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| -The Man with the Golden Pushrod Or, -Tomorrow is Behind By Jack Criswell, © 2007 Bond strode briskly into the porte-cochére of the Splendide casino in Monte Carlo. He usually reveled in any assignment for Her Majesty which took him to this place. Its calm opulence exuded the kind of wealth and success that made any visitor an instant player in a grand opera, and he was skilled at the music that made this opera exclusive to the best. But this time it was different, and a little awkward for Bond. Days earlier in London, from his teak leather chair behind the grand mahogany, leather-inlaid desk first used by Admiral Elililly before the Big War, M briefed Bond: “007, some are worried about the F1 Organization’s move to ‘Americanize’ their racing to emulate NASCAR. F1 fears NASCAR’s recent race in England indicates they have larger plans. So F1, always aggressive with its turf, has decided to incorporate NASCAR elements into their race in Monte Carlo in order to cement whatever market share they can with that demographic.” He took another puff from his pipe, which seemed less politically-correct than before. Bond was a little taken aback – he’s licensed to kill for the Royals. While his specialty is becoming expert on most any topic, he’s spent more time learning the finer points of killing professional assassins than watching races. Couldn’t they just send Moneypenny do this by herself, he thought? “Sir, with all due respect, observing a stock car race, even in Monaco, is not exactly the most appropriate assignment for my skills…” “Bond, I need not refer to your dossier to know your skills: fast driving, women, alcohol. Our reports tell us all are present in the American stock car racing in sufficient quantities that you should find something to your liking.” “Stock car racing does involve those, sir. Growing from speed runs along the Daytona Beach decades ago, and with at least an estimated 4 liters of alcohol per spectator per event, with a significant quantity of hardly-dressed inebriated females.” By now, Bond was again imagining Moneypenny doing this, but no longer by herself. “But have you ever actually watched a stock car event, sir?” At this, M stood, which was rare, and continued with subdued agitation. “Rubbish, Bond. This time F1 must be making the biggest play of all, bringing NASCAR to Monoco. Even SMERSH was not bold enough for that. Could SMERSH or Spectre be behind NASCAR? Behind F1? Both are suspect. NASCAR is obviously proficient in running grand façades. They sell season after season of scripted entertainment as sport. Perhaps NASCAR is actually a front for something even bigger than either of the two arch-nemesis we have fought for years. And we understand France is behind the NASCAR organization. That should be enough of a connection for anyone. Dismissed and good hunting, James.” |
Q Branch outfitted Bond
appropriately. His vehicle was a bit taller
than that to which he was accustomed, with six wheels, four on the rear
axle, technically called a “dually” configuration according to Q, who
never joked about his work. “The ‘posi-trak’ rear-end is matched to a 3-speed automatic with a ‘stump-pulling’ low gear, 007. Those large yellow shock absorbers raise it approximately one meter vertically in order to clear the heavily-grooved ‘mudder’ tires, each sufficient to climb fire hydrants.” “Why would I need to climb fire hydrants?” “You’re missing the point, 007!” “And the 0-to-60 time, Q?” ”We understand it will reach 60, Bond, but that’s all we know. And do not try to stop it within several blocks.” Q continued. “Notice the double aerials, one on each corner of the rear bumper rising 4 meters each, with a slight bend as if from wind resistance. Note the chrome brush guard and wench on the nose, aircraft-landing lights on the roof for lighting up, er, foxes at the hunt, I suppose… “Did you say it had a wench on the nose, Q?” Bond strides toward the nose of the truck. “You used to look down your nose at my attempts to play to the fairer gender with your creations and here you’ve mounted a lady…” Q interrupts “It’s an electric motorized tow-hook, Bond!” Q exclaims, looking down his nose. Bond stops, dejected. Q continues “On the rear bumper are three chromed and authentically-rusted trailer hitch apparati, we think they are called ‘balls,’ ahem. A full hectoliter-sized toolbox in the rear bed, in stainless of course…” “And speaking of bed,” Bond reached over to the couch sitting in the back of this monster. It was several sun-bleached shades of lime green with a plaid of small red or yellow stripes splotched with occasional duct tape failing in its job of holding back the stuffing which erupted through the upholstery like facial blemishes. “I see you’ve finally conceded to outfit one of my vehicles with some accommodation for my avocation with the ladies. Does it fold out…” Bond started to pull on it. “Not hardly, 007” Q said, slapping Bond’s hand away. “That’s fine Connolly wool we’ve pain-stakingly re-woven and stained to appear like a 1970’s couch that’s been sitting on a porch for decades. It’s to be used, we understand, as a perch for watching the festivities, and later for burning, perhaps in some sort of native ritual we do not understand.” “Interesting. Where are the lethal toys, Q?” “Unfortunately Dodge did not engineer its 1984 Pickup with structures we could utilize. The single-spring bench seat in the cabin prevented installation of the usual Mark IV ejection seat, for example. But we did load the dual-barrel shotgun you see mounted there in the rear window.” |
“Speaking of the window, Q, it is covered with stickers. I don’t understand...one in fact seems to be a drawing of a young boy, and he is, er, urinating…” “Yes, that’s part of the cover, Bond. It’s all very authentic.” Said Q. “You’ll have to ask Y Branch, the psychology department, why anyone in God’s name would want to display on their car a young boy urinating. Perhaps it is some tribal symbol, the way lower primates mark their territory.” “Is the large ‘007’ sticker in the window giving too much away?” “Quite the contrary. Research discovered that most fans attending this event will have large numerical stickers in their rear window, which we must assume is their respective agent codes.” This was part of the background to Bond’s awkwardness, despite his familiarity with the venue. Everything was different somehow. At his favorite restaurante he noticed the waitresses were much larger than usually worked there, especially their hair. He provided instructions for his usual drink but was interrupted “Pal, you want us to shake your beer?” Undaunted, Bond ordered his favorite, the rognon de veau with pommes soufflés, and relaxed to soak in the ambiance, which was suddenly torn with the waiter’s shriek “Give me another #3, Harry!” and then he remarked while turning to leave “Ketchup’s on the table. I got A-1 in back if you want it.” Elegant Monaco harbor was filled and bustling with boats full of eager race fans, but instead of the ordered maneuvering of splendid white yachts flying international colours, covered with glitterati and blue-blooded women bathing topless in the sun, this time it was jostling with aluminum pontoon boats rocking wildly from the wakes of fiberglass “super-trollers” ringed with trolling motors and huge outboards the size of a porta-john. “I have to admit I miss the topless ladies,” Bond mused to the maître d’hôtel, who, in response, lifted a clutch of sparkling beads. Bond raised an eyebrow “We didn’t used to have to buy Cartier to admire the ladies’ talents.” “Pal, this is $1.50 at ‘Starvin’Marvin’, and it buys two peeks at the peaks, if you know whut ‘ah mean.” Bond eventually spotted his contact, agent 012, Clevor Broadmore, standing awkwardly as well, wearing a baseball cap on backwards, almost as if he had intentionally placed it that way. He nervously removed the cap, looked at it curiously as if he could not determine why anyone would place the sunvisor in back, then slowly replace it, with the sunvisor in back. His pants were made of some type of denim material and it appeared that he had left his hotel suite without his coat, or shirt, either. He was wearing only a t-shirt out in public. Clevor drawled “Howzitgoin” to Bond, who offered their assigned code reply for this mission: “Ahhhyight – Choo?” To be continued… |