Author: Elruade

Chapter 10



All signatures (according to reserche) begin with a loop. Not James Bond’s, though. His begins with a scribble. And so it ends. (It also ends with a scribble) It is hard to even call it a signature. It is a Dark Signature; over the years, becoming more and more chaotic; until that moment when it loses touch; becomes unreal. Turn off all microscopes at once. Patterns are visible from far away.

You don’t need to be an expert—in any field whatsoever. But this is just ridiculous! Everyone is a total amateur! You sneer at anything you don’t like; and the things you like are the stupidest things ever! (Dear; I am going too far) What fits into your life, your routine? Please don’t say it; it will spoil the page!

He had a little mule. An old mule, but still capable of carrying some weight. And he very much liked to spend afternoons riding on its back. (Looking over his shoulder) Every so often he would challenge the mule; he would walk it up steep hills and down inclines. The mule didn’t complain, but its legs sometimes wobbled. He was sure that he was doing the mule a favor. (You will outlive me and help carry the wounded down the mountain!)

Sadly, the mule died before he did. It was no fault of his; it died of old age. He was grieved by it, sure, but he was quick again to recover and find another way of passing the time. He developed (among other things) an orange juice subsession. (Technical term; obsession)

Since he was a young boy he enjoyed the flavor of orange juice, as well as the flavor of oranges, period. Best—ofcourse—were freshly squeezed oranges. The action of pushing it down and draining it of all its juices and the pits gave him real pleasure. Few things he knew gave him such a pleasure. He knew other forms of pleasure, but not this particular one. (Meaning, he had to fill it)

Over the years it became more elaborate. When he was out school (Was it college or prep?) he started experimenting with submersion. Already he liked to dip his fingers into it and put it on his skin—much like a cologne. Likewise, he was certain there was no scent more delicious than the one of freshly squeezed orange. But only when he was out of school did he start with submersion. (A repition—will have to fix)

When the house was quiet, he’d drain all of the orange juice available (And this included store-bought, bottled orange juice) into the bathtub, and then stepped into it, before laying himself down in it. After a while, after it was thoroughly absorbed by the skin, he would drain the tub and dry himself off. Much of the juice would stick to his skin and leave a pungent scent. Because of the cost of oranges (high especially in winter), he could only take such baths occasionally; and sometimes he would soak in it for hours.

Another eccentricity of his was his fascination with the human wrist; in particular the orb-like bone that sticks out at the end. This shape thoroughly intrigued him and he was often seen rubbing this area for long periods at a time. And he liked to draw pictures of people where this bone is enlarged beyond its usual size, or uniquely colored and accentuated.

He was divided on the issue of sexuality. The buttocks didn’t attract him very much, nor did the female genitalia; its shape reminded him too much of the guava, a fruit he disliked. His own member—he found—far too closely resembled the banana, and this turned him off. (Needless to say, the banana is commonly associated in this manner. The countless fetish movies with women sucking and licking bananas should be proof enough)

Of note is that he once came upon a rare fetish flick that involved women inserting oranges into their rear ends and consecutively excreting them. Needless to say, this was supremely exciting to him; and he ended up paying a little over 150 pounds to acquire it. He still has it in his possession today, I believe. (Not my thing)

One last thing. I take it you have heard of his dirty fingers that leave smudges on whatever they touch. This is more than just the oil on the skin. Hands are always dirty; no matter how often you wash them, they are one of the dirtiest parts of the human body. But it’s different with Bond. I think it is because of the orange juice. It has been absorbed into the skin, and in certain spots the skin has turned yellow—much like a cigarette smoker.

His fingertips are yellow, and he is often asked if he smokes. He doesn’t. (I believe he doesn’t) But the smudges he leaves behind are brown in color. I don’t know what it’s about or how it works. I will look into it more.

Who else was it that had a Dark Signature? That’s right; Pierce Brosnan. He did several Bond movies, last of which was titled Die Another Day. Certainly he was a good actor. He was good enough; he ended up in a mental asylum, convinced beyond all rationality that he had died numerous times already. He still wore his smoked-gray suit when they dragged him in.

As therapy they showed him tapes of Thunderball and

Goldfinger. Since he always believed he was the Bond (Or was made to believe it, more likely) seeing another Bond was like seeing another Pierce, and he recovered in a day. This is called ‘comfort in numbers’. This is the same sense one gets when in crowds or in the subway. It amounts to forgetting self, or in some cases, attributing self to another. The crowd operates as a whole because each of its members agrees to discard their personal self and replaces it by the communal, shared self.

Strangely enough, after filming Pierce began writing stories about himself; these were published weekly in the N.Y. Times. They were semi-autobiographical works (pardon the dull words) that featured illustrations by Eluard and Picard. It must be said, they were very well done, and one would wonder why Pierce became an actor at all. It must be the money.

What is remarkable about these stories is that they appear to have actually happened. While it is hard to believe Pierce was a secret agent, I cannot but believe he really was, after reading these. Their immense popularity is an indication—at least—of their readability. Last year they took a poll to see what people liked best about the N.Y. Times, and 78% answered, ‘Pierce Adventure’.




(First Issue, released in NY TIMES #228975)



There was no space left on the freeway. I parked my car and did the run-around. With my 43 calibur I ran in between the cars and aimed at the mirrors. I blew one to smithereens as a warning. My object lay at the top of the hill, some 500 feet ahead.

Some people tried to stop me by opening their car doors. Numerous times I fell down on the tarmac; but I was not to be stopped at this point. As further indication of my serious intention I fired several rounds into the air. The bangs reverberated dully between the cars.

I suddenly realized I forgot to lock my Bentley. However, it would be impossible to go back now. In my frustration I aimed at a bunch of children who were playing in the grass and fired at them. I shot one in the head, another in the leg. Piercing cries around me. I began to run as fast as my legs could go. Sweat fell down onto my nose.

I was nearly there. Dark smoke emanated from the structure atop the hill, and even from that far away I could hear the sound of wheels grinding and of cows mooing. My object; erasure of a secluded case of the Mad Cow’s Disease. I was to infiltrate said structure, eliminate the egomaniac running the biz, and kill any cows that looked ill in any way.

I struggled up the hill. Patches of grass came loose under my feet, revealing the dirt underneath. The grinding sound was unbearably loud already; such a shame I forgot to bring the sound-proof headset, which I had left in the Bentley. I am afraid I won’t see it back; it is too beautiful not to be stolen by some jackass.

Around the factory, the soil was completely dry and dead. The smoke coming from the chimneys was as thick as cream. I tied my tie as tight as I could, and I loosened several buttons. My mission was clear; I was ready. My name: Pierce Brosnan. Glad to see you, as it is.

(Illustration by Eluard of the Bentley. In the window’s reflection you can see the silhouette of a large man.)






(Second Issue, released in NY TIMES #228983)



Phase one of the operation: success. I was inside. I pushed my way through a herd of cows that had settled out in the feeding grounds. I knew at once they were not the sick ones; these were healthy as oxes. No; the sick ones can be seen from a mile away. They have reddish eyes, skin that is flaking—especially on the back and rear, and hooves that come loose. This last feature is usually more of an indication of the owner’s carelessness, and therefore an even better indication of the disease, as it is usually the fault of the owner and caretaker.

Inside the noise wasn’t as loud. Very carefully I moved ahead, into the core of the factory. Large gas cans were stacked up next to the walls. A stench as of excrement was in the air. My mobile vibrated inside the pocket. I slid up to a wall and answered.


-Joe, change of mission.

-I am already there.

-Good. Take out all of the cows. Leave nothing alive.


-Do you take your orders with salt? Do as I tell you to! We have considerable evidence that each and every cow there is infected with the disease. Take them all out cold. Then head for the central control room and kill Jobson.

-Can humans acquire—

He hung up. I cannot do but obey the command. I attach the silencer to the gun, and I head back to the feeding ground.

The cows are gently eating. They can never do any harm. I am worried that I too could get infected; but what is their to worry about? These cows look healthy! I am sure they—

Again the phone vibrates. Pierce answered.

-Are you there? Kill each and every cow.

It was a text message. No change in the plan; I have no choice. I aim for the head in every shot. The cows fall to the ground. First their front legs collapse, and they topple to the front, then to the side. They make no noise. The others keep on eating as I exterminate them, one by one.

(Illustration by Eluard of a dead cow and a hornet’s nest)








(Sixth Issue, released in NY TIMES #229011)



-Pierce, you have done a good job of it.

Pierce didn’t answer.

-This next one will be a bit harder, I’m afraid.


-You are to take this letter I wrote to the Prince himself, down in Westminster.

-What’s so damn hard about that!

-Westminster is closed off from the public. No-one is allowed in at the moment. They won’t make an exception for you, trust me.

-So I sneak in like last time?

-That’s right. However, this time we will provide you with a different ride and different equipment.

-Name it.

-The vehicle is a Lancia Delta.

-Such an old rustbucket! My Bentley was stolen, you know?

-That is why we are giving you a vehicle this time that will appear less attractive to a thief.

-Delta’s are rare and sporty. No thief has such tastes.

-Exactly. Everyone likes a Bentley. People who appreciate the Delta’s forms cannot go into the thieving business!

-Fine, sure. What about gear?

-A 40 barrel shotgun, triple loaded, and a lighter that doubles as a shaver.

-Begger pardon!?

-Trust me, it will come in handy. The official briefing

is at three. Best be on time. Get plenty of rest. And for God’s Sake, take an inch or two off that beard!

-Official briefing? What happened?

-Pierce, thanks to your successful efforts, we have a larger budget, and we can provide you with better support. I will see you later.

Pierce lit up a cigarette and stared out of a window. The scenery was too mild for his tastes. He went outside for a walk. He met Julia.


-Pierce? You look tired.

-Could well be. I need a rest.

-There is a bed in my room

-You don’t need it?

-It is two in the afternoon. Just don’t get the sheets in a knot. I’ll wake you up before three.

Pierce threw away the cigarette and winked at Julia.

(no illustration)

I have cut out and collected every single issue of Pierce Adventure and I keep them in a very safe place. Gladly I will share them with you another time. The weather is fine outside! I will see you off and stand there waiving long after you’re gone. Clouds move slowly. My neck is stretched out and my chin appears extended. I look young again.





Shooting began that day around seven in the morning. Condition: fair weather, moisture in the air that makes clothes stick to you, but the sky is clouded and the sun is covered.

(It is unclear what happened, and in what chronology. I think Bond wanted to talk to the manager about something last time. I think the scene in his room was of the night before. In any case, they didn’t get a chance to talk; everyone was in a mad state)

-Bond, you’re up. We are almost ready to start.

-Everything is set up?

-Uhm? Yes, quite.

The manager twirled his thumbs around and looked slightly uncomfortable; which may have been because of the humidity. Bond had just washed himself with cold water. It is amazing how fast it evaporates.

-Where is the camera?

-The camera! I forgot to say this to you. Do you know these days they make cameras that can fit onto a fly’s back?

-So what?

-This is the kind of camera we will use.

-Isn’t it too inconvenient? This isn’t some kind of avant-garde we’re talking about; what about budget?

-Sure; the money goes into this and that, all over. Here it is, in between my thumb and index.

He showed the camera. It was really as small as all that; ridiculously small. This is technological progress, and it progresses beyond its practical use. These days, mobile phones are so small that they become a real pain in your wrist to even hold them.

-Fuck that. You have to be pulling a chain.

-No way. We have thousands of these, all around the city.

-How can you capture any intensity or action?

-We can’t. We can only film from stationary objects. But we can put them on you also. See? It can clip onto any shirt.

The manager tried to demonstrate it on Bond—Bond pushed his hands away and looked pissed.

-Oh well; it was our decision. You have no say over it, so frowning won’t help you. Get ready. Oh, and another thing. I found you a woman.

-A woman? She young?

-It’s not Susan Sarandon or anything.

-She is getting hotter with age.

-You think? If you like breasts that hang low, sure. Here she is. Her name; Barbera Well.

-Eh, nice to meet you sir.

-Yes, nice to meet you, likewise.

Barbera has black hair, she is short, her legs plump and the waist rather wide. She must be about 20. What can you do? You stare at her for a while. She isn’t pretty or anything. But you know.

-Bond, try not to be rude to her.


-Filming is about to start; the director has got the scene set. We have plenty of time; just take it easy. Don’t overact. Be smooth. Listen to the birds in the background; they provide a kind of guidance.

-How much time do we have.

-Plenty enough. Let’s start!




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