Modern Bondingwritten by Soul Bay
An airport lounge at 9:00pm still retains the hustle and bustle soak through your shirt hassle of the smell of that mornings stale aftershave and the all-pervasive over-dousing of parfum the cultural food clash rages incessantly until the cleaners finally mop up the burrito fajita pasta sushi pizza burger madness.
Bond raised his eyes, the dark comma of hair that punctuated his forehead and accentuated his gunmetal eyes. He was on is fifth large Smirnoff Ice. The mission had been a failure an abject failure. His target at the Slovakian embassy had turned out to be an American double agent. Unfortunately that news had reached Bond too late. And now obituaries were being drafted, excuses being made and a massive clean up being done by both Langley & Vauxhall Cross.
Bond looked up again. The shrill canary yellow ‘Paris – Flight Delayed’ chirped back at him from the departures board. God, he wished he could have a cigarette. Curse these health fascists with their fascination with staying alive. He swilled back the remains of the disgusting pre-mixed drink that burned briefly and faded fast and then doubly cursed the fact that his frequent flyer card hadn’t allowed him access to the premium lounge. How can the double 00 section have fallen so far? He mentally started drafting his latest resignation letter.
Distraction is the refuge of the restless. No sooner had Bond started his composition than a copy of Top Gear magazine caught his eye. He caught the picture of the new Aston Martin on the cover. He skimmed to the main feature. 3 ½ stars out of 5? What was the journalist thinking of? Enough is enough. He let a curse cut through the quadruple filtered air.
He put the magazine back down and headed straight for the sales desk. “Next flight to London”. He paid for a first class seat (he’d let the pen-pushers pick the bones out of that later). The flight was leaving in an hour. Time for a proper drink and time to think.
As the vodka-martini started to weave its wonderful magic and with his switching twitching neurons gliding into a warmer space, Bond began to ponder just how he would administer revenge. A cruel smile played on his lips. He stood, adjusted his silk knitted black tie, brushed an unseemly speck of cotton from the lapel of his Kilgour suit and headed out of the lounge and towards Flight BA406 to London and a meeting with his arch-nemesis.
The fiend they called Clarkson!