New fic: Chapter the first.

Author's Note: Whilst I was in Spain, I wrote fourteen chapters of fic, because that's how I roll. This was done with no references to anything. Also, you will note that Dianne is mentioned and then promptly forgotten about. I want you to forget about her. She never existed. The character slot of "insanely awesome female partner has now been occupied by Venice.
ANY QUESTIONS? NO? Well, okay then.


I was hunting for antique furnishings in Dublin when I first met Errant Carrol. Dianne had managed to "persuade" my brother that I should move up to Dublin. (Thought manipulation may not be especially ethical, but dear god is it convenient.) I'd managed to acquire a storefront with an apartment above it (More "persuasion" on Dianne's part.), and I was trying hard to make it as home-like as possible. What better way to do so than with a nice nineteenth-century armchair? (I relate not to the uncouth youths of today's world, but to the polite chaps of yesteryear. (Except for geeks. I relate pretty well to geeks.) Brckets within brackets. (Parenthetical Matryoshka. (Parenthetical Matryoshka is a good name for a band.)))))
Whilst strolling alone down the aisles of Carrol's Curioddities, an extremely quaint antiques broker, I caught sight of the single most horriying thing I have ever seen. Sitting on top of a (rather splendid) old fifties radio was a doll. Dolls are creepy at any rate, but this one was easily the weirdest doll in the history of ever. It looked like it was supposed to be female, but someone had given it stubble using a black marker pen, and its plastic-y red curls had been hacked short. Somewhere along the line, the doll had acquired a baby-sized Ramones T-Shirt, and was wearing it over the elegant little Victorian-era dress I supposed was its original outfit.
Then the doll hopped off the radio and said Hi to me. 
Understandably, this scared the hell out of me, and I barely supressed a shout before I kicked the doll as hard as I could upside the face. As it sailed through the air, I could hear it sigh a little, and it folded its arms as it flew. It hit the wall with a thud, and stood back up again.
"Look, buddy, you could try NOT kicking lumps out of people you've just met," said the doll in a surprisingly gruff, testosterone-filled voice. "You know, you only get one chance at a first impression, and, in my experience, kicking people in the face generally isn't a great start." The doll was dusting nonexistent dirt from its shoulders, and it looked at me funnily. (Its eyes weren't expressive, and it had no movable eyebrows, but somehow I knew it was a funny look.)
"Who are you?" I asked. It seemed a reasonable question, and I was glad I opted not to go with the slightly-more-rude "What are you?"
"Errant Caroll, dealer in rare antiquities," he said, and I noted that I was doing quite well, considering the fact I was talking to what should have been an inanimate object.
I paused, unable to think of anything to say. "Where do you keep the armchairs?" I finally asked.

***

I realise now that I haven't quite explained why I moved away to the great big city. The short answer is that I wanted to. Skulduggery, Gepard and Venice could all be found in the area. All of my friends were there at least some of the time, and I wanted to be where my friends were. 
The slightly longer answer was that I wanted to open a book store. I had several reasons for wanting to do so. One: I wanted a place for magical folk to be able to hang out. Two: China's library was cool, but a lot of people like to actually own their own copies of books. Three: I'd wanted to own a bookshop since I was knee-high to a snake. Four: I'd thought up an awesome pun for the shop name, and I never let a good pun go to waste. And last but not least, Five: I had no money.

***

Back at Carrol's Curioddities, I found myself purchasing two armchairs, one couch, one television cabinet, and one massive mahogany desk. (My house and bookstore were both lined with bookshelves, but I bought those from Ikea. (Ikea, just some oak and some pine and a handful of norsemen. Ikea, selling furniture for college kids and divorced men. Everyone has a home, but if you don't have a home you can buy one there.) I found myself warming to Errant, and, when I discovered he was a keen reader, I invited him to check out my store.

"Hello, my name is Niall Montblanc. Welcome to The Broken Spine Bookstore, how may I be of assistance?"