The name's Pensworth, Percival Pensworth
The Royal Casino
By G.A. Milnthorpe
Chapter 1
"The name is Percival…Percival Pen…no, I've got it wrong again. Idiot, idiot man."
Pensworth reset his shoulders, side on to the mirror, and tried again.
"The name's Pensworth, Percival Pensworth."
Pensworth tried to smoulder, just like the others. 008 was particularly good at the smoulder. He'd smouldered in the canteen a few days before and the man serving the beef stroganoff had almost spontaneously combusted. It was just a raise of the eyebrow and a twinkle in the eye, but had caused quite a queue for the jacket potatoes whilst the unfortunate member of staff had to be resuscitated with smelling salts.
Pensworth's smoulder was just as effective, although in the interests of culinary efficiency he wasn't prepared to unleash it within the work canteen. He favoured a raise of the left eyebrow, followed by a quick flutter of his eyelashes. He tried that in the mirror and was pleased at how smoulderingly sexy it was. Thank goodness there were no ladies in his bathroom at that moment; they would have melted with pleasure onto the tiled floor. Pensworth might not be as tall or as dark or as conventionally handsome as 008; but it was the quality of the smoulder that counted - the angle and speed of the eyebrow, the precise hint of a smile. And Pensworth knew that his smoulder was of the finest quality, because his mother had told him so, once. He tried not to notice the little bit of spit that had come out of his mouth and landed on the mirror, sent out by the plosive sound of his name…Percival Pensworth. Even if he had noticed it wouldn't have changed his opinion; he just knew it goddamn sexy, as those idiotic Americans in the CIA would probably say. It was a good job that he did know, because he couldn't really see himself, beyond a faint outline of his fuzzy head. He wasn't weaning his glasses. He had taken them off because the quality of the smoulder was reduced by the presence of thick framed and thick lensed spectacles.
"Percy…!" came a voice,
Percival jumped; and he nearly knocked his pot of hairstyling mousse to the floor. His heart was racing and he had a funny feeling in his bum but that happened…when you were a finely tuned secret agent like Pensworth, adrenaline was never far away. He was constantly on his guard, constantly alert for danger, constantly aware of his surroundings. You had to be, when you lived the life of Percival Pensworth. A life that could end at any moment. A scalp that was highly prized by the Russians and the Arabian states. Yes, a sudden bang could well be a door in one of the flats on the third floor, but it could easily be a gunshot, fired by an assassin on a death mission. And yes, that shadow could well be a cat licking itself near an angle-poise lamp, or it could be a highly trained ninja emerging from the shadows on a…another kind of death mission. Pensworth had to contend with a huge number and variety of death missions. It was his stock in trade. Lesser men than he could be caught out…but not Pensworth. He was on his mettle, even in his own bathroom at 7.05am.
"...what are you doing in there?" came the voice again. "There better be some hot water left."
"Muuuummmmm, I'm busy," shouted Pensworth as he put his glasses back on.
"Are you practising your smoulder?"
"No," lied Pensworth.
"Well, you need to…you gave Mrs O'Leary a funny turn the last time you tried it. She thought you were having a stroke."
"Muuuuummmm, leave me alone."
"I'm not saying it's not a good smoulder, but you've got to pick your audience. You know her husband was an alcoholic. Percival, are you listening? Five more minutes and then I'm coming in. I need to soak my feet."
Pensworth gave up on the smoulder. The circumstances just weren't right.