Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or likenesses thereof in this
story. However, 1 R t3h FF \/\/r1T1|\|G 5h1z|\|3T! P|-|33r |\/|3!
The French Don't Die For Love
The party was, in a word, opulent. Men dressed in tuxedos, sipped champagne, and danced to the finest music. People were only defined by who they knew, and sinful acts, from paramours acting out their fantasies to leaving the corpse of your late friend on the floor, were confined to the upper rooms. The camera, however, focuses on one man, talking to one woman. That man is... "Bond, James Bond."
"Ah, I see. And what is it that you do, exactly, Mr. Bond?"
"Odd jobs."
A flashback of how he'd gotten to the party can't be passed up.
Screaming tires, gunfire, men shouting in Russian.
"Well, it seems I won't be able to get valet parking."
Bond's car had two flat tires and more holes than Swiss cheese, pardon the cliché. Bond, cool as he was, did what everyone might do under the circumstances (Those being chased by a Russian fringe militia). He rolled down his window and threw out an open box of carpet tacks. The Russian car, it's tires now popped, careened off the side of the road and into a tree.
"I see."
"Yes, I take life as it comes to me."
"You're quite the charmer, Mr. Bond."
Bond's cell phone rang.
"Sorry. Duty calls."
The men's bathroom. Bond withdrew his phone and opened it, automatically activating the tiny videoscreen.
"Hello, operator? There seems to be something wrong with my car."
Q didn't even twitch.
"Very funny, Mr. Bond."
"Another assignment?"
"There always is."
"I might need to get a tow truck, you know." "Just talk to the valet." "Does this valet have a name?"
"Do they ever, Double oh Seven?"
"Of course."
He closed the phone and returned it to his jacket, washing his hands and drying them before making his way for the lobby.
(Bond Theme)
"Double oh Seven, your mission has been redirected. Double oh Eight will continue your current operations and see to it that your objective is not lost, and that your efforts of the last week are not wasted. Something more important has come up, something requiring a man of your skills."
Bond nodded to the hat check clerk as he passed through the sharp revolving glass doors of the lobby. "There is a man who has just come to the attention of Her Majesty's Secret Service. He holds a sizeable stake in various industries worldwide. Oil. Estates. Banking. Manufacturing. A jack of all trades, quite like yourself, Mr. Bond." Bond gave another nod to the valet standing at attention curbside. "James Bond."
The valet nodded gave Bond a pair of keys, nodding to a silver coupe a few steps away from them. Bond smiled and, gentleman that he was, tipped generously. As he moved to the driver's seat, a manila folder greeted him. He pored over the various files contained within. "This man may be planning something devastating. We can't be certain exactly what, or who, but something terrible may happen if he goes unchecked."
Bond eventually came to a photograph. A man sitting in a high backed leather chair, a clipping from a magazine Bond had read a month ago. Scribbled in black ink across the bottom of the photograph were three words.
"Monsieur the Merovingian."
The French Don't Die For Love
The party was, in a word, opulent. Men dressed in tuxedos, sipped champagne, and danced to the finest music. People were only defined by who they knew, and sinful acts, from paramours acting out their fantasies to leaving the corpse of your late friend on the floor, were confined to the upper rooms. The camera, however, focuses on one man, talking to one woman. That man is... "Bond, James Bond."
"Ah, I see. And what is it that you do, exactly, Mr. Bond?"
"Odd jobs."
A flashback of how he'd gotten to the party can't be passed up.
Screaming tires, gunfire, men shouting in Russian.
"Well, it seems I won't be able to get valet parking."
Bond's car had two flat tires and more holes than Swiss cheese, pardon the cliché. Bond, cool as he was, did what everyone might do under the circumstances (Those being chased by a Russian fringe militia). He rolled down his window and threw out an open box of carpet tacks. The Russian car, it's tires now popped, careened off the side of the road and into a tree.
"I see."
"Yes, I take life as it comes to me."
"You're quite the charmer, Mr. Bond."
Bond's cell phone rang.
"Sorry. Duty calls."
The men's bathroom. Bond withdrew his phone and opened it, automatically activating the tiny videoscreen.
"Hello, operator? There seems to be something wrong with my car."
Q didn't even twitch.
"Very funny, Mr. Bond."
"Another assignment?"
"There always is."
"I might need to get a tow truck, you know." "Just talk to the valet." "Does this valet have a name?"
"Do they ever, Double oh Seven?"
"Of course."
He closed the phone and returned it to his jacket, washing his hands and drying them before making his way for the lobby.
(Bond Theme)
"Double oh Seven, your mission has been redirected. Double oh Eight will continue your current operations and see to it that your objective is not lost, and that your efforts of the last week are not wasted. Something more important has come up, something requiring a man of your skills."
Bond nodded to the hat check clerk as he passed through the sharp revolving glass doors of the lobby. "There is a man who has just come to the attention of Her Majesty's Secret Service. He holds a sizeable stake in various industries worldwide. Oil. Estates. Banking. Manufacturing. A jack of all trades, quite like yourself, Mr. Bond." Bond gave another nod to the valet standing at attention curbside. "James Bond."
The valet nodded gave Bond a pair of keys, nodding to a silver coupe a few steps away from them. Bond smiled and, gentleman that he was, tipped generously. As he moved to the driver's seat, a manila folder greeted him. He pored over the various files contained within. "This man may be planning something devastating. We can't be certain exactly what, or who, but something terrible may happen if he goes unchecked."
Bond eventually came to a photograph. A man sitting in a high backed leather chair, a clipping from a magazine Bond had read a month ago. Scribbled in black ink across the bottom of the photograph were three words.
"Monsieur the Merovingian."