Jeffw's Blog

Get OUT of my pub!

Just joking, WELCOME! Here, you'll find some short fiction stories, anecdotes and my possible grumpy opinion on pretty much everything and anything. As you didn't in the slightest asked for it and because I can be magnanimous, I'll try to wrap it all in a clever cocktail of sarcastic witticism and stylish dark humour of the latest fashion, under the icy sophistication of which, you'll discern my true cry of despair to witness our world going to pot... or maybe it's just something I ate.
Don't hesitate to leave a comment! Thanks you, come again.

Caution MAY CONTAIN STRONG LANGUAGE AND HAZARDOUS PUNCTUATION... and with a bit of luck, some English too.

Monday, 24 June 2013

Disco Is Not Dead Twice

When life gives you Ian Fleming, make a

           James woke up, a throbbing pain pulsating in his entire skull... Eyes closed, and despite the headache, he took a few moments to take in the situation, without giving any hint to a potential observer that he regained consciousness. He was firmly bound hand and foot to what seemed to be an examination table. He could feel the cold bite of the steel through his clothes. He could also discern a light humming, along the acrid smell of white-hot metal. “Oh not again...” thought 007.
He imperceptibly opened one eye. A blinding red glow confirmed his concerns.
He was restrained by heavy bracelets at his wrists and ankles. An industrial size laser, mounted on a rail above him, was already cutting through the two inches of surgical grade steel of the table, with a calculated slowness. A minute at best remained before the beam reached James' crotch.

He had been relieved of his Walter PPK but he was still wearing his white Tuxedo. He could also feel the reassuring weight of his Cartier watch at his left wrist ; the frisk must have been superficial, nobody had checked his pockets, to his advantage.
He must have moved without realising it...

- “Ah! Commander Bond.”
He recognised the voice immediately. Camilien St-Preux de l'Aiguillère ; the man behind the sprawling Media empire CaSPEr. An egocentric megalomaniac, drunk with power, coupled with a dangerous psychopath – James could vouch for it now – who became recently the object of the MI6's attention.
- "I'm glad you could join our little party ... "
His ruse being discovered, Bond opened his eyes.
By wringing his neck, he could see St-Preux, casually leaning on the railing of the three steps that led to the only exit. A huge double-door structure, which seemed out of place in this low windowless room.
- “Unfortunately, I am not staying ; I have previous engagements. I leave you to the expert hands of my faithful Bumblebee.” He made ​​a vague gesture towards his bodyguard, a huge Samoan man, with the face covered in tattoos, who gave him a toothless smile, while moving closer to the table.
- "I don't know if you are familiar with the process, but you should not miss a thing. The laser will only reach your vital organs in the sternum region. More time than needed to appreciate this little gadget. And no risk of draining you of your blood, the wound is cauterised instantaneously. You see, we do not do things by halves, if you'll pardon me the expression. "
No sardonic laugh punctuated the sentence. St. Preux never laughed.
James had the feeling that he had heard that exact same speech a dozen times before. These manic-megalomaniacs had really no imagination.
- “I understand. You don't split hairs when it comes to your guess.
- Hmm. Most amusing. I see that you keep your sense of humour, Commander Bond, even in desperate circumstances. In my case, it is just divide and rule.”, said he with a joyless smile, before leaving.
- “Adieu, Mister Bond.”, he added without turning around, while the door closed noiselessly behind him.

The beam was now less than an inch away from 007's male 'attributes'.
Bond remained impassive. He knew that he just had to look away at the crucial moment.
Suddenly, contact was made​​.
The concentrated ray of light seemed to ricochet in every corner of the room. The guard at the door was instantaneously cut in two in a perfect diagonal, from his left armpit to his right hip. Bumblebee collapsed, a single hole in the middle of the forehead, a split second before the laser exploded in a shower of electrical sparks.
It took only two minutes to Bond to pick the lock of his shackles, with the trusty set of picks he always kept in the lining of his cuffs. A habit that lasted since his time at Eton.
He will need new trousers. From the crotch of his tattered and singed Armani, a familiar sparkle sent him back the reflection of his piercing blue eyes. They had so often tried the laser cutting routine on him that James had eventually had surgically grafted a pair of mirrored small disco balls.

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