The Most Unfortunate Event (Part 2)

The humiliating end to Olaf’s play was not the end of Violet’s story. After leaving the theater, the troupe returned to their run down house for celebrations to which the eldest Baudelaire was invited, though not in the capacity anyone would find fun, relaxing, or any other adjective used to describe a party.

The troupe had enjoyed themselves mightily upon their return, imbibing various drinks with high alcohol content and making a mess of the dining room in the process. Empty bottles and plates still covered in wedding cake were strewn on the floor, chairs had been knocked over, one even broken and lying in pieces. A “congratulations!” banner had been hung and then pulled down on one side, left to drape across the long dining table, with everything sprinkled in confetti and the occasional loose party hat.

The party’s sole server wobbled beneath a tray full of drinks, it requiring all her concentration to hazard the room’s obstacles and not spill anything. She had been dressed in a plaid skirt that revealed more of her girlish thighs than she would have liked, with black loafers and striped socks that went up past her knees. The upper part of the skirt fit like overalls, meant to be worn with a shirt beneath it, but they hadn’t given her one, instead leaving the top to barely cover her young breasts while the suspenders rested on her bare shoulders. The final touches to her costume were a plaid bow tie strapped around her slender throat and pair of prescription glasses that made everything blurry and hurt her eyes.

This miserable, scantily clad part waitress, part bartender, part maid was, of course, none other than Violet Baudelaire.

The tray tilted dangerously as Violet lifted her knee to step over the legs of a fallen chair, some of the drinks starting to slide until she righted it at the last second with a gasp.

“Ha ha!” the man with hooks for hands called out, “There’s our drinks! Come on, Baudelaire, hurry up! We’re thirsty!”

Arms trembling with effort, Violet picked her knees up to thread her way past the chair. Her skirt was short enough that she suspected they could see her underwear when she lifted her legs that high, but she was past caring about that. She’d already been pinched, touched, and leered at so often tonight she was almost desensitized and at this point she was too tired to be overly worried about it.

The party had broken up mostly into two groups chatting and drinking, the man with hooks for hands sitting in one corner with the large man who’d pulled the horse and a pair of shifty eyed twins, while most of the others were circled around Count Olaf while he spun tales about how he’d spend his new fortune at the head of the table.

Violet made her way to the corner with the drinks, where the group had dragged a coffee table and sprawled around it on the floor. Panting slightly, she bent down to one knee and carefully hefted the tray from her shoulder to the table. Lowering it to the table was the hardest part and the drinks trembled gently until she managed to set the tray down with a gasp of relief.

“Was my idea to dress her up like that!” the man with hooks for hands boasted, “I figured, all those times she thought she was so much smarter than us, best thing to do is dress her up like a nerd!”

“Ha, yeah!” the big man laughed, “Soooo much smarter than us!”

Still breathing heavily and squinting through the thick glasses, Violet looked over the drinks to remember who had what. She picked up the sweating mug of beer and offered it to the giant, then the champagne flute to the man with hooks for hands.

The hooked man took it and smiled. He was very blurry, but something about his posture and his grin made Violet suspect he was looking her over.

“You really did think you were smarter than us,” he growled, “didn’t you?”

Having just handed the twins their margaritas, the question made Violet stiffen.

“I-I… umm…” she slowly turned back towards the hook-handed man, swallowing audibly.

It was a difficult question. If she were to agree that she did think she was smarter than him, it would no doubt result in some sort of retaliation. However, if she said she didn’t, she’d be contradicting him, which would also lead to some sort of punishment.

She placed her hands in front of her and pulled fretfully at her fingers, for once glad that she couldn’t see him clearly behind the thick glasses.

“Umm…” she shifted in place, “I… I did, but I was wrong. You’re smarter.”

“HA!” the hook-handed man laughed, “Well, at least you learned that! We were always smarter!”

“Little nerd girl!” one of the twins said, “Say something nerdy, nerd girl!”

“Yeah!” the other quickly agreed, “Say something smart!”

Needless to say, it’s not easy to think of something intelligent to say on command. Even people that pretend to be intelligent as a career will struggle to come up with something suitable when told to “Say something smart, or else!”

Already tired, Violet struggled to think of some clever-sounding fact to please the twins. Her mind was a blank.

“I… I…” she licked her lips, “Um… the um…”

The group smirked at her over their drinks, simply enjoying the show. To them, Violet wasn’t the heroine of this tale but the villainess, one of the trio that had embarrassed them and constantly wriggled free of every attempt for the troupe to get what they rightfully deserved. Seeing her dressed in such scanty clothing, squirming to obey their wishes, was both pleasant and deeply satisfying, as it is generally when a villain receives their just punishment.

“The…” the girl said, “The melting point of iron i-is… 2800 degrees Fahrenheit…”

The four troupe members laughed, the giant and the man with hooks for hands taking long draughts of their drinks.

“That didn’t sound very smart to me,” the first twin said, “More like just a fact.”

“Not very smart at all!” the second twin agreed.

The hook-handed man threw back his drink, then slammed it down on the table with a big grin.

“Well,” he sneered, “If her smarts are overrated, at least she’s a cutie pie.”

Then his hook snapped out and flipped up her skirt, revealing her white, patterned underwear. Cotton, with pink elastic around the edges, the garment speckled the V of her crotch and the swells of her rump with different colored stars, hearts, and clouds, as well as being the only thing she was wearing that was actually hers.

The shock of the sudden draft made Violet yelp and push her skirt back down so violently, the oversized glasses dropped to the end of her nose. Her heart leapt, a jolt of adrenaline rushing through her weary body, and before she could stop herself she glared accusingly at her attacker, clamping her skirt down on her thighs.

The group threw their heads back and guffawed at her furious expression. The giant, who had been in the middle of drinking his beer, sprayed some out of his mouth before bursting into booming laughter, shaking so hard he sloshed more beer onto the floor.

“Oh no!” one of the twins laughed.

“You made her mad!” the other joined in.

Violet lowered her eyes and pouted at the floor, one hand tugging on her skirt to make sure it stayed down. With her other hand she wiped some sprayed beer off her face and pushed the glasses back up. It was the abruptness of the exposure that had made her react before thinking and it had been exactly what they’d hoped for. Her humiliation compounded.

While they laughed, she lowered herself down to pick up the tray again, hoping she could use the opportunity to get away from them.

Before she could pick up the tray, a sudden call made her jump.

“VIOLET!” Olaf bellowed from across the room.

The voice made the four villains and one Baudelaire in the corner jump in the same manner, all of them afraid of the count to varying degrees. Of course, it was Violet that jumped the most violently, so much so the glasses fell off her face.

“Where is my orphan?!” he yelled again, “Violet! Show yourself and… and get over here!”

The Count stood up from his chair to peer over the heads of the crowd, squinting and blinking like he was struggling to see.

The first thought that crossed Violet’s mind was to hide, but she quickly dispensed with that idea. Even if she ran for it, someone would tell on her and doubted Olaf would be amused by the attempt. Her next dilemma centered around whether or not she should bring the drink tray with her.

“Orphan!” he bellowed again.

The anger in his voice made that decision for her.

“H-here I am!” she hurried towards the Count and his crowd, “I’m coming!”

Olaf blinked again before his eyes latched onto the approaching girl, who skipped carefully over the fallen banner and picked her way through the plates and bottles on the floor. Upon seeing her, he seemed to forget his anger immediately, his lips turning up into a lazy grin.

“Ah, there she is,” he chuckled, “Come, my prisoner bride. We require your… expertise.”

The group chuckled along with him and Olaf plopped heavily into his seat. With him at the head of the table, his entourage was sitting either at the table as near as they could or in chairs around him. The group had gotten much larger since he’d inherited a fortune and they were staying as close to him as they could, as if money would seep into their pockets via osmosis.

Violet reached the edge of the crowd and turned sideways to fit through a gap between two chairs, carefully maneuvering her way through them. She zigged and threaded her way past the sycophants like they were poisonous plants, keeping her arms tight to her sides, holding her skirt down, eyes darting around nervously. There was more subdued laughter, but no one tried to grab her or pinch her this time, though they watched her with great interest.

“Come here, Baudelaire,” Olaf crooked a finger at her, “My lovely girl. Come right here.”

Violet swallowed, the bright look in his eye making her want to run the other way, but she wiggled her way between the closest sycophants and stopped beside the villain’s chair. Her head low and withdrawn, she clenched her skirt in her fists and hoped she hadn’t been called for something terrible. Or at least, more terrible than having to serve drinks at a party celebrating her fortune being stolen.

Olaf chuckled again upon seeing her, lifting his arm, then flopping it across her shoulders.

“Violet, Violet, Violet,” he leaned towards her, “The pretty little… little mischief-escaper, captured at last… at my mercy now…”

The aforementioned girl stared at him, her brow knitted with worry. Having rarely seen people the effects of alcohol imbibement, she thought there was something wrong with him and wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad thing. His eyes were a bit unfocused and every movement he made was slightly exaggerated, looser somehow. Even his expressions were exaggerated, his grin more crooked than usual, his eyes slightly lidded.

“Heh heh…” he stared at her, “at my mercy…”

Violet held her breath, bracing herself for whatever clearly horrible thing the Count had in mind. Would he dangle her from the ceiling by her toes? Perhaps make hook for hands chase her around the house? Threaten her with crocodiles or an angry hippopotamus?

As it turned out, he did none of these things. He didn’t say or do anything for several seconds. He just stared at her, occasionally chuckling to himself, but just when Violet thought he’d become lost in his own thoughts, the villain spoke.

“Violet, you are going to play a game with us!” Olaf gestured to the table, “A fun party game I invented! It’s called… Count Olaf’s Word Making Game!”

On the table in front of the Count, amidst several bottles of various alcohols and empty glasses, was what was clearly a game of Scrabble. The board was set up, tiles strewn across it with the blank sides up, places set for several players.

Violet blinked. Out of everything she’d expected the Count to inflict upon her, a board game she’d enjoyed with Klaus and her parents was far flung from even her most tame prediction. It was surprising enough that she expected some other shoe to drop, perhaps the horrible villain to laugh that he had tricked her and tell her he was actually going to make her eat a live hedgehog.

But he didn’t add anything else. Grinning expectantly, he watched her, waiting for her to respond.

She blinked again, looking around at the other faces surrounding her, all grinning. She couldn’t help feeling like this was some sort of trick, but no one yelled boo, no one jumped at her with a chainsaw.

So, finally, she could think of nothing else to say but, “Oh. Um… all right.”

Olaf burst out laughing and everyone else joined in a moment later, making Violet flinch and look around for the swinging axe head or the rabid wolf that had no doubt just been released. But once again nothing particularly violent occurred, just laughter, and not even overly mocking laughter.

When Olaf’s guffaws died into a softer chortle, the others stopped laughing as well.

“All right, then,” the villain chuckled, “It’s a very special game, this game. I invented it myself. It involves making words with… with the little wooden blocks. You take the wooden blocks and… you have words… and you make them. And you get points, you see. It’s a very fun game… fun for parties…”

Violet nodded slowly, still occasionally looking around for a hidden booby trap.

“You get points for making words,” Olaf plucked a tile from the board and held it up, “This one is an… it’s a…”

“It’s an R,” one of the sycophants said helpfully.

“It’s an R,” Olaf continued, “You can make words with this. The longer words are better because they give you more points… you put them on the board and the blocks have numbers too and there’s numbers on the board and sometimes double… like… here… and…”

The Count’s explanation continued like this for several minutes, long enough that Violet began to wonder if he would ever stop explaining. He struggled to remember the rules at times and often clarified the same rule more than once, like he was forgetting what he said. Other times he trailed off for several seconds, like he had forgotten what he was talking about entirely.

Gradually, the young Baudelaire began to shift uncomfortably under his arm, wondering if this was some sort of torture in itself. When he trailed off once more and stared vacantly in her general direction, she finally decided to interject before they all died of old age.

“Um, actually,” she said, “I already know how to play.”

Olaf shook himself out of his reverie, stared at her, then threw back his head and barked out a long, hearty laugh. The others immediately joined them.

Violet frowned sideways at them.

“I’ve played before,” she said, “Many times. With my brother and parents and sometimes my friends.”

This only made them laugh harder, slapping each other on the back. Olaf was laughing so hard, the arm on Violet’s shoulders began shaking her, rocking her side to side.

Some of her fear began to melt into annoyance. Violet crossed her arms, head bobbling as Olaf’s laughter rattled her, wondering if everyone had suffered some sort of head injury when she wasn’t looking.

“You see?” the Count finally chuckled to his audience, “She’s practically a professional!”

Violet lowered her head to hide her frown, conscious that the defiant look might draw his ire, but Olaf placed a finger under her chin and tilted it back up.

“But you should be aware, my dear, heh heh…” he paused to snicker, “You should be aware that if you lose this game, there is a penalty.”

If you are ever in a situation where someone says “there is a penalty” with no further explanation, it would be wise to ask for clarification as to the nature of this penalty before making any contractual agreements. If after the existence of a penalty is announced, the announcer and everyone around you begins to giggle with the ominous tone of a pack of hungry hyenas, you would be wise to flee, if you have the option.

Although the group around Violet did begin to giggle in a way very similar to hyenas sitting down for a late lunch, flight was not an option for the young Baudelaire. She made the wisest decision available to her.

“What…” she asked with trepidation, “Sort of… penalty?”

Olaf’s eyes narrowed with pleasure, pausing to relish what he was about to say.

“If you lose…” he leaned towards her worried, smaller face, “You will be most thoroughly and vigorously… spanked.”

The group giggled. Violet’s heart lurched.

“Spanked on that well-read, troublemaking tush of yours,” Olaf continued, “And I will continue to spank you until I’m satisfied you are well and truly sorry… for every single trouble you’ve ever caused me. And then, after that, a bit more too.”

Violet shuddered at the thought, subconsciously placing her hands protectively over the seat of her skirt. She’d already been spanked once tonight and had found the experience more painful and embarrassing than she would have expected. The gleam in Olaf’s eye made it clear to her that in contrast, he had enjoyed it greatly and would make the punishment last much longer now that he had a second chance.

“Doesn’t that sound fun?” he snickered.

There are many times that what seems to be a problem can become an opportunity. As Violet considered the penalty if she lost, she saw such an opportunity beyond a tenderized bottom. Perhaps if she played this right, she could use this game to improve her situation.

She frowned, considering her words, plucking up her courage before speaking to her tormentor and his assembled flunkies.

“O-okay,” the girl cleared her throat, “And what if I win?”

Olaf chuckled, “What if… you win?”

Violet nodded slowly, thinking carefully before she spoke. The wicked Count could certainly force her to play if he wanted, so she would have to be convincing.

“Yes,” she stood up a bit straighter, looking Olaf in the eye, “The thrill of a game with stakes is that all the players have something to win and something to lose. You want to, um…” she squirmed, “…to do… that thing you want. And I want…”

She paused as she thought. Naturally she wanted him to bring back Klaus and Sunny, then return their fortune and leave them alone forever, but she knew he would never agree to that, or if he did he wouldn’t follow through with his promise. It would have to be something smaller, that wouldn’t be quite as troubling to him.

“I want…” Violet said, “My own bedroom… and an hour a day where I’m left alone to invent things.”

“An hour a day… your own bedroom,” Olaf smirked, “So, we both having something to lose, hm? If you win you get those things and if I win, I give you the smacking you’ve direly needed for so long.”

Violet nodded hopefully, “Wouldn’t it be more fun if by winning, you made it so I couldn’t have something? That seems like it would be a double punishment. You would get something and I wouldn’t get something too!”

The Count stroked his beard, but his grin grew a bit broader as he considered the idea. He hmm’d thoughtfully, looking into her earnest, innocent face.

“I find it just as thrilling to win when there’s no risk to me at all,” he sneered, “Even more thrilling, actually.”

Violet’s heart fell and Olaf picked up a bottle of clear brown liquid, pouring it into a dirty, yellow glass.

“But,” the Count continued, “How could I possibly deny my bride on her wedding day? So, those are the stakes, then!” he continued pouring, filling the glass to the brim, “If she wins, she gets an hour of inventing!”

Violet sighed with relief.

“An hour of inventing a day,” she corrected, “And my own bedroom.”

“An hour of inventing A DAY!” Olaf amended, “AND her own bedroom of her very own! Now, make room for her! You there, out of the chair! Give her a place to sit! Mush!”

Violet sat down in the offered chair and scooched up to the table, unable to resist a small smile. She wasn’t quite as good at Scrabble as Klaus, but Klaus rarely lost a game with his vast knowledge of words, with her only having an advantage with the names of mechanical components. Compared to Olaf, who had probably not read a book in years, she was a master at this game. She was already considering how best to beat him in a way that he wouldn’t be infuriated and lash out.

However, once the clever teenager had positioned herself in her seat, next to the head of the table, Olaf pushed the glass of brown liquid towards her.

Violet frowned at it in confusion, then blinked up at Olaf.

“Since this will be an entirely fair game…” he paused, letting his lackeys chuckle, “a fair contest, I think it should be an even playing field. I’ve already had quite a bit to drink this evening, so it’s only fair that you have some before we begin.”

The murmurs of laughter quieted as all eyes settled on the surprised Baudelaire, waiting to see how she would react.

Violet looked down at the squat, oily glass of golden-brown liquid. She’d never tasted alcohol before, her parents having explained it was a terrible vice, but she had read the symptoms of its ingestion. It had never sounded like something she’d enjoy.

“You want me to drink…” she wrinkled her nose, “that?”

“All of it. Every last drop,” Olaf leaned smugly back into his seat, “If you spill any… leave any at the bottom of the glass… we’ll still play our little game, but no inventing hour and no bedroom… not for you, Baudelaire…”

Violet regarded the alcohol with concern, like she might a mechanical part she wasn’t sure how to use yet. She carefully dipped her finger into the glass, then brought it to her lips, testing it with a thoughtful frown. There was little she could taste from the small bit on her finger. It was very thin like water and tasted somewhat like water, though it burned a bit and left a bitter aftertaste. She licked her lips, not sure she wanted to know what a whole mouthful would taste like.

Someone cleared their throat. It was only then that Violet noticed how quiet it was.

Looking around, the eldest Baudelaire saw that all eyes were on her, everyone watching her with eager grins. Even the man with hooks for hands, the twins, and the giant had squeezed into the crowd. She and Olaf had become the center of the entire party, the latest spectacle.

“Go on, Violet,” Olaf said, “Drink.”

“Yeah, go on, orphan!” someone else called.

“Drink it!”

“Drink!”

“Drink!”

“Drink! Drink! Drink!”

A chant began, every voice taking it up, ordering her to “Drink! Drink! Drink! Drink!”. People stomped their feet, leaning closer, trying to force her to obey with their combined will. Their eyes grew brighter as they worked themselves into an almost primal froth, demanding, commanding.

Violet shrank into her seat, looking around nervously while across from her Count Olaf turned his head to take a drink from his own glass, sneering at her from the corner of his eye.

The smug look from the Count helped stiffen Violet’s backbone. This must be his plan to keep her from getting anything out of this game. He thought she’d never be able to finish it without spilling and thus save himself from having to honor any pledge. But she was a Baudelaire and she had done much more difficult things than drink something, not matter how bitter and burning. She made the decision then that no matter what, she would do exactly what he thought she couldn’t do: she would down the entire glass.

In fairness, this probably wasn’t the cleverest decision. If Violet hadn’t been so tired, she might have seen some clear flaws in her logic, but after a day of losing more and more control of her life, she thought she’d found a way to regain some of it. In addition, it should also be noted that her options were very limited.

She grabbed the glass in both hands and brought it to her lips.

The drink smelled like nail polish remover, almost enough to gag Violet on its own. The instant the alcohol touched her tongue, her eyes shot just as wide as when her bottom had been pinched. She stiffened, managed to swallow, then hurriedly set the glass back down before she began coughing violently.

It was the moment the whole house had been waiting for. Olaf’s troupe, his guests, his new sycophants, and especially Olaf himself, exploded into rolling, knee-slapping laughter.

Violet’s pretty face screwed tight and her pink tongue stuck out between her pouty lips. The drink was absolutely caustic, tasting even worse than it smelled and burning all the way down to her tummy. She gagged and coughed, staring at the almost full glass in a mixture of horror and chagrin. How could people drink something so poisonous on purpose?!

Around her the laughter continued and Violet shook herself with disgust, mouth pinched tight.

After the first mouthful, the glass seemed formidably full, but Violet took it up again, determined to finish. Prepared for it this time, she tilted her had back and tried to guzzle it straight down without tasting it. She gulped and swallowed, the fluid burning its way down her throat to settle in her stomach. She gagged a couple of times but kept drinking, almost getting to the bottom before she could take no more.

Just before she finished, the afflicted teenager had to set the glass down and stick out of her tongue again, waiting for her stomach to settle.

The concerted laughter only grew shriller and more hysterical at Violet’s expression, a few people braying so violently it looked like they might hurt themselves. Her eyes were watering, her face red to the tip of her nose and her normally collected little features were now grimacing like a gargoyle. She coughed miserably and gagged, putting a hand over her mouth.

The alcohol still burned in her stomach and down her throat while a lightness came to her head and her fingertips tingled. She still had the foul aftertaste in her mouth, but her tongue was starting to feel strangely numb and she licked her lips to try to get some feeling back.

But there wasn’t much more than a finger’s width of brown liquid in the glass. She picked it up once more and threw it straight back.

It felt like her tongue had been cauterized, so she barely tasted the alcohol this time, just gulped it down, then set the glass primly back on the table. Her smug smile still had a hint of discomfort to it.

“Th-there,” she squinted through watery eyes, wincing but triumphant, “Every last drop.”

To her surprise, scattered applause broke out, along with the continued laughter. Even Olaf nodded in approval, his eyes twinkling.

“Well done, Baudelaire,” he chuckled, “And I’m a man of my word, of course. Shall we then begin our epic, and very fair contest?”

So, they did.

The crowd gathered closer as it began, like they were spectators of some sporting event. The two drew tiles from the board, selected who would go first (Olaf won), then reshuffled the tiles and picked seven new ones that they put in their racks.

Several of Olaf’s troupe were looking over Violet’s shoulder as she looked at her tiles, probably intending to help their leader cheat if they could. The clever brunette ignored them. Their vocabularies were even less extensive than Olaf’s and she doubted they’d know any of the words she would be using. She saw several options just with the letters she already had. In addition, she had bigger concerns at that moment.

As the tiles had been reshuffled, Violet had noticed that she was beginning to feel very warm and there was a floating sensation swimming around in her head. An invisible but gentle weight rested on her, slowing her down, making her feel like she was ever so slightly sinking. Her fingers, lips, and tongue felt like they didn’t entirely belong to her, only clumsily obeying her commands. Everything even looked a bit different, slightly surreal, it taking an instant longer to focus her eyes after she turned them.

Having won the initial turn, Olaf went first. He stroked his goatee thoughtfully, grinning at his tiles and occasionally up at his young opponent. It surprisingly wasn’t long before he shrugged and leaned back in his seat.

“I forfeit this round,” he grinned around at his sycophants, “I’ll allow my new bride at least the chance of a head start. After all, she’s only an orphan.”

His sycophants chuckled at that and Olaf reached up to loosen his ascot. He worked it free and tossed it aside with a flourish, then threw back the rest of his drink in one swig. Whoops rang out like he’d done something impressive and he turned back to Violet, picking his teeth with a dirty fingernail.

Violet couldn’t help but grin back at him, a wide, smug grin. As a properly educated and intelligent young woman, her smiles were usually more demure and polite, but in her current state it felt so easy to spread her lips to either cheek that she saw no reason to restrain herself. She had reason to be happy as well; beating Olaf was going to be even easier than she expected.

With the letters she had, there were several words she could create, but she’d already chosen one that would give her a decent number of points, but nothing extraordinary. The young Baudelaire still didn’t want to make Olaf angry.

Plucking tiles carefully from her rack, the maneuver being slightly more complicated with her clumsy fingers, she laid down a C, a U, two L’s, and an S.

“Culls,” she straightened the tiles with her index finger, “It means to select or choose. 12 points for me.”

Once the tiles were flush with one another and in a neat line, Violet interlaced her fingers and rested her hands on the table, smiling cheerily at her opponent.

Having played the game exactly as she believed it was to be played, even having double checked her calculations on the score, the young inventor was surprised when jeers and boos came from the spectators.

She blinked dizzily and looked around at them in confusion. Thoughts were more difficult with that floaty/spinny feeling in her head, so she was a bit slow to look down at the tiles, then check her calculations and spelling. After a few seconds, the slightly befuddled teenager was sure she was correct, and her confusion turned to annoyance.

The boos continued as Olaf clucked his tongue.

“Oh no no no, little Baudelaire,” he flicked one of the tiles off the board, “That’s not a proper word. Not even close to proper.”

Violet pursed her lips indignantly, her nose a bit pink from the alcohol. She knew what he was saying was very unfair, but her thoughts seemed to squirm away when she grasped at them, it being a struggle to find the correct words to tell him so.

“It… is so a proper word!” she lowered her brow at the jeering spectators, “It means… picking and selecting and… and the points are right… and… and anyway, booing is r-rude!”

Olaf just chuckled and poured more golden-brown liquid into her glass.

“Oh, maybe it’s a REAL word, who knows?” he poured enough into the glass for a couple of swallows, “But it’s not a proper word for Olaf’s Word… Word Making… the name I said earlier.” He set the bottle back onto the table, “In Olaf’s… in my game, the only proper words are NAUGHTY words.”

“Naughty words?” Violet asked, tilting her head.

The clueless, innocent look in her big blue eyes made the crowd give up booing to chuckle at her instead.

Olaf pushed the glass of alcohol towards her.

“Naughty words,” he grinned, “Bad words. Dirty words.”

“I can only put down…” Violet crinkled her nose, “Bad words?”

“Mm hmm,” Olaf’s eyelids lowered slyly, “And if you use a word that isn’t bad, you forfeit the round. Forfeiting a round means you have to take another drink…” he gestured at the glass, “… and… remove some of your clothing.”

As sluggish as her mind was, it took Violet a few seconds of blinking for everything he said to register. Particularly the last part, which was so beyond her expectations she believed she must have misheard.

“WH-WHAT?!” she jumped when the concept clicked into place, “B-but… no, that’s not how—”

“Those are the rules!” Olaf cut her off, “I already did it when I forfeited, remember? You said you wanted a fair game! Is that not only fair?!”

Violet chewed her bottom lip, slowly recalling that he had in fact removed his ascot and finished his drink when he’d forfeited. She didn’t see a flaw in his logic, but with the elusiveness of her thoughts, she couldn’t tell for sure.

“But…” she tried anyway.

“No buts!” Olaf snickered, “Except for yours, if you want to forfeit the whole match!”

Violet swallowed and looked down at the drink.

A symptom of excess ingestion of alcohol is that you will find it difficult to consider actions thoroughly before you decide to carry them out. This is often mistaken for bravery, when true bravery is performing an action with full knowledge of the possibly humiliating consequences. I don’t know if at that moment Violet was filled with true bravery or the thoughtless kind, but her actions made it clear she had a great deal of one of them.

“F-fine then,” she sniffed.

Reaching to her bow tie, she plucked at it a few times before she was able to undo the clip, then set it down on the table. There were a few whoops and whistles, but she ignored them, already reaching for the glass with a stubborn pout. She took the glass in both hands and brought it to her lips once more.

With her tongue tingling and numb, she tasted the alcohol much less this time and was able to finish the drink in a few quick gulps. She still scrunched her face and stuck her tongue out after she set the glass down but completed her part of the forfeit with no further issue.

The spectators cheered her and laughed a bit, while Violet herself smacked her lips in Olaf’s direction.

“Done,” she smiled broadly, feeling a pleasant heat in her tummy, “Your turn now.”

Violet felt like she’d discovered the last of the Count’s tricks. With her bourbon-infused confidence, she was sure she would beat the evil actor at this game, that even with these strange limitations her vocabulary was far superior.

Unfortunately for her, and for those of us that have to read this depressing tale, the eldest Baudelaire was mistaken on both counts. Monumentally, catastrophically, tragically, and also entirely mistaken.

For better or worse, many teenage girls are familiar with a wide variety of words both salacious and crude, but Violet was not among them. Having had mostly sheltered lives until their parents died, all three Baudelaire children never used, and only slightly less than never learned, any foul language. It’s one of the saddest ironies that Violet had such a strong command of the English language, but knew none of the words that could have helped her in that pivotal moment.

I won’t tell you the terrible word Olaf spelled out on his turn, but it made Violet blush and, predictably, the spectators laughed. On her next turn, Violet took too long to come up with a properly improper word, so she lost her shoe and had to drink. Then Olaf spelled out a word she’d never heard and she gasped when he explained what it meant. It being her turn again, she tried to use a word everyone agreed wasn’t naughty and she lost a sock.

Violet lost her costume piece by piece. Soon she was wishing she hadn’t lost the glasses she’d been forced to wear, because it would have been one more article she could have removed without compromising her modesty. As it was, she could only lose both shoes and socks before the only thing left was her skirt, which she lost just as predictably.

I shudder to imagine Violet Baudelaire surrounded by a leering crowd, with the only garment touching her skin being a pair of flimsy but colorful underwear. But as much as we may wish this hadn’t been the case, that is where the harrowed teenager found herself, arms crossed protectively over her breasts and looking around at the sea of unfriendly faces while she blushed red and tried not to let her lips quiver.

“W-wasn’t… fair…” she whimpered, hugging herself a bit tighter.

Through the course of the game, her vision had become blurry and the room spun around her head at an odd angle. It made the laughter, whistles, and cheers in the room seem like they were ululating and she squinted at the faces surrounding her, trying to make them out.

“You lose again, orphan,” Olaf chuckled, “And now it’s time… for you to pay the penalty.”

Violet turned towards him and her drunkenness made the movement comically exaggerated, swinging her around to wobble and blink in the villain’s general direction.

“That’s…” eyes heavy and lidded, she struggled to think of a response, “Ruh… woorong… ad the end of… game have to… c-calculate the scuh... scur… points…”

Olaf was already reaching for her, taking her by the arms.

“The score is one fully clothed—and very handsome—Count,” he drew her out of her seat, “To one helpless brat with only her tiny little panties. Which means I win.”

The spectators shared their enjoyment for their new patron’s “wit” with another round of laughter and Olaf drew Violet out of her chair, onto her feet. The embarrassed Baudelaire tried to squirm away, but it was barely noticeable with all the swaying and stumbling she did merely to keep from falling over. When she stood up, the room began to whirl even more violently than before and it was the evil actor’s grasp that helped her stay upright, not to mention she couldn’t use her arms without exposing the soft orbs squeezed beneath them.

Olaf pulled the stumbling teenager right to him, her thighs bumping into the seat of his chair, directly between his legs.

“You really should have a better attitude about this, you know,” he squeezed the tops of her arms, “You could have wound up married to someone… much less handsome AND much less good looking!” he grinned, “Not to mention not knowing the precise way to… handle you.”

Then, with one hand on her arm to keep her in place, the other smoothed across the hapless girl’s shoulders, feeling the tender skin and the slim bones, enjoying her youth and delicacy.

It was a truly horrible thing to see. Without even her skirt, the swell from her slim waist to her wider hips was in full view, as well as the faint groove that followed her spine, then curved out just at the waistband to her underwear. She had the shape of a young woman, but smaller in proportion, elf-like, from her marbled shoulders to the turns of her calves. Her underwear themselves already tucked neatly around the underside of her bottom, but unfortunately had become nestled between the backwards perking shapes, capturing a slender wrinkle that bent and shifted when the cheeks worked against each other.

Violet managed a droopy frown of disapproval, her head too numb and spinny to think overly hard on her situation. She was finding it hard to recall exactly why she was in this room, why there were so many people, and why she had no clothes on. The thought that stuck in her floundering mind was that Count Olaf was grinning at her and touching her and she didn’t like him one bit. He had even said something about being handsome, which she thought to be an outrageous claim, and she decided right then to tell him so.

“Yer… you’re nah handsome…” she squinted, wrinkling her nose, “You er… an evil… w-wicked… bad man… a bad… nasty… unfair… scuh-scoundrel and… you’re a liar… and a bad, evil liar…”

Olaf gasped, turning himself in his seat, “No! Me? You don’t say!”

“I… I DO say…” Violet slurred, “You… yer always… just when we—NYEEK!”

The reason Violet cried out right then was that Olaf had tipped her forward and dropped her over his lap. The sudden fall made the world swing around her head and the young inventor was completely discombobulated when she landed across his legs. She was so flummoxed, she didn’t even remember to struggle until the villain began wiggling her panties down.

“NO!” she squealed, kicking her legs, finding it difficult to fight while both arms were covering her breasts.

“Hmmm…” Olaf ignored the struggles, “So many punishable offenses these little brats have accosted me with… It’s difficult to know where to begin… hmm…”

Despite the pedaling of her feet, Violet’s underwear were worked down over her pale bottom, the paired cheeks forming an even clearer heart-shape with how they poked out over Olaf’s lap. All her struggles managed to do was make the shapes shift and bounce, to chuckles of enjoyment from the spectators.

“Everything I’ve gone through for their fortune,” the villain narrowed his eyes, “All the trouble and discomfort… but first, I think, we’ll address that smarty pants attitude of yours.”

He raised his palm high, curling his arm behind his shoulder like he was about to throw a fastball.

“This…” Olaf he cooed with deceptive sweetness, “Is for always being such a brainy little bookworm.”

His palm smacked down across the exposed bottom of his finally fallen foe with a clap that could be heard from the adjoining room.

Even numb with alcohol, Violet’s head jumped up, her eyes glassy and confused. It stung horribly but she was so drowsy that she couldn’t quite gasp the concept of that much pain, nor any method of reacting to it.

“This…” Olaf drew his hand back again, “Is for ruining so many of my schemes!”

The smack rang out again, bouncing the little globes. Violet’s eyes widened, her head popping up higher this time. It was her… her bottom, she realized, stinging and throbbing even worse than her head was heavy and spinning, but she was still so surprised and flabbergasted, she didn’t know what to do.

“O-oh!” she gasped.

“And this is for making me come up with so many schemes in the first place!” he snapped.

Another clap was laid across her rump and she had the wherewithal to squeal this time, kicking her feet once or twice. Then another landed a moment later, drawing a sharper, higher pitched squeal with more feeling behind it.

“And that was for…” he spanked her again before explaining, “For making me run! Several times! And that…” another loud clap smooshed the cheeks flat, “was for making me sleep in my car!”

Soon Olaf was simply beating her helpless bottom too often to explain why he was doing it. He worked himself into a rhythm, whapping, smacking, and clapping the little globes a cheery pink.

“AOOW! AAH! OWWW! AAIIEE! AAH-AAH!”

Violet cried out to punctuate every blow, tears stinging her eyes, while the crowd bellowed with laughter and egged him on.

“This is…” he smacked her again, “This is for…” another smack.

“For making us climb a mountain!” the hook handed man called out.

“For making ME climb a mountain!” Olaf agreed, giving her several loud spankings that drew several girlish yowls of pain.

“For making us rent a submarine!” another called out.

“For making me go underwater!” Olaf’s hand smacked down again.

More helpful voices called out with various transgressions Violet and her siblings had perpetrated, earning her an ever-reddening backside. Olaf wasn’t by any means an athletic person, but his energy abounded for this task, his eyes wide with malicious excitement.

Violet didn’t remember many of the things he called out, nor did she entirely care. All she wanted was for the spanking to stop.

“Pl-please! AAOOWW!” she howled, “I’m s-s—AAAH!—s-sorr-EEE! I’m sorry-EEEE! Please stop! AAAOOOOW!”

“And this is for… having a French name!” Olaf smacked her again, “And this is for… not giving me the fortune… without me asking! And for making me burn your house!”

“I’m sorreeeee…” Violet wailed, “Don’t—NEEEK!—please don’t… do any more—AAAAAH!”

The crowd couldn’t get enough of it, howling with laughter, both at the spanking itself and Violet’s increasingly pitiful reactions. Soon the sobbing girl had even developed a case of the hiccups, which struck new levels of hilarity.

“ST-hic-OP—AAAAH,” she whimpered, only to be bounced by another hiccup, “I’m s-s-hic-sorry for—OWWWWW…”

Olaf ran out of things to say before he ran out of strength in his arm, continuing to smack her butt until he found himself out of breath, even sweating.

At last, he let his hand rest on the mewling, hiccupping girl’s tush, his grin wide and satisfied. Around him his troupe and new friends were falling into each other and laughing uproariously, many wiping tears from their eyes. He considered this an excellent reaction to his performance and puffed out his chest, massaging the very warm bottom beneath his palm.

“Nhh…” Violet whined at the touch to her throbbing rear, “Owww… hic…”

“And that, ladies and gentlemen!” Olaf proclaimed, “Is how you make a beaten, broken, bare bottomed Baudelaire!”

The crowd applauded as they laughed, a few cheering and raising their glasses.

Olaf leaned down to scoop his victim up, drawing her upright, then sitting her across his lap.

Dizzy, sniffling, and hiccupping, Violet let him maneuver her and moved where he wanted, sitting her facing him, legs straddled around his waist.

One hand cupped under her bottom, making her cringe, her cheeks pink from crying. She stared at him with fearful, puffy eyes, sad and miserable. A squeaky hiccup made her bounce in his lap.

He sneered, “And what do you say now, my helpless little darling?”

Violet sniffled, her rosebud lips still warping as she whimpered and cried.

“Yuh you’re…” she blubbered, “A buh-bad—hic… an awful, t-terrible man… hic…”

Olaf chuckled and stroked her back.

“I know…” he grinned.

And so the party continued in much the same way, though Violet wouldn’t remember most of it. After a few minutes in Olaf’s lap, the stroking of her back, squeezing of her rump, and an excessive amount of alcohol lulled her to sleep against his chest. She rested her head against the villain’s shoulder, drooling slightly, and didn’t notice the party continuing around her.

Others took up Olaf’s Word Making Game and there was much laughter and more drinking. At one point someone swung on a chandelier and broke it, but the crash only made Violet jump for a moment before she slumped back down against the evil Count. She stayed there, her bared tush sitting directly into her captor’s palm, until the party began to wind down.

As morning came, the dining room was a complete shambles of broken cutlery and sleeping bodies, many piled in very uncomfortably positions. The laughter and raucous yells were replaced by snores, the occasional groan as someone turned over.

The last one awake was Count Olaf, still basking in his victory with Violet Baudelaire passed out in his lap.

Truly only someone horrible could enjoy the events previously described, but Olaf was such a man. Drunk, soon to be rich, with all the obstacles in his way either in a foreign country or naked and unconscious, he felt fulfilled, even happy. It made him feel generous, which was very rare for someone like him.

Leaning forward, he tilted Violet away from his chest, cupping behind her head to hold her up, allowing him to see her face. The young Baudelaire was blushing from drink and embarrassment even as she slept, the hair that had been teased into lovely waves for the wedding now sticking out and messy, some of it sticking to her cheeks. Her eyes were closed, mouth yawning open, lips shining.

Olaf stroked the hair from her cheeks, enjoying the gaping, but pretty features. She felt so soft and delicate, a doll he could dress up and handle any way he liked, even break if the mood struck him. He let her glossy hair slip through his fingers, stroked her cheek, then ran a fingertip over her lips, so soft and ripe.

“Heh…” he murmured, “Such a lovely girl…”

Violet stirred, the movement and the touching drawing her from the depths of slumber to somewhere in its shallows.

“Nhh…” she mumbled, swallowing, opening her eyes to tiny slits.

Still with far too much alcohol in her system, as well as being exhausted, the clever teenager could only make out cloudy blurs, both in her vision and memory. She didn’t recall what had happened or where she was or who she was, for that matter. What she did know was she felt a little spinny, someone was touching her nicely and speaking in a gentle tone.

“Mmmm…” she sighed, a silly smile coming to her lips.

Olaf grinned, looking her over, savoring the vulnerability her nudity lent her.

“You are such a lovely girl,” he said again, tickling a finger down her chest.

Violet giggled shyly, still wearing a silly smile

“Mrmm…” she slurred back, “Fank you…”

The wicked Count licked his lips, recalling a conversation he’d had with the Baudelaires before all this started. And how he believed it should have gone.

He leaned closer, his smile truly horrible.

“Would it really be so terrible to be married to me?” he cooed.

He let the backs of his fingers glide down her cheek.

“I wouldn’t dispose of you like the others,” the villain whispered, “I’d keep a pretty thing like you by my side.”

Violet smiled up at the strange blob in front of her. She didn’t know who he was, but he was speaking sweetly to her and his touch made her tingle, so she liked him.

“Nnnnot so terrible…” she giggled.

“So you agree, then?” Olaf’s eyes grew sharp.

Violet sighed, considering it with her limited mental capacity. It didn’t take long.

“Mmm okay,” she chirped, “I’ll… be by your side…”

Olaf showed his teeth. It didn’t mean much, not with him already having control of her and her fortune, but getting the clever girl to submit to his wishes felt like another victory. Even if she didn’t fully comprehend what she was saying, it was immensely satisfying.

His fingers closed around her bottom, taking a plump little cheek.

“That’s much better, Violet,” he cooed, “I knew you couldn’t resist me forever. All we had to do was break your stubborn streak.”

Violet didn’t know what that meant, but she happily rested her head against his shoulder as he stood, scooping her up. He kept her rump in his hand, squeezing, while Violet slumped against him, like the limp doll she was.

“It’s no more books and inventing for you, my dear,” Olaf whispered to her, “There are much better things for a pretty girl to be doing.” He gave her rump a pat, “And I’m going to show them to you.”

Stepping over broken plates and sleeping sycophants, Count Olaf carried his young prize upstairs, away from the rabble.

* * *

Months later, Violet was in the kitchen, loading up the last hor d’oeuvres onto a silver platter. It would have been easier without the mittens she was forced to wear, but Count Olaf didn’t want her inventing anything and she didn’t mind. It was the same reason she was never allowed to have a ribbon, her chestnut hair left to fall down her shoulders and back at all times.

Holding the tray in front of her with both hands, she pitter patted out of the kitchen on bare feet, wearing frilly apron and a content smile on her face. The hallway of the new mansion was much longer and better decorated than the old house and she glanced fondly up at the portraits as she passed through, all of Olaf in period dress, doing a heroic pose.

She could already his booming, boastful voice from the end of the hall and she hurried towards it, making sure not to spill any of the small sandwiches she’d made. Stopping just outside the room, she took a deep breath and prepared herself. She looked forward to this, being able to see and be seen before she had to clean all the upstairs rooms.

Making sure she was wearing her prettiest smile, that her blue eyes were bright and interested, she turned through the doorway into what the Count called his “pondering room”.

Inside the pondering room were more portraits with gold leaf frames, along with other statues and busts, all of Olaf. A globe was set to one side of the room with a miniature of Olaf standing atop it, while the walls were lined with thick, leather bound books the villain claimed to have written himself. Violet knew they were all blank, but she still thought it was impressive.

Lounging on velvet couches and big, squishy chairs were Olaf and his troupe, the troupe members dressed in fashionable clothing, while their leader was dressed in a golden officer’s uniform. A tall, sparkling hat sat upon his head, while his chest sparkled with stacks of medals and ribbons. Violet knew none of them meant anything, but again thought they were very impressive.

“Ah, there she is!” Olaf boomed as he saw her, “My little housekeeper!”

Violet blushed and her eyes lit up with excitement. She quickly curtsied, making sure to keep the tray level.

“Greetings, King Olaf!” she beamed, “I’ve brought—”

But she stopped when Olaf clucked his tongue. He wagged a finger at her.

“Ah ah ah,” he chided, “We’re going with LORD Olaf today. Lord Olaf.”

Violet’s stomach immediately sank, her smile fading. No one had told her about the change in title, but regardless she never wanted to displease the Count.

“I-I’m so sorry!” she gasped, “I didn’t… I’m sorry, Lord Olaf!”

“Tsk, it’s all right, my dear,” the Count waved her worries away, “You’re still my lovely little morsel.”

Violet shivered with pleasure.

“Now, go on,” he coaxed, “Bring in the treats. We’re all quite… ravenous.”

Bobbing her head in a nod, her happiness completely restored, Violet skipped into the midst of the couches and chairs, then bent down to set the tray down on a table.

Along with the troupe and the Count himself, there was a guest who was facing Violet’s back as she came in. He swallowed when he saw her, drawing in a quick breath.

The reason for the guest’s reaction wasn’t purely due to Violet’s beauty, though everyone agreed she was a lovely girl. Since she’d accepted their new arrangement, Olaf had greatly restricted the girl’s ensembles, sticking to a very minimalist philosophy. As such, what had caused the visitor to sit up a bit straighter was that while Violet had to wear an apron for kitchen safety, the rest of her outfit consisted of absolutely nothing else.

Once Violet set down the tray, Olaf reached out to stroke her cheek, coaxing the girl to bend over a bit further.

“There’s my little Baudelaire,” he cooed, “Such a pretty girl you are.”

Violet sighed and leaned forward into his hand, inadvertently sticking her pale bottom prominently out. Loving the attention, she shivered and closed her eyes, in heaven.

Olaf stroked her and smiled, then shrewdly looked past her to watch the guest’s reaction. The man couldn’t take his eyes away, squeezing his thigh and even sweating slightly, staring like he was trying to memorize the exact spacing of the two young globes.

“Dear,” Olaf cooed, “Why don’t you go be friendly with our guest, hm?”

Violet’s face lit up even brighter. This was turning out to be the best day she’d had in weeks!

“Okay!” she chirped, then turned to skip towards this new man.

Startled out of his reverie, the visitor was still gaping as Violet flounced over and crawled into his lap, wiggling in to get comfy.

“Er…” the man cleared his throat, “I… it’s all right, I don’t—”

“I hope you’ll do me a favor, Mister Bilten,” Olaf smiled, “She’s a little troublemaker I defeated some time ago and she gets very lonely. She needs lots of attention, don’t you, Violet?”

Violet nodded.

“I do get VERY lonely,” she admitted, “I don’t get touched as much as I’d like and if you send me away, I think I’ll just have to go clean the rooms upstairs.” She stared at him with big, sad blue eyes, “Please, please can I stay, Mister Bilten?”

Mister Bilten smiled despite himself, clearing his throat again. He looked around for a moment, as if looking for a reason to refuse, but finally shrugged.

“Well…” he chuckled, patting her bottom, “In that case…”

Violet smiled and wiggled backwards, pressing her rump more intently into his palm. He hesitated, then planted a kiss against her cheek and she shivered, giggling happily.

Olaf watched with narrowed eyes and a vulpine grin.

“So, Mr. Bilten,” he ventured, “About your investment in my troupe…”

Reading this, you may be wondering why there was such a distinct change in Violet’s behavior. The reason for this can be found in a word Count Olaf had used; defeat.

The word “defeat” means a total loss, a situation where one is completely overcome and vanquished. In more precise terms, it meant the Baudelaire children had been outwitted, outmaneuvered, and outplayed, but “defeat” didn’t quite encapsulate the entirety of Violet’s situation. This was something more final than a defeat, a situation that the eldest Baudelaire would never be able to retrieve herself from, to which she would have to change suitably or die. And so she did, becoming exactly as Olaf wished.

In that way, the word “defeat” didn’t describe Violet’s fate at all. Someone can be defeated but return from it stronger, then try again and perhaps they’ll succeed. It doesn’t mean it’s the end.

But for Violet Baudelaire, that’s exactly what this was.

The end.