Beck scrambled around his room, trying to find the one thing which would give him the credit he was due—a gumball sculpture.
Ever since yesterday, Easter morning, Beckett had been chewing massive amounts of gum in order to bring it in that day for show-and-tell at school.
It was a brisk Monday morning; and he turned over every piece of clothing strewn across the floor.
Not on the dresser, not under the bed, and definitely not under the medieval suit of armor standing erect against the wall. Definitely not there. I mean really, who would . . . Beck would.
Just in case, he called Butler to pick the thing up; yep, not there either.
"What is the young master looking for today, hmm?" muttered the bodyguard before he exited.
"Sculpture," responded the frustrated toddler, as he threw the bedspread off and started stripping the mattress. Not there either.
Butler merely shrugged, used to the odd way the Fowl family worked.
The drum set? No, not there either.
After nearly ten minutes of searching, turning every single item on its end, Beck tired. He had about twenty minutes, if he was still to catch the bus. In twenty minutes, he could find it—or, he could not. A game of chance was not young Beckett's particular cup of tea, so he turned his mind to other things.
As he picked through his Easter basket, grinning as he moved over the miniature pots of gold – with real gold inside. Myles came in.
Dressed in a black and red rugby shirt, black khakis, and NSS black, white threaded, shoes (with a labcoat to cover it all), the young master walked in. In the crook of his arm, he held Professor Primate, and in one hand, he held his pride and joy: a Lamborghini Hotweels car.
Until the morning before, Beckett had been unaware of the model's existence; and he was right—it didn't exist. Artemis Fowl Senior had it commissioned by the head of Hotwheels development, Roger Joyce, and later commissioned another hundred, to be sold as one-of-a-kind replicas for his sons. Needless to say, Beck was jealous.
Myles tried to hide a sneer as he plopped down on one of the beds that occupied the nursery.
"How goes the hunt?" he inquired, racing the Hotweels across the bedspread.
"Fine," snapped Beck, his ruffled hair swaying almost as fast as he moved.
He stopped, momentarily, dead still; then just as quickly, ran around the room, stopping only once to examine the lampshade. He had turned utterly insane.
"Artemis!" yelled Myles, after running to the hallway. After a moment, his older brother emerged from the shadows, skulking, as if the shadows clung to him, as if they wanted him.
"Yes?" mused Artemis, his ultra-pale skin eerily vampire-like.
"Beck turned loony – go take a look," nervously replied Myles, as he took a step back into the room.
As Artemis entered the room, the air seemed to deaden at his presence; he walked forward, squaring his shoulders, and turned Beck around to face him. Artemis rested his hands on Beck's shoulders, to keep him in place and attentive.
"What's going on here?" he queried, his eyes searching his brothers; for what, few knew.
"Sculpture," he bleated, "wasn't there. I'm tryin' to find something else to bring. I'm sorry to have disturbed your work, Artemis . . ."
Artemis's eyes glazed slightly, as he thought. His eyes stayed open, as if invisible toothpicks held them up. Nearly a minute went by; when he snapped back to the present. He shook his head, than spoke once more.
"Don't worry about the project, I've only been working on it a few months." Artemis let the young child go, pacing the room as he talked. "As for this show-and-tell," a slight smirk attached itself to his face, "why would you bring the gumball sculpture, and not the vintage helicopter from M.A.S.H? Or maybe the last bottle of Scotch Abraham Lincoln ever drank from?"
"No!" Beck said, defiantly stamping his feet. "Gumball sculpture!" he yelled.
"Alright, alright," Artemis said, biting his tongue. "Where's the last place you had it?"
"Disneyland . . . I think . . ." replied Beck, his eyes slightly wider then usual.
"Well then, I guess that shoots this particular item out of the 'park.'"
Myles nodded his consent, as Beck scowled into the nearest pillow. He thrashed about, eyes tearing; needless to say, this young Fowl was having a tantrum.
"It is fact, not fiction, that I told you; come, I'll help you pick out a new show-and-tell piece," recited Artemis, his gaze lightening, slightly, as he looked on at his brother.
Beckett slouched still, but at least he was sitting.
Artemis spent the better part of the next few minutes indicating a large array of toys, clothing, and replicas as well as antiques – one even being a Squiggles authentic tentacle – but to no avail . . . Beck still refused.
Seven minutes till he had to leave, Beckett finally consented to an item—Indiana Jones and the Lost Ark's professional prop item # 549.
As Artemis picked up prop item # 549, Beckett simply pointed at it. He nodded. As he ran out the room, to catch a late breakfast, he snatched up the prop . . .
. . . Artemis watched out the window, a few moments later. There it was, the big yellow bus, which was to take his brothers to school. He watched as they boarded and pulled out of the driveway; Beck and Myles with their friends, just another day at school . . .
Artemis slowed his pace as he entered the Kitchen. Butler had left for the week on vacation, leaving his young charge . . . in charge.
As Artemis turned the bend, he smelled exactly what he wanted: calzones. He reached for an oven mitt, and after putting it on, reached into the oven. Withdrawing a baking sheet, quickly, he placed it onto the stovetop.
After placing three of them onto plates, and placing a sprig of oregano on top of them, Artemis reached for the grape juice just in time to hear the front door open.
As the twins rushed into the room, making their usual ruckus, Artemis poured their juice into tumblers.
Taking a seat at the high chairs, the twins waited patiently for Artemis to place their snake before them.
"So," started Artemis, as he finished topping chocolate mousse with whipped crème, "how did today go?"
"Great," the two replied as one, digging into the mousse before the calzones. Ith chéad Desert, or Eat desert first, was their debatable motto for the next Fowl generations.
"And the show-and-tell?"
"I . . . won . . ." Beckett said between mouthfuls.
"Good, and what was the story behind it?"
He was, of course, indicating prop # 549 – also known as the Holy Grail, or at least to Indiana Jones and the Lost Ark. The clay goblet was sturdy, if not one to admire.
"I went . . . into the Passover, . . . and acted out the . . . scene from the movie," responded young Beck.
"Well, that certainly is interesting," Artemis commented, as he sliced off a portion of his calzone, distastefully smirking at the thing before taking a bite. Gulp!
Sorry that it took me so long; but here it is!
I'm going on a hiatus, until early June - wish me luck on vacation in Cali!
~ Kalen Bloodstone ~