Well, I figured that I should show that even though I DID drop off the edge of cyber-world, I DID survive. I promise that a serious, actually half-decent story will be up soon. In the meantime, this is something I planned by a necessity of needing something FUN to do whilst caught in a maelstrom of exams and assessment. It's ridiculous and OOC, but I figured why not?

Disclaimer: I don't own Artemis. I may have destroyed his credibility forever in this particular world, but I don't own him. Kay?

Saturday Night Fever

It all started on a fateful Saturday night.

Artemis Fowl II, being the antisocial criminal genius that he was, had just finished putting the final touches on an art heist that he was planning the following Wednesday, when he decided that what he really needed was a little vegging. This was a word that had recently come to Artemis' attention due to his forced high school attendance, and hence his forced interaction with boys his own age. Ordinarily Artemis didn't approve of slang of any kind, but he made an exception for this particular word, because it was easier to think (and write) than "Artemis needed to relax and allow his mind time to recuperate."
Anyway, the vegging took the form of Artemis slumping on the couch in the movie room – quite a sight in his Armani suit and tie – and switching on the television.

Where he promptly discovered the movie Saturday Night Fever.

Suddenly Artemis was sucked into a world of psychedelic colours and flaring dancing pants. John Travolta's bad haircut, sexist and sleazy men, disco dancing, glittering disco balls, strobe lighting, and Staying Alive circled around his mind, sucking Artemis irresistibly into a vortex of pop-musical movie culture.

The next morning, when Juliet came downstairs, she was greeted by Artemis dressed in a purple disco suit, complete with shiny plastic dancing shoes that looked more like bowling booties.

Juliet raised an eyebrow and eyed Artemis' new – and very evident – fashion philosophy as though it were a side dish she did not order. Artemis struck a pose in the doorway of the study and strutted over to her. Juliet leaned back as he approached as though whatever was wrong with him was contagious.
'Artemis, are you feeling all right?'
Artemis struck his disco-dancing pose again. 'Disco fever, darling,' he told her in a Memphis accent. 'Might I have this dance, ma'am?'

Juliet's eyes narrowed.

Ten seconds later, Artemis was standing outside in a chilly Irish mist, trying his best to strut, despite the fact that his plastic dancing shoes had turned solid.

'And you can stay out until you get out of that stupid suit or die, whichever comes first!' Juliet shouted through the letterbox slot.

Bobbing his head to the music in his mind, Artemis started to trudge towards town. He had no intention of either freezing or removing his suit. Tony Manero could get babes dressed like this, and so could Artemis Fowl.

In town, Artemis was walking through town and nodding his head to every girl who walked past when he saw it.

Her.

The one.

She was Karen Lynn Gorney reincarnated.

Artemis' strut picked up more bounce than his frozen-solid shoes could technically allow, and the shoes promptly split in half, leaving Artemis standing in a pair of gray woolly socks.

Not that this stopped him. He approached the girl wearing a look of supreme masculinity that John Travolta would be proud of.
'You know, you and I got the same last initial,' he whispered in her ear.
The girl turned around and gave him a look that was remarkably similar to the one Juliet had given him earlier that morning. Then she looked him up and down, taking in the lack of shoes and the purple one-piece bellbottom-dancing suit, and the look became considerably more severe. Artemis felt several of his fingers turn frostbitten.
'Get away from me, you disco-dancing clone freak!'
To his credit, Artemis took this right in his stride. 'I'd be offended, babe, but I know you just want a piece of the Artemis-atron,' he did a kinda (ok, really) demented and uncoordinated dance move, followed by the sussest pelvic thrust you've ever seen.
The girl smirked. 'Did you make up that move yourself?' she asked
Artemis shrugged 'Yah, I saw it on TV, then I made it up.'
The girl rolled her eyes. 'Okay, Artemis-atron. Because I want a piece of that pelvic-thrust so badly, I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna give you my number, 'kay?'
Artemis did another pelvic thrust, just in case this helped, and then started miming his idea of freestyle, freezing in mid-stroke.
'Whatever you say, babes.' He resumed his freestyle dance.
'Huh,' grunted the girl, wondering if he was possibly escaped from some sort of mental hospital. She wrote down a number on a piece of paper, and slipped it down the front of Artemis' suit. Artemis, who had been doing the chicken dance, apparently under the impression that this constituted extraordinary dancing ability, did a shimmy and strutted down the street in the direction he had come, causing everybody on the footpath to cross the road away from the purple-clad, barefoot, disco-dancing Travolta-clone freak.

When he got home, Artemis stood in front of the window in the lounge room that was having its curtain replaced, and did the pelvic trust until Juliet let him in.
As she had screamed at him from inside the room, she swore that if she walked past the window and saw him thrusting one more time, she was going to make sure that he would never thrust again. Even Butler, hardened bodyguard and sworn protector of Artemis, was starting to agree with Juliet. In his thirty-five odd years, he had to admit he'd never seen anything quite as terrifying as Artemis disco-dancing.
Still, Artemis had persisted in his dance, reasoning that in order to come out and permanently disable him, Juliet would have to open the door. She did, and Artemis dived into the room between her legs, then sprinted up the stairs. Juliet screamed and took her frustration out on the solid oak door. Forever after, the front door of Fowl Manor sported an interesting fist-shaped indent.

Meanwhile, Artemis was upstairs with the phone number that he had been handed from the girl in town. He pressed the number into his private phone, and listened to the dial tone. It rang twice, and then came an automated voice saying words that Artemis would remember for the rest of his life.
'You have been rejected. Thankyou for calling. This is the rejection hotline. If you would like to make a suggestion for new rejection lines, please press 1. if you would like – '
Artemis hung up the phone and put it down slowly. He had just been rejected by an automated message.

And in a situation like that, there is only one thing you can do.

Strut.

Now, remember this is fluffish, OOC nonsense. So if you're going to review, (and I don't really expect you to, but you can if you want) don't review and tell me that it's fluffish, OOC nonsense, because I ALREADY KNOW. ;)

The rejection hotline is real. I'm not going to tell you how I know that, though. ;) It was not, however, personal experience. I swear.

I suppose I should mention that I don't own Saturday Night Fever either, though I do hold very real contempt for it.