I am Butler. Anything I say sounds scary.

Careful, Mr. Spiro, guns are dangerous. Especially the end with the hole.

Chaos reigned, and the survivalists eagerly unwrapped the kidskin from their crossbows. Phase one of Opal's plan was complete.

She forces me to endure this ridiculous therapy, when the so-called counselors are little better than misguided do-gooders with degrees. -Artemis Fowl

Artemis: "Right, brothers. Onward. Imagine yourself seated at a cafe in Montmartre." Myles: "In Paris." Artemis: "Yes, Paris. And try as you will, you cannot attract the waiter's attention. What do you do?" Beckett: "Umm...tell Butler to jump-jump-jump on his head?" Myles: "I agree with simple-toon." Artemis: "No! You simply raise one finger and say clearly 'ici, garcon.'" Beckett: "Itchy what?

A cloak of invisibility? This is a highly sensitive piece of field equipment. What does he think? Some warlock pulled it out of his armpit?

Don't you worry about that, Mr. Adamsson. Why don't you head back to Reykjavik and spend some of that extortionate fee you charged me for a couple of hours' usage of your frankly third-rate restaurant and perhaps find a friendless tree stump to listen to your woes?