Author: Elruade

Chapter 1










Faster than this, nose diving should be explained with this bulbous glass ‘ere, terry liquid. A mere mention of the hill’s angle ripped the cut along the crotch, and Dostoevsky by the way made it liveable to small land stokers.

        -No sausage should slip passed.

        -Passed the drunkard?

        -Passed everything until you spot the indentation.


        -Former VF fighter unit.

        -All passed?

        -They remain in stable condition for as long as the doctors will seal up the plug.

        -No Terry can cut it.

        -With a seamstress it is possible.

        -You cut in a straight line?

        -Circle around the dam and fly in.

        -How is it inside by the way.

        -It is wet and foggy. Bare the goggles.

        -They’ve been thrown out.

        -Along with his signature.

        -No I kept that safe.

        -Take me to him. Take me to him now.

        The signature was done with heavy marking and the name ‘BOND JAMES BOND’ was done so hastily as to be nearly illegibly. To yours truly. Your old fish eyes should adjust any time now to the real time update. Set your watch you little pinprick! Adjust to the mood, the mood of a time.

        James walked in; I made some request or another to meet him. It seemed ‘to meet for him’. He hardly went out anymore. This request perhaps filled his agenda for all I know. I think it is rubber and has a leather strap to keep it closed, and only he has a key that can open that. Not that anyone would want to look in it. Make a search for him. Clear all the ground and search for him.

        Bond had some strange guard hanging with him. This guard I think wasn’t hired labor at all; the way he painstakingly charted James’ motions to an Nth degree. Ridiculous. He might as well have carried a little tote bag and put him in there. Furthermore. Ehm, furthermore! This guy went around sleeveless as if his arms were ‘to show for’, while really his arms were too thick to be sleeveless.

        James Bond knocked on the door in a rhythm. I said come in—I was in a chair reading Scripture. My hand left the finger were I left off. I look over my shoulder—The chair was in the corner and I had a glass with wine on a table I reached for now and then. I looked over and saw Bond. THE Bond.

        He was out of time he said.

        -What do you mean? I suppose you have made some time today, just for the occasion to sign. Please, take this list. It lists what I like you to sign. It’s not all that much really but I prefer to take the orderly approach. The books are on the table over there.

        -You’ve got to be kidding me.


        -I said I’m all out of time. I knocked on the door to get some salt or other, and then you want me to sign this shit.

        -What? (I forgot all at once any formality) I thought we made a special appointment for you to sign some of my ‘shit’! The guard was now behind me and holding my shoulders for some reason.

        -No way. You want me to sign? Why?

        -Mister Bond! You are famous, man! ‘Weld’ famous! I’m sure you do signing each and every day; you have so many fans out there. I’ll tell you something. I am not a fan. I am asking you to sign because someone asked it of me. That is the all you-need-to-know. Please take some time out of the busy schedule of yourstruly.

        Bond took something out of his pocket and held it to his heart. He breathed irregularly. This was a 21st Century Bond; he had a time as of eternal evening or choking hazard. He put the object back into his pocket and held out both his arms perpendicularly. Then he shaked the left leg and produced a crease that had some silly effect.

        -Man, fuck you. Where is the salt, then? I can play backgammon, sure. I can do poker as well. But poker is a pansy sport. There was this big event last Sunday where poker players came to. They bring their own chips in a little case, which is inspected for completeness at the door. Then they go through a little tunnel where it’s all dark.

        Bond laughed for a few seconds, as if it were funny at all. He looked at me like I should laugh too. When I didn’t he gave me a sour look. I was getting really conscious; nervous and agitated. I approached the symbol of James Bond now in concentric circles like a wolf, and I sniffed his awful odor. Odor, anyway, is more of a criticism without point-of-fact.

        James cont.

        I was flown in and rolled out, I shuffled on my dandy shoes and I entered doors that were held open to me. (That is his job of course, and not his only one) The lights were barely lit and already on me. I sprinkled some orange juice over myself. Poker is a man’s game alright. It is because a man can fit under a poker table. A woman can fit under it too, but what is that supposed to mean?

        I was confused but I tried to listen to his ridiculous story.

        I took a seat under the glare of a billion spectators, I was told. In reality the benches were full to about halfway. From there I couldn’t make out if there were people or not.

They say people actually watch this on TV. That people should watch TV at all is absurd enough. (TV was a short lived fad, I beg)

They made hissing sounds in between the cheers. I can identify specific sounds too, like chewing or gnarling, or snickering or whatever. This annoys the hell out of me. Why do I take time out to do a poker match?

        That’s right; I wasn’t there for this reason. My cock was swollen already as there was this chick next to me who kept curling her toes around my heel. I whispered to her the following; a description of Nanking at nighttime.

        My poker chips were smeared with dirt and saliva. I asked my guard to clean them when my turn came. The announcer did something like this:

        -It is James Bond’s turn!

        -JAMES BOND?!

        A flashlight shown down on me. My collar got itchy. The guard cleaned the chips with a little cloth of silk. The woman had taken off both of her shoes and went up and down my legs with her feet. Should I have objected? How ridiculous! I bet you would moralize, you old prick. What about the salt? Is it up high in a cupboard, or down low like maybe on the ground? Well, my description of Nanking was accurate enough. It stayed with me so well. The river swirled down as if into the drain that was the moon reflected.

        Finally he handed me the chips, all clean. I didn’t know where to place them. My head was with the woman and my hand reached down and—

        My hand flipped like a pancake at the oddest moment when a spectator whistled. Five chips across the table, scattered. I didn’t know shit about this game. I waited for a reaction to see what I did. Everyone cheered for me. The spectator used binoculars to look at the table.

        -James Bond!

        -James Bond!?

        It was a right move for all I knew. The game went on like this for hours. The guard kept handing me more chips. I held them in my cupped hands and I’d blow on them….

I threw them on the table. The players were all stereotypes I think, like from a catalogue, and there was a fat guy with exactly the weight in kilograms required of him. There was a guy with sunglasses on to hide his face. Why didn’t I bring a pair? Because I lie not only with my eyes; I lie with my entire body.

        Only when I nudged the guard for more chips and when he whispered in my ear ‘it’s over’ did I realize I had lost. I lost about as much as my shoe is worth. We were shown out. The woman just vanished and I didn’t get to apologize to her. I should have apologized for not taking the lead. I should have guided her legs and her arms. If I had done that I think I might have had a woman for the night.

        James Bond bent his neck back and looked around the room.

        -Well where is it?

        I tried again.

        -Please sign.

        Bond ignored me completely and started walking around the room. He looked in the fridge and got out a jug of milk. He was looking for salt, I thought? I kept my salt hidden. I didn’t follow his logic; he put the jug of milk down in the center of the room. Then he grabbed five spoons and placed them in a circle around the jug with the spoon-end facing out. Then—as if he knew all along—he opened the drawer that was underneath the coffeetable and took out the salt.

        -Well, I found your salt. Shall I show you what Bond can do in the physical reality? My mind is a livid, greasy jungle, you know.

        He took the cap of the salt bottle. He placed this on my head. The guard held my head with both hands. James wetted his index with saliva and pressed it against my cheeks and chin. Then he put salt on these spots.

        He shook his shoulders. Then he took one spoon that was in the circle around the jug and turned it around. He did the same with two more. I was breaking into a sweat. I didn’t know any of this!

        The guard nearly crushed my skull; he pressed the bottle cap down so hard. I begged him to stop but hey-hey, he didn’t, and I was starting to cry. James Bond told me to hang on for just a minute.

        -Wait a minute, just hold on. You will not believe what is gonna happen or you will reject it. I recommend you believe it so you can tell your pals.

        A minute passed and I realized it was three o’clock when I looked at the clock. The guard let go and it felt like release. This feeling of release grew and it grew. It felt much like how a balloon is injected with air. I reached an ecstacy. James Bond motioned to the guard and they both left and closed the door.

        This man wasn’t heard of after that. We will follow James Bond around.




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