Isadora, my parents, Quigley, the Baudelaires. But most of all, I wrote for me. I knew I could never sleep well until the truth be told. And so I wrote.

All my writing paid off. I couldn't help but be proud of how every page, every inch of my commonplace book was covered in ink and lead. I felt that I had finally proven myself to the world, that I could be brave enough to have been where I was, and lived to tell the tale. I knew that I could prove the power of the written word.

And so, when the Baudelaires came down that elevator shaft, I was so eager to show them my work. But the Baudelaires wanted us to wait. At the time, I thought them crazy. But I realized they were right. They would have been taken by Olaf as well, and then all hope would have been lost. We were each others' only hope.

Hope was all I had to hang on to anymore. Count Olaf took many things from us: our family, the Baudelaires, our house. But he couldn't take one thing: hope. Hope that you'll see another day. Hope that you'll see your friends again. Hope that justice would be done to those who deserved it. Hope in the ties of family and friends. Try as he may, Olaf could not take that away from us.

When we were in the fountain of V.F.D., right after we had found out that the Baudelaires were just minutes away, Isadora and I each had our own plan. I insisted that we just write everything down, but Isadora insisted we do it through poetry. And so began the old argument that we had had for as long as we could remember. I would say that poetry was trivial compared to journalism, and that it wouldn't do us any good. Isadora, as always, that poetry had no guise or corruption, it was beautiful in and of itself. In the end, Isadora won, but I suggested the acrostic idea. She at least always gives me credit for that.

And Isadora was right. Through the simplicity and beauty of poetry, something I was stubbornly blind to before, the Baudelaires found us. Our hope had finally paid off.

But joy was short-lived, as was all our hard work, all of our dreams. What could do something as horrific as this? Two little words: harpoon gun.

That was something that no newspaper could gloss over, no reporter could refuse to realize. The use of a harpoon gun on birds could not be transformed into an act of fashion, of self-defense. At least, that's what I thought. As usual, the reporters ignored any wrong done by the rich and focused on the ridiculous accusations of murder on orphaned children. I was awestruck at how ignorant, how gullible reporters and their consumers could be. As Dorothy Parker once said, "Their ignorance was an Empire State Building of ignorance. You had to admire it for its size."

But, during my final days on the hot air balloon, I came to a revelation. Since our unfortunate journey began, I thought that there were only two kinds of people: those out for themselves, and those out for only others. I realized, though, that I was terribly wrong. Everyone is out for themselves, in one way or another, good or bad intent. Everyone wanted justice done to others, whether righteous justice or not.

Dorothy Parker once said, "I hate writing; I love having written." And that's how it was for me, on writing our story. It was actually painful to write what had happened to us,

writing all of Count Olaf's threats, all of his vile actions. But, when I looked back on the finished product, I realized, even if it was destroyed by the harpoon gun, that I had actually achieved something, had actually finished a work of journalism. My story had not been told yet, that was true. But for me, I didn't even want revenge anymore. Nothing like that mattered anymore. I had proven myself, I could live through such a horror story, and not only live to tell the tale, but to write it all down.

As I sit here at this typewriter, I am at a loss for how to end this. I do not have the inventive skills of Violet Baudelaire, nor can I remember anything and everything that would fit for an ending, like Klaus Baudelaire. I do not have the sweet innocence of Sunny Baudelaire, nor can I so eloquently quote great poets, like my dear sister can, nor can I map out something from beginning to end, like my brother can. I am just as my dear mother used to call me: Duncan Quagmire, junior reporter. That is just the way I am. And so, I will end this the best way I know how, by quoting the great Dorothy Parker:

"I shall stay the way I am, because I do not give a damn."

So there you have Duncan Quagmire! I had a lot of trouble with him, as I have had terrible writer's block, since my dad has grounded me from my Ipod (and, to add insult to injury, my headphones). Music always cures my writer's block, but as I can't listen to it at my computer now, it's a bit tricky to write. I managed, however, to throw together the bizarre poem below:

As I sit here at my desk next to a wall so blue,

Eating a mealy apple that is too easy to chew,

I wonder what will save me from this disconsolate mood,

And that is you, dear readers: REVIEW! REVIEW! REVIEW!

(BTW, Quigley's next! ;D)