Flashing #40: James Bond Reboot

Sunday, May 17, 2009

Friday's story on Sunday! It's been a miserable week and a miserable weekend and I was ready to give up on this whole thing but then inspiration struck me at our monthly DC Conspiracy meeting. My friend Evan Keeling was talking about the incredible racism in Ian Flemming's Goldfinger and it got us talking about making a racist James Bond story. I love the idea of a James Bond who's only method of getting leads is to pull over young black men on the 405 and I put this little story together.

What does this have to do with previous Flashing stories? NOTHING. I just needed to write something and, well, here it goes.

More Flashing at the main page.


The sky should be black but the combination of haze, street light, and bar sign light up the heavens like the rapture. Everything that is LA swims in unnatural glow, top-40 hip-hop, and twenty-something partiers hopped up on ecstasy and coke. Assistants of assistants of the next big movie star sucking on pacifiers and crashing their Volvos as they pay no mind to the darkness above the man-made sheen. The darkness is where Shiva currently roams, its city-destroying laser pointed towards America’s brightest shithole, ready to end its miserable existence as soon as the order comes through.

Mr. Bond has another hour to dismantle Shiva or else LA will be obliterated. His leads have dried up. His woman du jour has been flayed right before his eyes; her blood still stains his hands. His signature Aston Martin has been totaled, his replacement Volkswagen Rabbit is getting good mileage at a slow speed down the 405. Despite the circumstances, Mr. Bond is not even breaking a sweat. It’s all in a days work.

He sees his next lead in the form of a BMW with tinted windows and driven by four black youths barreling down the interstate. Mr. Bond knows suspicious behavior when he sees it, and he hits the accelerator, taps the right rear bumper of the BMW, and runs the car into the railing. The sound of metal on concrete is masked by the horrible screams coming from the passengers inside. Glass shatters and limbs break as the car rolls four times along the shoulder, the persons of interest inside piling up lacerations and torn pieces of flesh.

Mr. Bond wastes no time and runs right to the driver’s side of the car and rips the bloodied occupant from his seat. The driver’s hair is thick with blood, his knee was crushed by the steering column, and his right eye burst after being punctured by a piece of rusted metal. He’s right were Mr. Bond wants him.

“What are you guys doing out at this hour?” Mr. Bond asks the nearly unconscious suspect.

The driver’s lips shiver. He pisses his pants. “We’re just coming back from a club I swear I wasn’t even drinking and we wasn’t getting’ into any trouble we was just gettin’ home I swear I swear I swear…”

“If you’re so innocent, why are you acting so nervous?”

“Please don’t hurt me please don’t hurt me please don’t hurt me…”

Mr. Bond throws the man to the floor and kicks his remaining teeth out. “Henricks laser. I want to know where the controls are and I want to know NOW.”

“I don’t know a Henrick I swear to god I have no idea what you’re talking about please just call me an ambulance please please please please…”

Mr. Bond goes to get the pliers from his trunk. He does the math on the way and realizes he has ten minutes to get this guy to talk. He grabs the hacksaw instead.


Two minutes and five appendages later Mr. Bond is convinced that the young black man knows nothing about Henrick’s laser. As he packs up his trunk, starting to feel nervous for the first time in his long and celebrated career, he noticed another lead and begins to calm down once again. Behind the unmarked white van, occupied by several large Eastern European men, is a black Mercedes with tinted windows and spinners occupied by a young black man and his black female assistant, no doubt a trained assassin. Mr. Bond gets back into the Rabbit and heads after the suspects.


LA is still hazy, although the primary source of light comes from the burning buildings and charred carcasses. Henrick’s laser went off at precisely 2AM, as promised, and left nothing behind. LA went up in a blast of fire and cocaine and Priuses and crocs. Mr. Bond snapped after the attack and went rogue. He is now chasing down leads north of 125th street in Manhatten, convinced someone will direct him to Henrick so that Mr. Bond can put an end to the madman’s attacks against right-minded citizens.


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