Chapter 4
His head hurt more than at any time in his pre-007 past, when James Bond was merely a common operative for MI6 and had no mandated-by-M license to kill.
Bond could also feel the still-wet mat of sandy-blond hair on the rear of his head whereby the butt of an AK-47 had delivered him into darkness. As 007's vision quickly cleared and all his senses swiftly sized up his situation and surroundings, Bond readily realized he was securely lashed to a chair of cold metal in the middle of a room as sparse as such seemed necessary for intense interrogation purposes.
Above him was a bright light that illuminated only where the chair of metal, bolted down, 007 now noticed, to the cold concrete cellar-like floor. So blindingly bright that all else in the interrogation room of SPECTRE headquarters was swallowed whole by very heavy shadow.
"I know you're there," James Bond bravely barked. "I can smell your stench!"
Such a stinging statement brought forth two distinct individuals: one a dirty-blond both massive by mostly muscle and brandishing a sneer of evil. As deep-set eyes glared longingly at 007 with an indisputable desire for the nonstop utilization of torture.
The other dressed in a drab brown Communist-type outfit with white hair and a sneer of superiority that left little doubt about his hated identity...
"Ernst Stavro Blofeld, I presume," said James jeeringly. "I recognize the rampant holier-than-God look. You're even more of a cartoon caricature than I'd imagined. Nice 'suit'. Whose your tailor...Stalin?"
"And you are as I expected, 007," replied Blofeld as his singularly self-righteous sneer never wavered. "From all I'd heard regarding your rapid rise to the double-ohs, not to mention doing what no double-oh had done before by finding and killing 'Mr. White'...no doubt diligently torturing vital information from him prior to putting him down. Well, let's just say you seem less the 'super-spy' I'd come to believe you to be."
"I was 'super-spy' enough," Bond bravely avowed, "to not only find this quaint little island HQ, but successfully slaughter half your SPECTRE soldiers before this bastard slammed the back of my head. A lucky outcome for him, of course. Ordinarily such as he could've never caught me so unawares."
The insult simply caused the thick-set dirty-blond to snicker sinisterly, as he audaciously answered. "I ghosted you the entire time after your HALO jump just beyond the wooded area around our headquarters, Mr. Bond. I could've killed you long before you dropped the lesser 'soldiers'. But I wanted to...size you up. Plus, Number One wanted you captured rather than killed. Besides...this gives me an opportunity to ply my talents in torture. Again."
As the dirty-blond haired henchman merrily, as well as evilly, laughed, Blofeld stated by way of an introduction, "This is Simms. As you, 007, have no doubt deduced...his expertize extends into the truly brutal. The truly bloody. As you will, of course, experience...prior to your inescapable expiration."
Bravely avoiding such depressing repartee, James Bond brought the confabulation back to the reason for his HALO-drop onto said secretive isle of SPECTRE...
"Where's M? What have you done to M?"
"Why nothing, Mr. Bond," Blofeld replied proudly.
Only to have Simms sadistically add, "Yet."
It became clear to Bond that after his inflicted-by-Simms physical distress followed by the freedom of death, M would doubtlessly undergo a similarly sadistic situation. Bond's bloody demise would, indeed, swiftly lead to the torment of the matriarch of MI6, in general, and the double-ohs, in particular. Immediately preceding the singular solace of the cessation of her life.
Not only would Bond have to hold out through an unknown degree of cruciation, but he would work toward the ultimate liberation of M...whole and unharmed.
One thing that could definitely be said about the often obsessive-compulsive James Bond 007 was that the tougher the situation, the more impossible the overall odds, the more the man pushed himself in order to rise above it all.
Or die trying.
"Well, Mr. Bond," Blofeld finally offered half-heartedly. "Do you wish to save yourself significant sorrow and agony? Or does Simms get to do what he so dearly loves?"
A twisted smirk and almost masochistic snicker preceded 007's strong-willed response.
"Do your worst, Simms. I'm sure I've had middle-of-the-night leg cramps that had bothered me more."
After heaving a very heavy sigh of disappointment, Ernst said to his sick-minded associate, "Well, Mr. Simms...seems you shall have your way after all. Just don't kill him...until he's divulged everything."
"With pleasure, Number One," Simms snarled devilishly even as Blofeld faded into the surrounding shadows. "Welcome to the first tier of SPECTRE Hell, Mr. Bond."
END OF CHAPTER 4
