A portly, balding, middle-aged man sat hunched over on a stool at the Casino Royale Tavern and Bar in downtown London. He stared intently, as only a drunk can do, at a bullet, which he was lifting and dropping. He was trying to make it land standing up. He could not remember the last time he’d succeeded at this; nonetheless, he tried again. “Oh, bugger all,” he muttered as the bullet inevitably fell on its side. He removed an old Saturday-night special from his shoulder holster, loaded the bullet back into the gun, and replaced it under his arm.
Another drunk, who was sitting nearby, watched nervously. He finished his drink, threw some coins on the bar and walked out, leaving the bartender and the man alone.
“Another drink, old man?” The bartender was a muscular fellow in his thirties.
“Fuck the drink, fuck being drunk, fuck MI5, and fuck you.”
The bartender held up a bottle of rum. “Gold?”
“One finger, with Coke,” the man replied. “And stirred, not shaken.” The bartender nodded. “You know what’s wrong with the world?” the man asked as he lit a cigarette. The bartender looked at his watch as he set the glass down. “It’s being run by assholes. Big, hairy, smelly assholes.” The man gulped his drink while the bartender yawned.
“Take 007. What a dick. If there’s a toxic waste spill in Liverpool, you think they’ll give it to Bond? Hell no. But let the Queen’s goddamned kitty-cat get stuck in a tree in Tahiti, and it’s 007 this, 007 that.”
“Want me to liven that up for you?” The bartender pointed to the now half-empty drink. The man shook his head.
“Just last week the postal service lost a letter or something down in the Bahamas. Do they give 006 here a call? No goddamned way. It’s, ‘Oh Bond, would it be too much of a bother to ask you to pull your John Thomas out of Miss Universe there, whom you’ve been shagging for three weeks now, and take care of this nasty little blighter who’s giving us grief down in some equatorial paradise?’
“But if the prime minister’s fancy lady flushes her clit pin down the loo, who do they call? ‘Listen, 006, we know you’re busy cleaning the grease out of the fan ducts in the royal kitchen, but would you mind awful much chasing after a little jewel job we’ve got down here in Westminster?’”
The bartender looked at his watch. “Ten minutes, old chap,” he announced.
“Then what, you turn into a turd?”
The bartender repeated, “Ten minutes.”
“Okay, okay.” The man gulped his drink and looked up. “The other day, I was walking my dog past Bond’s house. Seen my dog, Thunderballs?” The bartender shook his head. “Three-legged bitch. Part boxer, part dachshund. Ugliest dog you ever saw.” The bartender grimaced. “We turn the corner, and Bond’s dog, this big horny Weimaraner, attacks her and starts fucking the shit out of her. Bastard bit my hand when I tried to pry him off.” The man showed the bartender the red marks on his hand. “You know what Bond calls his dog?”
The bartender shook his head.
“Forty-nine. Get it? That’s 007 in dog years.”
The bartender smiled.
“He’s such an asshole,” the man said.
“Five minutes,” the bartender announced, looking at his watch again.
“What happens then, you get your first hard-on?”
“I close in five, sir. Drink up.”
The man reached for his glass. “Then there’s that red-headed tart, Moneypenny. Seen her?” The bartender shook his head. “Bond practically has to run a covert op just to get by her without getting his Union Jack wet. Me, I chat her up and she looks at me like I’m an American or something. And you know what she says?” He pursed his lips and raised his voice an octave. “‘I’m saving myself for Mr. Right.’ Mr. Tight is more like it. Damned cocktease.”
The bartender started wiping a glass.
“Ernst Blofeld. Hugo Drax. Dr. No. Whenever some willy-waver threatens to blow up the world, it’s Bond, Bond, Bond. But if Louie the Lop starts poisoning pigeons in Trafalgar Square, you know who they’re going to call. If you love pigeons, you can breathe easier today because 006 is on the job. Licence to badger.”
The man finished his drink. A phone rang. He reached down, took off his shoe, and held it to his ear. “Yes?” As he listened, his expression soured. “Yes, dear. Okay, dear. No, of course not, dear.”
The bartender started to smile.
The man looked up. “What the fuck are you laughing at?” He looked quickly back at his shoe. “No, dear, I wasn’t asking you what you were laughing at. Yes, I know you’re sorry you didn’t marry Bond. I’m sorry too, dear. No, I didn’t mean it that way. Yes, I do love you. I’ll be home soon. Bye, dear.”
He put his shoe back on his foot and looked up at the bartender. His eyes narrowed. “What? You think they’d give me the cigarette lighter that can take down a lunar landing module? Oh, no no no no no. You’re looking at old hand-me-down Harry. ‘Please, sir, may I have a cellphone? No? You’ve got something that’ll work just as well? Oh, goody.’”
He spat on the floor. “Well, Methuselah has spoken. I’d better go home before I turn to stone.” The man stood up and dropped some money on the bar. “Live and let die, that’s what I always say.” He extended his arm, and the bartender fist-bumped him.
“See you tomorrow,” said the bartender.
The man struggled to put on his coat. “Tomorrow never dies,” he said as he turned and trudged out of the bar, into the fog and rain.
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