Chapter Two

The Brown

~ Sorry for the wait, everyone. Without further ado, your story. xD ~

Janelle studied a lock of her hair, twisting it over and over in a mesmerizing effect. She stared into it, looking for anything she had missed.

Now, obviously, she wasn't really just looking at her hair with great enthusiasm; she was also thinking over her day. Going over every minute detail, every new face and conversation. And most of all, Artemis Fowl II.

She'd done this for the past couple of years - minus the Artemis part - knowing he only was a recent addition to her mind. Every new event was catalogued for the future. She'd remember these thoughts for the next twenty days, in vivid detail, and then write them down in her diary for safekeeping.

She huffed. Bloody nights never seemed to end for her.

She turned over in her bed, eyes lazily moving to the clock that rested on her nightstand. Glowing red numbers told the time to be 2:37 a.m.

She shifted the blanket to cover her nude body once more as she thought of this. Another four bloody hours of just lying here, staring up at that bloody ceiling.

You could do a lot in four hours. You could bake a chicken within three hours, and the potatoes for another, while green beans stoop over the stovetop. A whole Thanksgiving meal could be ready!

You could write an essay in that long. And believe me, Janelle had loads of extra homework she could actually complete herself. But then what would Artemis be for? He could do all of her work within ten minutes, and he didn't even mind it. It could wait.

She heard a soft moan come from the other side of the room. Yep, there she was, her roommate Amy. The girl rustled around in her bed sheets, mumbling about tortoises and spouting out other random gibberish. At least she could sleep. People like Janelle were never given such a privilege.

Too much to be sorry for, and too many actions to think over.

Speaking of which . . .

Our little Janelle was too devious for her own good.

With one last huff, she threw off the sheets. She quickly put on some clothes, and proceeded to head for the door.

Out the door . . . or not. She forgot her purse. Ladies and their accessories.

Now out the door with the purse, she headed for her car in the parking garage one block south.

She shifted her gaze quickly around the grounds before running across them; she was now thankful for her summer training as an Olympic grade runner. It was paying off now.

Hardly any boy, nor girl, could match her stride.

… She knocked twice – paused – then knocked five times rapidly in a soft rhythm.

This particular section of the city was very shady. Quite literally. The main street was surrounded with three-story brick houses, crunched up together like you see in London.

The shops nearby where behind these buildings, and carts selling ice cream and hotdogs could be found on the street from eleven o'clock in the morning to six o'clock at night.

Janelle nervously eyed the windows going around the structure. She knew this place well, and it knew her just with just as much familiarity. It could stab her in the back just as quickly as she could make the place crumble down to the ground.

She quickly tapped her belt knife, a Mark 1 trench (1), to double-check that she was armed. It was a beautiful knife, with three effective and efficient ways to kill, from the knuckle duster handle, the mettle stud at its base, and not to mention the sharp two-sided blade. Good. It hadn't fallen out since the last block, when she had done just the same thing.

She waited dispassionately. Her eyes wandered to the 1918 branding the knife's blade, and to the sparkling brass handle/duster. A truly unique weapon that felt good in her hands.

Finally, about a minute later, after another two 'secret' knocks, the door was opened.

The first thing that happened was a burst of suspicious smoke loosing itself to the elements as it exited the room. This was, of course, the drughouse. They had different names all around the world, but none really varied; all the same basic design.

A tall man peeked out from behind the doorframe; his face framed by long disheveled hair - dirty blonde. His eyes, surprised and red-rimmed, were green.

This was the Doorman, known only as such around here.

He wore a dark trench coat with the front open, at almost all times. A bowie knife was strapped to his left leg, right above one of his tan boots.

"'Ello? What do you want? Who goes there?" He practically shouted into the street.

"I'm here for the brown (2), you ol' dolt. Now step aside, and I won't need fire you," Janelle antagonized, as she brushed the Doorman aside and entered the inner workings of the place.

"As you wish, Jani (3)," he replied, flushed; how was he to know she'd be here tonight? She wasn't expected to be here for another week at least . . .

. . . 3:00 a.m., the blinking lights told him, as he looked up from his desk. He had already heard she was here; he'd just need to wait for her to collect the brown she had reserved. Her secret supply was always in stock, for she was not a doll to mess with. Most anyone could attest to this, if they knew her well enough.

And that was bad news. All of his brown was sold out – the drought saw to it that he get none of his newest crop. All he had for her was Zopiclone (4).

Jani detested pushing pills. She would not be happy . . .

Janelle walked expertly through the house, ducking when needed and dodging out of the way when required. She crossed a room to get to the staircase - a noisy thing that squeaked every step of the way - and eventually ended up at the door.

She turned the lock, to only find it locked . . . no problem. If this was how they wanted to work it.

She unsheathed the Mark 1, aimed the stud at the doorknob, and struck a few fast poundings. The knobs broke off from both sides, falling to the floor; leaving the door effectively unlocked.

Janelle opened the door slowly, letting the men inside fry a little longer in the deep end. She strode forward, her path dead-pinned to the desk in front of her. She winked mischievously at one of the men to her left before giving the man at the desk her full attention.

"Why, Ashleigh? That's all I have to ask? Why would you lock the door, well knowing I had a key in the first place? I cut you a deal with a major buyer, and this is how you repay me? Why would you have to do that to me? Another thought; what would you do if our roles were reversed?" She recited this as if reading from a script similar to that of The Godfather.

Ashleigh cowered a little. He was already slouched in his chair enough to make an old lady envious, yet he somehow achieved another level of pity. He puffed his dirty-blonde hair out of his eyes, giving him eye contact with Janelle.

"I would tell 'em to 'eff off," he answered slowly, voice wavering.

"WRONG!" Jani shouted into his face, leaning over the desk and stabbing the Mark 1 into the tough wood, "Because you AREN'T the boss of the person sitting in front of you, sitting on his lazy buttocks instead of actually getting sales. Your profit hasn't improved in the past three months, and to be honest with myself, I don't know why I haven't kicked your arse out of that chair days ago!

"Now, Danny? His profit doubles each quarter! Shit, he has grandmas selling his crop, MY crop, MY shit, MY money! Shit, if Danny could get close to her, he'd have our Uachtarán (5) begging for our shit! We have the shit that kids want these days, Ashleigh Parker! And if you can't sell it, you're out! You've got yourself a week to get sales above average, then your dropped on your arse outside this little establishment. Pick an apprentice, 'cuz the way you run this place, you WON'T be here in a week!"

The room fell silent, as Janelle collected herself, as well as her knife; the Mark 1 slid back silently into its sheath.

She smiled at her employees as she turned around. Then, she quickly spun around again, lightning fast - and promptly slapped Ashleigh.

"You've got a week, and don't you forget it!" she yelled, as she scooped up pillboxes of Zopiclone located by the door, then left Ashleigh to suffer in the dust . . .

A/N: Right, well there was a lot of research I needed to do for this one guys, so that's the main reason it came so late. (Mocha [beta]: Also because I didn't proofread this quick enough. I sowwy.) Here are a few things I thought might need an explanation.

(1) Mark 1 Trench Knife: The Mark 1 trench knife was used during the first world war, though slowly lost its trend as companies such as KA-BAR and S.O.G started to contract Military Contracts.

(2)Brown is Dublin Slang for heroin; though I'm sure you guys got the idea.

(3) Jani: Pronounced Jenny.

(4) Zopiclone: Zopiclone is a prescription sleeping pill (it's especially useful for insomnia), which is now being seen on the streets of Dublin each day. Because of drought of their heroin crop, Dubliners are being sold these pills which come into the country from several areas, though evidently the main source is the Pakistan area. Also known as Zimovane.

(5) Uachtarán: Uachtarán is the Irish word for President.

Some last thoughts . . .

Now, I know it did take me a long time to write this, guys, but I had to do a lot of research. Just sayin'. It takes longer to craft stories like these, so I'd really appreciate reviews. I don't care about your view on the story as much as my writing, so if you'd like to critique my writing instead of my plot, that is totally acceptable.

~ Kalen Bloodstone ~