Because I'm on a high (sugar induced high, that is - way too many lollies), I give you this. I almost never write humour so I don't know how this will turn out. Pretty much set in a separate universe from "Still Real", but all characters belong to Lemony Snicket. And YES, I AM using single quotation marks for speech, and there's no law in the writing and editing world about that because many use them, so don't whine on about it.

SMASHING COCONUTS

'What are you doing?'

'Pardon?'

'I asked, what are you doing, girl?'

'Running my hands along the wall to find the latch.'

'Oh. . . is there a latch from the inside?'

'I don't know. That's why I'm looking.'

'Feeling.'

'Pardon?'

'You said that's why you're looking. You can't be looking because we can't actually see anything. You only feel for a latch. My, my, I would've thought that even a stupid orphan child like yourself could - OW! WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?'

'If you don't be quiet, I will leave you in here once I get out.'

'You wouldn't dare.'

'Try me.'

Silence.

'I don't think there is one.'

'What, so now I'm stuck inside here with you?'

'You're not supposed to be the one complaining.'

'I have to be on stage. You have to be on stage. Now get us out.'

'I don't have my ribbon with me.'

'Your what?'

'My ribbon.'

'What does a damn ribbon have to do with anything?'

'I always tie a ribbon in my hair when I'm trying to think of an invention. If I had a ribbon that I could tie in my hair, I could think of an invention to get us out of here. Considering I don't have one, I can't get us out.'

'Yes, you can. You will.'

'There's no latch.'

'Stupid girl. If there's a latch to get in here, there's a latch to get out. Oh fine, I'll help you, but only to get out. And you're giving me the reward in helping you out once we're free.'

'Which is?'

'Marrying me, of course. So I can get your fortune. Well, come on, get a hold of my hand and we'll both find the latch.'

'I'm not holding your hand.'

'You're in no position to decide whether to hold my hand or not. Right. I'll get a hold of yours then.'

'Count Olaf?'

'What is it now?'

'That's not my hand.'

Silence.

'Count Olaf, I believe there's a Teletubbies' costume in here. If you don't let go of me now, you'll be wearing that on stage with a red hand print across your one hundred and four year old face.'

'Fine.'

'Thank you.'

'I wouldn't talk back to me, if I were you.'

'You're not me, so you don't need to.'

'I'm the one with the gun, missy. I could shoot you in one instant and you'd never talk back to me again.'

'You also couldn't marry me and get our money.'

'What, you think there's some other reason I want to marry you? I could get the money in other ways.'

'Like?'

'I'm not telling you.'

'Oh? Why not?'

'Sweet voices don't work with me, orphan. In case one of those plans need to be used. But the plan of marrying you is such brilliance - which isn't a surprise, coming from a criminal mastermind like myself - that I'd never need to use these plans.'

'If you never need to use them, why won't you tell me what they are, Father?'

'Gun.'

'I came to a conclusion.'

'Oh? That's a surprise.'

'You're rather clever.'

'Oh?'

'Yes. But don't flatter yourself.'

'I'll flatter myself as I see fit.'

'Soon you won't need to, especially around me or my siblings. People will work out what you're doing, Olaf.'

'Not likely, orphan.'

'By the way, where's your gun?'

'On me.'

'Could you give it to me?'

'So you can shoot me? No.'

'Not to shoot you. To shoot down this door.'

'You think I'm going to believe that a fourteen year old orphan girl, who has never used a handgun in her life, is going to be able to shoot into a wooden closet door with accuracy in pitch black darkness?'

'You got a better idea?'

Silence.

'I thought as much.'

'I'm not giving the gun to you, Violet.'

'Then I'll find it myself, Olaf. Hmm. . . that doesn't feel like a gun.'

'That's because it isn't.'

Silence.

'Oh, yuck.'

'Orphan, do kindly remove your hands from. . . uh. . . there.'

'Gladly.'

Silence.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK 'SOMEONE, HELP! WE'RE LOCKED IN THE COSTUME CUPBOARD!'

'They're not going to help you, orphan.'

'And why is that?'

'Because it's mostly my troupe out there. Presumably, them and anyone else would go running in the opposite direction from your screechy, whining voice.'

'You're one to talk.'

'Gun.'

'I could still shoot down the door.'

'No. I will shoot down the door.'

'You'll miss.'

'So much faith you have in me.'

'You can't blame me for that!'

'Sarcasm, orphan.'

'I know that.'

'Besides, I won't miss. I murder people with guns from a quite a distance away. Shooting down this door will be like Sunny's play.'

'I'd rather not think about it.'

'Now, to get the gun. . . '

Silence

'DON'T TOUCH ME!'

'I'm not TRYING to touch you, so quit moving about, you stupid girl! Now stand back.'

'Stand back where?'

'I don't have the time to answer all your mindless questions! Just stand back!'

Silence

CLICK, CLICK, CLICK 'What the. . . ?'

'What is it?'

'There's no bullets in this gun.'

'So you wouldn't be able to shoot me if I talked back to you?'

'Oh, I would be able to shoot you, my dear girl. I'd just have to shoot you later rather than now.'

'No, you couldn't.'

'Why - ?'

Olaf didn't get to finish his question. Violet had grabbed a heavy object her hand had discovered on the ledge above their heads and smashed it across the back of Olaf's head, at the same time the door was flung open by one of the white face- powdered women.

The white face-powdered women stared at the two. Olaf was unconscious, having fallen out of the closet to her feet, his unloaded gun just near his hand. Violet stood, blinking like a deer in the headlights, a smashed coconut in her hand.

'I'm not going to ask.'

FIN