Fleming Describes a Craigian Bond

[Commander 0077]

Here's some fun. Summon the ghost of Fleming and have him write a passage describing a Craigian Bond.

No Sensahyuma


James Bond was nauseated at three in the morning, the result of too many after dinner workouts at Golds Gym le Eau, pumping iron until his cleaved muscles cleaved and screamed to bursting point. The women from Canada licked their lips as he walked stiffly by the chemin de fer table. Who was he, they thought. A little under the tall side, with a massive chest and arms, splitting the brioni tuxedo at the second seams.
Rather blunt-looking, with a coarse pug face that was the recipient of too many blows in the ring at Mickey's by the Sea. Defiant fish eyes that seemed to say, Do I look like I give a d**n?

Bond crashed through the wall into the next room, the green chintze contrasting smartly with his yellow hair. He accidentally nudged a thick Russian leaning over craps. The two seemed identical twins. The Russian said, "Sorry old boy. Say, have you had the red wine with the fish? They make it most deliciously."

Bond smiled thickly, which was the only way he knew how to smile.
"Do I look like I give a d**n?"

The Canadian women had drifted over through the hole in the wall.

to be continued in chapter 2 .....................

[carl stromberg]

[james stock]

That sounds that Craigs Bond alright, you may have too describe his pout and a his monotone voice with a lack of emotion then it will be great!

[The Sweeney]

Chapter Two - `Take it Easy, Mr. Bond.'

Brosnan (I mean Bond) slowly reached for the handle, pulled open the door of the casino, and strutted proudly in. The `dashing' agent, slightly flabby around the chest, and with a slight swell to the stomach (too much of the good life perhaps, or just a sign he was maybe getting too old?) cut a less-than-impressive figure as he walked on past the first table, stopping to admire a couple of attractive women, who were playing poker, but looking rather bored. He felt slightly annoyed when they ignored his glances. Christ? What was it? Maybe he was getting too old for this game now. The hair was starting to show signs of grey (too much, from what he had examined earlier in the bathroom mirror), not to mention the tuffs of billy-goat white hair sprouting from his wobbly chest.

Brosnan (I mean Bond) shrugged his shoulders. To hell with it! If he was getting old, then so be it. At least he could still raise his eyebrows, squint unnecessarily, and purse his lips at the same time, to try and give the impression he was still cool - or appeared to look cool at the very least. Maybe a little tie-straightening during an uncalled for moment may win the ladies over again? Or a grimace perhaps? Or maybe just a good old-fashioned, over-the-top, unashamed, amateur dramatic theatrical may do it.

Blast! Not a CGI graphic in sight! And no witty Roger Moore one-liner either, or a silly gadget to try and cover up his lack of acting ability. Oh well! Maybe he really was getting too old for all this now. Whoever replaced him, Brosnan already feared would be the best replacement ever. And all he could do was look on in envy at what may have been.

If M damned well had plans to fire him, and replace him with this other person, he had made his mind up. At the first opportunity, he would sell his story to the press, milk it for all its worth. Someone would surely listen. Playboy magazine perhaps?

It was at that moment when he heard the phone ringing over by the bar. The huissier answered it.

`Hello. No, there's no one of that description here. Not dark hair and slim. There's an old silver-haired guy here though, with a paunch, and by the looks of things, a very depressed look on his face. Ok. Sure. Wait a second.' He looked over at Brosnan. `Hey you! Yes, that's right! You! The old timer who looks like he cannot pull anymore. Come here will you. Your boss is on the phone. Guess what. News for you, grandad. You're fired!'

Brosnan gritted his teeth. So! This was it! Marching orders, and not even with regret!

To be continued.....

[Skywalker]

Here's some fun. Summon the ghost of Fleming and have him write a passage describing a Craigian Bond.

No Sensahyuma


James Bond was nauseated at three in the morning, the result of too many after dinner workouts at Golds Gym le Eau, pumping iron until his cleaved muscles cleaved and screamed to bursting point. The women from Canada licked their lips as he walked stiffly by the chemin de fer table. Who was he, they thought. A little under the tall side, with a massive chest and arms, splitting the brioni tuxedo at the second seams.
Rather blunt-looking, with a coarse pug face that was the recipient of too many blows in the ring at Mickey's by the Sea. Defiant fish eyes that seemed to say, Do I look like I give a d**n?

Bond crashed through the wall into the next room, the green chintze contrasting smartly with his yellow hair. He accidentally nudged a thick Russian leaning over craps. The two seemed identical twins. The Russian said, "Sorry old boy. Say, have you had the red wine with the fish? They make it most deliciously."

Bond smiled thickly, which was the only way he knew how to smile.
"Do I look like I give a d**n?"

The Canadian women had drifted over through the hole in the wall.

to be continued in chapter 2 .....................

Great stuff Commander.

Can't wait for Chapter 2.

[The Sweeney]

Here's some fun. Summon the ghost of Fleming and have him write a passage describing a Craigian Bond.

No Sensahyuma


James Bond was nauseated at three in the morning, the result of too many after dinner workouts at Golds Gym le Eau, pumping iron until his cleaved muscles cleaved and screamed to bursting point. The women from Canada licked their lips as he walked stiffly by the chemin de fer table. Who was he, they thought. A little under the tall side, with a massive chest and arms, splitting the brioni tuxedo at the second seams.
Rather blunt-looking, with a coarse pug face that was the recipient of too many blows in the ring at Mickey's by the Sea. Defiant fish eyes that seemed to say, Do I look like I give a d**n?

Bond crashed through the wall into the next room, the green chintze contrasting smartly with his yellow hair. He accidentally nudged a thick Russian leaning over craps. The two seemed identical twins. The Russian said, "Sorry old boy. Say, have you had the red wine with the fish? They make it most deliciously."

Bond smiled thickly, which was the only way he knew how to smile.
"Do I look like I give a d**n?"

The Canadian women had drifted over through the hole in the wall.

to be continued in chapter 2 .....................

Great stuff Commander.

Can't wait for Chapter 2.

See chapter 2 above....

[Capt. Sir Dominic Flandry]

Very funny Commander 0077, looking forward to Chapter 2.

[The Sweeney]

Very funny Commander 0077, looking forward to Chapter 2.

Guess you guys don't like reading nasty stuff about poor old Pierce then.....

[Commander 0077]

Beauty is in the Eye, Etc.



(Hats off to James Stock, but for whom....)

Bond ignored his Russian twin. With fluid grace (he thought), he sauntered to the rope-off chemmy table, glittering with diamonds around the discreet cleavages, including his own. The sous chef stared into Bond's unemotional trout eyes. "This is an exclusive area, monsewer, for guests of the hotel only."

Bond launched his chunky physique forward, arms flailing into the sous chef. "P**s off, you mookeydadah! You remind me of the media!" The chef flew through the air, landing on one of the bejeweled women seated at the table. In a flash Bond recognized her. "Babs!"

The chef loitered serenely for a moment on Bab's lap, like a cooling flambe. She squeeked, "Oh, Chef! But you're much too handsome for me, sorry." She turned and locked eyes with Bond as he sat beside her.

"James ....." she sighed.
Bond ignored her, and turned his attention to the table. He was here on a job, a ruthless job. For one thing, he hated chemin de fer, prefering either poker or fish, he didn't know or care about the difference. Across the table was his target. The man he had replaced, the real 007. Handsome bast***d! Former Naval Commander, recruited into the British Secret Service, unlike himself, who was recruited by Babs. And to add insult to his many bleeding injuries (he had nicked himself shaving twenty times this morning, not neat!), Babs had frocked him a lowly captain in the army, an OF-2 in comparison to 0F-4/Commander. His elderly housekeeper May, said "Sssh, it's an omen, mind ye." She left that morning in a huff after he demanded ketchup on his poached eggs.

F***! And who is that with him? S***!! A dead ringer for Angelina Jolie, good f***! Why couldn't they get her for my movie?

The real 007 smiled at Bond across the green baize. Angelina raised her eyebrows at Bond. Pretender! she seemed to say. Bond grimaced darkly and addressed the shoe. "Banco!" he said in an unemotional, tired voice. S***! if only he could be in the men's room bashing a few heads bloody! That was the real sport! followed by a couple of warm beers, the cheaper the better.

The Canadian women had drifted over. They giggled. Oh, look, Chasma! It's HIM!

James Bond for once showed some signs of life.

And then the Canadians floated over to the other side of the table, and pressed their eager bodies and proud jutting etceteras against the real 007.

Bond pouted.

[English Agent]

Beauty is in the Eye, Etc.



(Hats off to James Stock, but for whom....)

Bond ignored his Russian twin. With fluid grace (he thought), he sauntered to the rope-off chemmy table, glittering with diamonds around the discreet cleavages, including his own. The sous chef stared into Bond's unemotional trout eyes. "This is an exclusive area, monsewer, for guests of the hotel only."

Bond launched his chunky physique forward, arms flailing into the sous chef. "P**s off, you mookeydadah! You remind me of the media!" The chef flew through the air, landing on one of the bejeweled women seated at the table. In a flash Bond recognized her. "Babs!"

The chef loitered serenely for a moment on Bab's lap, like a cooling flambe. She squeeked, "Oh, Chef! But you're much too handsome for me, sorry." She turned and locked eyes with Bond as he sat beside her.

"James ....." she sighed.
Bond ignored her, and turned his attention to the table. He was here on a job, a ruthless job. For one thing, he hated chemin de fer, prefering either poker or fish, he didn't know or care about the difference. Across the table was his target. The man he had replaced, the real 007. Handsome bast***d! Former Naval Commander, recruited into the British Secret Service, unlike himself, who was recruited by Babs. And to add insult to his many bleeding injuries (he had nicked himself shaving twenty times this morning, not neat!), Babs had frocked him a lowly captain in the army, an OF-2 in comparison to 0F-4/Commander. His elderly housekeeper May, said "Sssh, it's an omen, mind ye." She left that morning in a huff after he demanded ketchup on his poached eggs.

F***! And who is that with him? S***!! A dead ringer for Angelina Jolie, good f***! Why couldn't they get her for my movie?

The real 007 smiled at Bond across the green baize. Angelina raised her eyebrows at Bond. Pretender! she seemed to say. Bond grimaced darkly and addressed the shoe. "Banco!" he said in an unemotional, tired voice. S***! if only he could be in the men's room bashing a few heads bloody! That was the real sport! followed by a couple of warm beers, the cheaper the better.

The Canadian women had drifted over. They giggled. Oh, look, Chasma! It's HIM!

James Bond for once showed some signs of life.

And then the Canadians floated over to the other side of the table, and pressed their eager bodies and proud jutting etceteras against the real 007.

Bond pouted.

Blimey 'CommanderBond 0077'

That was some story.........i was GLUED to my seat reading your post....

if not i would of walked away!!!

EA

[James]

Beauty is in the Eye, Etc.



(Hats off to James Stock, but for whom....)

Bond ignored his Russian twin. With fluid grace (he thought), he sauntered to the rope-off chemmy table, glittering with diamonds around the discreet cleavages, including his own. The sous chef stared into Bond's unemotional trout eyes. "This is an exclusive area, monsewer, for guests of the hotel only."

Bond launched his chunky physique forward, arms flailing into the sous chef. "P**s off, you mookeydadah! You remind me of the media!" The chef flew through the air, landing on one of the bejeweled women seated at the table. In a flash Bond recognized her. "Babs!"

The chef loitered serenely for a moment on Bab's lap, like a cooling flambe. She squeeked, "Oh, Chef! But you're much too handsome for me, sorry." She turned and locked eyes with Bond as he sat beside her.

"James ....." she sighed.
Bond ignored her, and turned his attention to the table. He was here on a job, a ruthless job. For one thing, he hated chemin de fer, prefering either poker or fish, he didn't know or care about the difference. Across the table was his target. The man he had replaced, the real 007. Handsome bast***d! Former Naval Commander, recruited into the British Secret Service, unlike himself, who was recruited by Babs. And to add insult to his many bleeding injuries (he had nicked himself shaving twenty times this morning, not neat!), Babs had frocked him a lowly captain in the army, an OF-2 in comparison to 0F-4/Commander. His elderly housekeeper May, said "Sssh, it's an omen, mind ye." She left that morning in a huff after he demanded ketchup on his poached eggs.

F***! And who is that with him? S***!! A dead ringer for Angelina Jolie, good f***! Why couldn't they get her for my movie?

The real 007 smiled at Bond across the green baize. Angelina raised her eyebrows at Bond. Pretender! she seemed to say. Bond grimaced darkly and addressed the shoe. "Banco!" he said in an unemotional, tired voice. S***! if only he could be in the men's room bashing a few heads bloody! That was the real sport! followed by a couple of warm beers, the cheaper the better.

The Canadian women had drifted over. They giggled. Oh, look, Chasma! It's HIM!

James Bond for once showed some signs of life.

And then the Canadians floated over to the other side of the table, and pressed their eager bodies and proud jutting etceteras against the real 007.

Bond pouted.

Keep up the good work Commander.

[Commander 0077]

(Attn : 00s. Feel free to pen a chapter or seven, should the muse strike ..hm, Moosestrike...)


Of Her Majesty's Secret Sourpuss

If James Bond had had real emotions, it would have been a golden day. Instead, he grimaced and pouted a bit more at the splendid Hong Kong harbour, that glittered like a wet diamond, the tourist junks triangling cheerfully to starboard. It was perhaps the most romantic harbour in the world, but Bond of course merely squinted, while the lines in his lined face only deepened more.

He shifted in his seat by the rail, lower deck (it was cheaper) and lit a knock-off Moreland Special with the two gold rings. He had bought fifty cases in Shanghai from a fellow (another handsome b******) named Commander 0077. Bond couldn't tell the difference.

As the cheap turkey blend gagged the old man beside him, Bond reflected on the morning workout in Mickey Phil-Lee boxing establishment in the seedy side of Kowloon, off chang saw road (where the best steamed buns in the world are found, if you ask for Madame Fun). He had been paired with -- who would guess -- that Russian he had met two days ago at Royale-les-eew, Red something or other.

Mickey screamed from the sidelines, "C'mon Bondy! Ye gotta breathe dragon fire, ye gotta spit hot buns from yer butt, ya gotta smash him with a-tom-mick bombs!!" His voice grew hoarse.

A dozen fists from Red smashed into Bond. His Schwartzenegger midsection bellowed (it was only for show). Bond peeked between his gloves at Mickey. His face was lopsided, sallow, sanguine and altogether unpleasant. And that was before the bout.

He said, "Yo, Mick!" And then Red threw a dozen windmilling Popeye punches and Bond saild through the ropes into the lap of Eva Green.
"Ewww!" she said seductively. "Get off me! I'm not getting paid for this!"

And suddenly Bond was back on the Ferry, every sense (all four of them) razor sharp. A girl approached. She wore a simple white blouse, thin black tie and a very tight black skirt. It was the Angelina Jolie lookalike! Well, F***! He'd now show that s*** 007! He could still see the handsome idiot -- grey blue eyes, the black comma of hair over the eyebrow, the level eyes, the ruthless mouth, the perhaps slight Irish accent. Yes, Bond would one day should him the Mickey moves!

Bond shrugged his chunky shoulders and sent a family of four -- mother, father, two young boys -- flying over the rail into the harbour. The crew exploded into action. Bond didn't notice. His focus was narrow. In fact, he could focus only on one thing. The girl's splendid etceteras were now addressing him. It seemed they spoke fluent Cantonese. Just so, F***! So she was part Chinese, perhaps. Hm, tricky f****** business!

"Is this seat taken?" she asked.

Bond hadn't taken a First in Oriental Languages like his predecessor. However, he had taken a crash course in suaveness from a Babs tutor in El Segundo. He would certainly show them now, by F***!

Bond stared at her etceteras, at eye level. Suavely, he mumbled, "uh.... erh ... hehh hehh...."

She switched to fluent English with an Alberta Canada accent (Bond swore softly. Another Canadian woman!). He replied, "Oh... uhgh... well..."

She sat down beside him, thighs touching, her black skirt an indiscreet distance from her golden knees.

"Mister ... Bond, is it not? Well, I have instructions to bring you to Macau this afternoon on the jet foil, to meet an old friend."

"Um. Oh, ugh," he mumbled, staring at her golden thighs.

"Oh, Mister Bond. You're quite the cunning .... linguist."

A burst of wit bounced somewhere in Bond's brain, but nothing exited from his pouting mouth.

[Commander 0077]

Beauty is in the Eye, Etc.



(Hats off to James Stock, but for whom....)

Bond ignored his Russian twin. With fluid grace (he thought), he sauntered to the rope-off chemmy table, glittering with diamonds around the discreet cleavages, including his own. The sous chef stared into Bond's unemotional trout eyes. "This is an exclusive area, monsewer, for guests of the hotel only."

Bond launched his chunky physique forward, arms flailing into the sous chef. "P**s off, you mookeydadah! You remind me of the media!" The chef flew through the air, landing on one of the bejeweled women seated at the table. In a flash Bond recognized her. "Babs!"

The chef loitered serenely for a moment on Bab's lap, like a cooling flambe. She squeeked, "Oh, Chef! But you're much too handsome for me, sorry." She turned and locked eyes with Bond as he sat beside her.

"James ....." she sighed.
Bond ignored her, and turned his attention to the table. He was here on a job, a ruthless job. For one thing, he hated chemin de fer, prefering either poker or fish, he didn't know or care about the difference. Across the table was his target. The man he had replaced, the real 007. Handsome bast***d! Former Naval Commander, recruited into the British Secret Service, unlike himself, who was recruited by Babs. And to add insult to his many bleeding injuries (he had nicked himself shaving twenty times this morning, not neat!), Babs had frocked him a lowly captain in the army, an OF-2 in comparison to 0F-4/Commander. His elderly housekeeper May, said "Sssh, it's an omen, mind ye." She left that morning in a huff after he demanded ketchup on his poached eggs.

F***! And who is that with him? S***!! A dead ringer for Angelina Jolie, good f***! Why couldn't they get her for my movie?

The real 007 smiled at Bond across the green baize. Angelina raised her eyebrows at Bond. Pretender! she seemed to say. Bond grimaced darkly and addressed the shoe. "Banco!" he said in an unemotional, tired voice. S***! if only he could be in the men's room bashing a few heads bloody! That was the real sport! followed by a couple of warm beers, the cheaper the better.

The Canadian women had drifted over. They giggled. Oh, look, Chasma! It's HIM!

James Bond for once showed some signs of life.

And then the Canadians floated over to the other side of the table, and pressed their eager bodies and proud jutting etceteras against the real 007.

Bond pouted.

Blimey 'CommanderBond 0077'

That was some story.........i was GLUED to my seat reading your post....

if not i would of walked away!!!

EA

I was walking away as I was penning it

[English Agent]

That was some story.........i was GLUED to my seat reading your post....
if not i would of walked away!

...............................

Only joking of course............in fact it was a line similar to the
one made by the fake reporter 'Dennis the Pennis' when he was talking to Brosnan about Goldeneye years ago.

EA

[Skywalker]

Commander this is superb stuff. Couldn't stop laughing at the last 2 chapters.

[Commander 0077]

Skywalker, thanks very much for the suave words.

btw, half of the fun is using Fleming's own favourite expressions and twisting them a bit. And some of the local colour in the Far East is also based on real-life adventures.

[Commander 0077]

From a Leap to a Faith

As the family of four was being plucked from the emerald (!), ulating water, a lanky, elastic black man in a pink three-piece suit jumped up from his seat and began to scat about the benches and seats. Bond gazed dully. His focus shifted imperceptibly, like an obscene primordial ooze from the golden thighs of the girl and pirouettes of the pink suit.

For no obvious reason the man leapt 4.5 meters (about 15 feet) feet to another green and white tug-like Star Ferry headed back to Central whence Bond had just departed. For no reason than to kill time, Bond got up, smashed through the metal corners of the engine stack partition (he could have gone around, of course) and ran, piston-like to the railing. The other ferry was now six to seven meters away as Bond vaulted over the expanse. His fingers just caught the rail, and his pink hands scrabbled for purchase.

Peering down from the upper deck, eyebrows raised, were Roger Moore and Pierce Brosnan. They were in town for the seminar hosted by George Lazenby ("The Application of Political Correctness to Self-Deprecation").

Sir Roger exclaimed, 'Excellent stuntwork!"
Brosnan agreed handsomely, "Quite so, the best Bond yet, I'm sure!"

Sir Roger pulled some Snickers bars from his plus-fours. "Join me for a Snicker?"

"I believe I'll have at least three or four before this action is over!" And they turned away, and chuckling could be heard over the northern breezes.

Bond jackknifed onto the deck and landed with a thump into the firm, bronze thighs of Honey Rider and Miss Ruby. Dumbly, Bond said, "Honey! Ruby! For f**** sake! What the f*** are you two doing here? S***! You're a sight for sore faces!"

The two golden girls stood up, dumping Bond to the wooden slats. "You twit!" they purred, along with other quaint selections.

Bond whined, "But don't you know my name?"

Ruby giggled. "Vladmir Putin?"

[Skywalker]

Very good Commander.

[Jedi007]

Chapter Two - `Take it Easy, Mr. Bond.'

Brosnan (I mean Bond) slowly reached for the handle, pulled open the door of the casino, and strutted proudly in. The `dashing' agent, slightly flabby around the chest, and with a slight swell to the stomach (too much of the good life perhaps, or just a sign he was maybe getting too old?) cut a less-than-impressive figure as he walked on past the first table, stopping to admire a couple of attractive women, who were playing poker, but looking rather bored. He felt slightly annoyed when they ignored his glances. Christ? What was it? Maybe he was getting too old for this game now. The hair was starting to show signs of grey (too much, from what he had examined earlier in the bathroom mirror), not to mention the tuffs of billy-goat white hair sprouting from his wobbly chest.

Brosnan (I mean Bond) shrugged his shoulders. To hell with it! If he was getting old, then so be it. At least he could still raise his eyebrows, squint unnecessarily, and purse his lips at the same time, to try and give the impression he was still cool - or appeared to look cool at the very least. Maybe a little tie-straightening during an uncalled for moment may win the ladies over again? Or a grimace perhaps? Or maybe just a good old-fashioned, over-the-top, unashamed, amateur dramatic theatrical may do it.

Blast! Not a CGI graphic in sight! And no witty Roger Moore one-liner either, or a silly gadget to try and cover up his lack of acting ability. Oh well! Maybe he really was getting too old for all this now. Whoever replaced him, Brosnan already feared would be the best replacement ever. And all he could do was look on in envy at what may have been.

If M damned well had plans to fire him, and replace him with this other person, he had made his mind up. At the first opportunity, he would sell his story to the press, milk it for all its worth. Someone would surely listen. Playboy magazine perhaps?

It was at that moment when he heard the phone ringing over by the bar. The huissier answered it.

`Hello. No, there's no one of that description here. Not dark hair and slim. There's an old silver-haired guy here though, with a paunch, and by the looks of things, a very depressed look on his face. Ok. Sure. Wait a second.' He looked over at Brosnan. `Hey you! Yes, that's right! You! The old timer who looks like he cannot pull anymore. Come here will you. Your boss is on the phone. Guess what. News for you, grandad. You're fired!'

Brosnan gritted his teeth. So! This was it! Marching orders, and not even with regret!

As if Craig will never get old and get replaced...

[Gary Seven]

and purse his lips at the same time, to try and give the impression he was still cool - or appeared to look cool at the very least

Very amusing.

But the passage above surely describes Craig not Brosnan. Craig does that odd pursed lips thing with his mouth to look tough.