Excuse me, Mister Fowl?
Summary: "Excuse me, Mr. Fowl? Could I see you for a moment?"
Disclaimer: All characters from the Artemis Fowl series belong to Eoin Colfer. All others belong to us, as does any aberrations from the books, maiming, or killing.
"Excuse me, Mister Fowl? Could I see you for a moment?"
Artemis, stopped at a red light, turned to see an imposing figure in a football helmet – European football, that is, so he wasn't wearing one at all. "Yep?"
"According to our sensors, you were driving five miles above the proscribed speed limit . . . in a crooked line."
Artemis tightened his grip on the wheel. "Was not."
The cop frowned. "It's a dangerous thing to do at an intersection." He paused and after a moment muttered, "Were, too."
"Was not."
"Were, too."
Artemis scowled at the newcomer irritably. "Can't you just write me a ticket and let me go, officer? And go away?" He waved a hand dismissively.
The policeman-person stared at him incredulously. "Look, Mr. Fowl, I'd love to, but driving like that is illegal here in the States. So, could I see your license, please?
Artemis pursed his lip, frowning deeply, like he did when one of his many ruminations seized him. Finally, he seemed to find the answer that had been dancing right before his mind's eye. "No."
"Are you directly refusing to comply with an officer's orders?"
Artemis frowned again, then let a smile as bright as a neon light take over his face. "Yep!"
The policeman-person's mouth set itself into a tight, thin line. "Step out of the Lamborghini, please, and walk in a line."
Artemis tossed his head back to gauge the cop's sincerity. He seemed sincere enough, though Artemis was admittedly not up to the judgment in this particular hour. Finally, he opened the car door and staggered out. He let out a yelp of "whoa" as he fell against the officer. "So sorry," he muttered as the frowning policeman-person helped to erect him. "Now," he queried, seeming to be serious, as though he had fully regained his senses and self-awareness, "did you want that to be a straight line . . . " – he squinted his eyes and tried to read the name on the policeman-person's badge – "Officer Pimp?"
"That's 'Officer Ping,' you moron-"
"That's harassment! I want the embassy!"
Ping was fast losing his patience, not that he had much in the first place for a self-indulgent Irish boy-genius. "Just walk, Mister Fowl." Before Artemis could form a word, he added, "Yes, in a straight line."
Artemis frowned contemplatively. "Then sorry, can't. 'S against my religion. Nothin' straight or perfectly round – we think it's blasphemous to try to do something perfect, 'cause we know that only God is perfect. 'S a very obscure sect of Catholicism."
"What's it called, alcoholism?"
"No!" Artemis giggled good-naturedly. "Don't got a name, but it's very well known in certain circles – no, wait! – ovals." He shrugged. "Anyway, we have very strict limits, which include not trying to even attempt equaling God – mediocrity is the law, you know. We can't talk straight, walk straight, drive straight . . . we aren't even allowed to think straight. So there, Officer Pimp."
Ping blinked at him, the driest expression possible etched on his face. "Mr. Fowl, I'm going to write you a ticket, and then I want you to drive away and I never want to see you or hear from you ever, ever, ever again. Do we have a deal?"
"D'accord!" Turning shakily on his heel, he stumbled back into the Lamborghini, and Ping heard him humming to himself: "Islands in the street, that is what we are . . . "
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