The Grim Gallery

Violet Baudelaire did not have any clothes on.

It is at this point that I must ask if you would not prefer to read something else. You could read a story about a woman who finds a lost puppy, or a man who inherits an enormous fortune. You could even read a story about a boy who goes on a tour of a chocolate factory. There are any number of stories in the world you could be reading aside from this one, and almost all of those stories are more cheerful. They are stories in which good things happens to good people, and everyone lives happily every after.

This is not a story in which good things happen to good people. It is a story in which an intelligent, vivacious, attractive young woman suffers a series of cruel misfortunes that result, despite her best efforts, in her complete and utter humiliation. "Humiliation" is a word that here means "having entirely too many people take high-definition photographs of your vagina in order to print them in the newspaper". Violet Baudelaire certainly did not wish to have high-definition photographs of her vagina printed in the newspaper, and it was a matter of considerable dismay to her that this currently appeared to be occurring. There is no reason whatsoever that you ought to share her dismay, and I urge you to put aside this story at once and take up something more wholesome, like knitting.

She stood on her pedestal and squirmed.

"Very in," said Esme, approvingly. She had placed Violet in a taxicab, using ****, and taken her to an art gallery in the city. The gallery was hosting a display of Things That Are In. The Things included a tea-kettle, a banana peel, a Bible, a naked Violet Baudelaire with her hands tied to a pole behind her back, and a bar of soap. Reporters from all the newspapers and fashionable magazines were stalking the gallery floor, taking pictures of all the Things. Violet smiled politely at the closest one.

"Excuse me," she said. "I am being held captive against my will. Would you mind letting me go, and calling the police?"

"Saying you're being held captive against your will," explained Esme to the reporter, "is very in."

"I see," said the reporter, taking another picture of Violet's vagina. "How interesting."

"Please stop taking pictures of me," said Violet, cheeks blazing red. She could feel herself drowning in an ocean of mortification, but she did her best to stay calm. Only cool, rational thinking could get her out of this. "I don't like it at all. I insist that I'm set free immediately."

"Insisting that you're set free immediately is very in," said Esme. "Oh, look, here comes a school group."

"Golly, it's the cakesniffer," said Carmelita Spats, who was here with her school group, and was very much eighteen years old. "What are you doing here, cakesniffer? And why don't you have any clothes on?"

"Oh. Hello, Carmelita. Would you mind calling the police immediately, please?"

"You're naked, cakesniffer. I can see your vagina. All the boys are looking at it."

"It's very in at the moment," said Esme. "Carmelita, you should take all your clothes off, too."

"In front of all the boys? Don't be ridiculous. I'd be humiliated."

"Not as long as it's in. You don't have to be humiliated while it's in."

"Look at her," said Carmelita, pointing at Violet's vagina. "She's completely humiliated. You can see her blush, look."

"Stop looking! Shut up! Er, I mean, I'd like to go now, please."

"She doesn't count," said Esme. "She doesn't know anything about fashion."

At the other end of the room, the phone rang. A reporter picked it up. He listened for a while. Then he shouted down the hall, "Hey, everyone! Public nudity's out!"

Esme, who was still completely naked, turned very red.

"Having all your clothes on is in!" shouted the reporter. "So is toothpaste, and making fun of naked girls! Being a naked girl is now completely out!"

"Eek!" shrieked Esme. "Stop looking at me! No, Carmelita, stop! Don't take pictures!"

"You're naked, cakesniffer!"

As Esme was chased from the room, pursued by flashing cameras, Violet tugged at her bonds. She couldn't break them. She might not be in any more, but she was still stuck naked as an exhibit in a public art gallery, while Carmelita Spats and a bunch of boys looked on, smirking. But maybe now that she was out they'd let her go?

"Bibles are out," shouted the reporter. "The new thing that's in is tying naked girls to poles and tickling them until they plead for mercy!"

Carmelita grinned as Violet blushed an even deeper shade of red. She had no way of knowing that it was the exact shade of red Beatrice had turned after a certain incident involving an evil tailor, a sabotaged ballgown, a birthday cake and an unfortunate lack of undergarments, and it probably would have been no consolation if she had. Carmelita wiggled her fingers.

"Well," she said, advancing. "I suppose we're all victims of fashion."