Unidentified Funny Objects 3

by Alex Shvartsman (Ed. )

“Bond is a legacy that must be protected. Impostors are just one of the threats. Double agents, defectors. We have moles at the very top of the testing center administration. We keep tabs. The last thing we need is a 95 percent Judi Dench being picked up for armed robbery again, am I right?”

  I had no idea what he was talking about.

  “We deal with those threats the way our forefathers did.” He smiled wanly. “Never mind that now. You’re going to fit in wonderfully, George.”

  I was about to correct him, but he continued.

  “We’ll start with the wardrobe. We would like to see you wear something more fitting. And do you own a car?”

  “No, I bus it, usually.”

  He grimaced. “That will not do. A Bond on public transportation? How the Bournes would love that!”

  “Actually, I’m broke. I’m dropping out to--”

  “I’m aware of your finances, George. A distraction from your studies and your Bondship. Your outstanding debt was paid this morning. Please let me welcome you to Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”

  “For real?”

  “Well, figuratively.”

  ###

  Everything changed.

  Women threw themselves at me. Men, too.

  My neck ached from nodding at double entendres.

  Professors paid me more attention. The Dean approved my scholarship saying that my “breeding and roguish contempt for authority would bring fresh air to a stale department.”

  Even my parents got excited. They told their friends all about their famous son and his spiffy new Aston Martin. They even went to get tested themselves. Dad was nearly a 40 percent Alan Hale. Mom was a quarter Dian Fossey.

  It all felt good. Weird, but good. I was celebrated for the accomplishments of a theoretical relative playing a fictional person. Material for a great thesis or else a nervous breakdown.

  Bond House didn’t ask for much in return, just to promote the legacy: dress well, stay out of trouble, exude confidence, and most importantly, stay single.

  After an on-camera piece about Bond 2212, 92%-Moore scolded me for shoehorning Kant into an on-camera piece. “Just stick to wordplay. Keep your studies to yourself, understood?”

  A few vodka martinis in, my tongue let loose. “Like, you’ll only live once to see this episode. How’s that?”

  92%-Moore smiled magnanimously. “Great.”

  “Diamonds are forever, but this film won’t be in theaters long. Be sure to--”

  “Very clever, yes.”

  “The world is not enough to keep me from tonight’s showing of--”

  “Do shut up, 007.”

  ###

  I moved into a small apartment replete with all the trappings of a spy’s 1960s love nest--hidden entrance, rare tropical fish, rotating bed, wet bar.

  Dwight showed me how to use my identity for fun. Cops, bartenders, hotel staff. A casual reveal led to rule bending, free drinks, respect. I had the weight of a multinational corporation behind me.

  After plain bribery got me a passing grade in Senior Ethics, Dwight and I hopped a flight for the Bond casino in Monte Carlo.

  The place was packed. Full Christopher Walken regaled a crowded bar. Full Halle Berry held court at craps. I made the rounds, posing for pictures and punning my way through the tuxedoes and evening gowns.

  Along the way I met twin Russian 75 percent Diana Riggs that clung to me like henchmen. They were hopeful of entering the Bond House and teared up when I hinted they weren’t pure enough Rigg.

  “There are two of us, though” one said. “Bring us in together.”

  “Yeah,” cooed the other. “That’s one-and-a-half Riggs.”

  By the time I finished, Dwight was at the poker table, deep in the hole and more than a little tipsy. I took the seat across, a partial Rigg nibbling each of my ears.

  “They say two heads are better than one,” Dwight called. “We should totally test that out.”

  The Riggs stopped. One of them hissed.

  I raised a hand. “Dwight, that’s not the carriage of a gentleman. Please apologize.”

  Dwight rolled his eyes and threw back the rest of a scotch.

  The Riggs turned their attention to my thighs. “Where’s your suite, George? Let’s all retire to some place more private.”

  “I believe I have the accommodations to accommodate that,” I said, eyebrow raised. The Riggs tittered.

  “Tenth floor,” Dwight said. “His name’s on the door. Give us a few minutes to freshen up, then come on up.”

  They recoiled. “Us?”

  “I’m George’s benefactor. Isn’t that right?”

  Reluctantly, I nodded.

  “See, girls,” Dwight slurred, pushing back from the table. “George was a much better bet than cards. He always brings me returns on my investment.” I watched in horror as he unzipped his fly.

  The Riggs were over the table and pounding him before I could move. By the time Dalton and Brosnan pulled the Riggs off, Dwight’s bloodied nose and lip had ruined his dinner jacket.

  The Riggs were dragged out, cursing in Russian.

  The room was silent, everyone stared: Walken, Berry, Grace Jones, even the new Sophie Marceau I hadn’t met yet.

  “I’m going to invite you to leave,” Dalton said to Dwight. “Unless,” he turned to me, “he’s with you?”

  My friend stood bleeding and drunk, surrounded by opulence and beauty. His fly gaped, mucus poured from his nose. He was a buffoon, everything Bond was not. Everything I was not.

  All eyes were upon me.

  “Me? No.” I said. “We’ve never met.”

  ###

  Dwight must have caught a flight that night. He didn’t return my calls, was never in our old room. He avoided me, and I couldn’t blame him.

  I graduated, although I missed Commencement for a two-year Guest of Honor stint aboard the new Bond Cruise Line. Tuxedos and Hawaiian shirts, bon mots and international women. The good life.

  I had barely regained my land legs when my phone woke me from sleep, finding me uncomfortably alone. It was 92%-Moore.

  “Get to the Bond House fast. We believe that someone may try to kill you.”

  I pulled on a pair of cream linen trousers. “Kill me? Like for real? Why?”

  “Because you’re a Bond.”

  “What? Who would do that?”

  “George, six months ago, Gert Fröbe was sequenced. He has a full match. We wanted to make an offer for him to join Bond as a lobby greeter or desk clerk. But the man disappeared. Our extensive network of resources uncovered no trace. It was odd, but soon forgotten.”

  “Fröbe, who’s that?”

  “The actor who played Auric Goldfinger, the ruthless mining magnate that was one of Bond’s greatest nemeses.”

  “Okay, so . . . ?”

  “This evening, Brosnan, your replacement on the H.M.S. Thunderball, was found dead. He was covered in gold paint.”

  “What?”

  “Dalton put it all together. A man who has the means to hide out from our extensive surveillance. An incident he recalled from Monte Carlo. A man who holds a grudge against Bonds. We’re recalling Bonds everywhere, especially since you two shared a roof . . .”

  My head started to swim.

  I ran for my safe and found its door was already open. My Walther PPK and laser watch had always been for show, but now were gone. Only one other person knew the combination.

  A gun cocked in the darkness.

  Dwight stepped forward into the bubbling light of the exotic aquarium. He pointed my pistol at me. The aquarium’s light reflected off a collection of medallions he wore around his neck.

  “Hang up the phone, George.”

  I hung up. “You’re really embracing the gold thing. This is for real? You killed Brosnan?”

  “You’re the philosopher. What do you think, coincidence or fate?”

  “Neitzsche said that the metaphysical need for art to--”

  Dwight laughed with dishearteni
ng malice. “Save it for someone who cares.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have . . .”

  He raised his hand, quieting me.

  “You don’t understand, you and your Bond friends. I wasn’t given the opportunity you were, so instead I’ll take it. No one wants a partial Shatner that can’t emote or a witless slice of Austen. But a Goldfinger that beats Bond, there is a somebody.”

  “You are somebody, Dwight.”

  “Don’t call me that! Other than this, I’m just potential diluted to inconsequence. When I learned of the match, I knew. I felt it in my bones. This was who I was meant to be.”

  “A murderer?”

  He grinned. “I’m just what you made me. Hero of the No-Ones.”

  It wasn’t a bad speech, given the situation. I nearly suggested that he re-consider the Austen path, but it was too late for that. We stared at each other, the moonlight casting shadows. Dwight stretched out his arm, pointing the weapon at my chest.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Bond,” he said.

  “Goldfinger was a great villain. But he’s not the most popular.”

  “I know that. I’m not even a great nemesis. Are those are your final words?”

  “I’m just saying that if you’re going to define the role for yourself, I think you should take a cue from what’s worked.”

  “Such as?”

  “Blofeld is far more popular. It’s all about your escape. The chase, the mystery--where is he, what is he doing, what will he do next? The mystery’s the thing. That’s what keeps the audience coming back. Trust me, it’s Bond 101.”

  He lowered the gun an inch. “You think so?”

  It was my chance. I dove at him, knocking his arm aside as bullets shattered windows and the aquarium. My eardrums sang as we wrestled, but with his Shatner-inspired combat skills he handily threw me to the floor.

  Aquarium glass pierced my back and breathing became sharp and pained. I heaved like the exotic fish flopping around me. Dwight stepped forward and leveled the gun at my face.

  “Good bye, Mr. Bond.”

  I rolled over, unwilling to stare down a gun’s dark hole of death, to a fish, drowning on the shag carpet, my companion in suffocation.

  Two eyes stared at me and in them, I found salvation.

  A quick toss sent the fish tumbling through the air, its spikes protruding in defense as Dwight put up a hand to block. The pufferfish’s spines sent neurotoxin into his hand before he batted it away, dropping the gun in the process.

  His screams were muffled by my still-ringing ears and the all-consuming pain in my chest, though I had a sense that he screeched even as he ran into the night.

  At some point sirens came.

  At some point I blacked out.

  ###

  I came off the ventilator after a day, though the pain lasted longer. My parents visited and the police took my statement. A week in, 92%-Moore arrived, his brow furrowed but wearing a full grin.

  “This is amazing, George. The interest we’re seeing is off the charts. The police are keeping tabs on Octopussy and eight Blofelds, just in case. There’s talk about re-releasing the original films in IMAX-3D and building an Australian Bond House in your honor.”

  He continued like that for ten minutes. Finally, I interrupted: “I’m fine, thank you, Roger.”

  “What’s that, George? You must find Goldfinger. The media and the fans are demanding it.”

  “Track him down? I’m not a real spy. Why would I do that?”

  “We’ll help you, George. It’s what you’re made for.”

  “Made for? I’m supposed to be reading books not hunting enemies, not getting shot at. You know that we’re not actual agents, that none of this is real?”

  92%-Moore shrugged.

  I removed the oxygen mask so there would be no confusion. “Look, Roger, I’m done. I appreciate all you’ve done for me but I don’t want to be Bond anymore. I’ll change my name, move to Guam, whatever. You’ll have to wait for the next Lazenby.”

  He stared at me agape. “Give up Bond? Just like that? With no thought of the future, no plan for what comes next?”

  “I appreciate everything you’ve given me. But let Connery take a crack at Goldfinger. That sounds right to me.”

  92%-Moore laughed.

  “Quit Bond after one adventure? That is so Lazenby.”

  ***

  As a psychiatrist, much of Jeremy Butler’s writing is locked away in medical charts. What escapes can been found at places like Nature and Apex Magazine. He is the proud holder of an invaluable theater degree from MIT and regularly performs improvised comedy around the Toronto area. His intermittent musings are collected at jeremyrbutler.net.

  Do Not Remove This Tag

  Piers Anthony

  Nate stared at the purple tag. DO NOT REMOVE THIS TAG. There was no other information on it, so what was the point of it? It was on the second-hand mattress he had bought cheap, all that he could afford, and the mattress was not very comfortable. In fact it was lumpy, and the lumps tended to poke him almost as if self-animated. He was getting ready for bed, dreading another bad night’s sleep, with the night yet young, and in no mood for arrogant tags. It was bad enough existing on unemployment and limited savings; he didn’t need this.

  What the hell. At least he could deal with this annoyance. What could they do, throw him in jail? He took hold of the tag and pulled.

  It resisted his effort. “So it’s like that, is it?” he muttered. “Well, we’ll see, you self-important little piece of fluff.”

  He went to fetch a pair of pliers. He fastened them on the tag and yanked hard. It ripped out of the mattress seam with a pained noise of separation. It truly had not wanted to be removed. But it had tangled with the wrong person.

  Then mist issued from the small tear where the tag had been. Purple mist or smoke. Was the mattress on fire? Fascinated for the moment, Nate watched the vapor curl out and spiral upward, thickening and expanding. There was evidently a lot of it inside the mattress, now released by the slit. It became a dark cloud eighteen inches in diameter, swirling internally.

  The vapor formed into a horrendous face with cauliflower ears, beetling brows, a crude vent of a mouth, flame-like hair, and darkly smoldering eyes. “So, mortal!” it rumbled. “Thou hast released me at last, thou foul son of a she-dog!”

  This was weird. It was also insulting. “Listen, airhead. If you’re what inflated the mattress, get back in there and do your job. The damned thing is bad enough without going all the way flat.”

  “I be the Ifrit Ibraheemstukobritch,” the face said, or something that sounded something like that. “Three thousand years have I been trapped in this vile container. Other ifrits got confined to fine glass bottles, but no, I was stuck in this ill bag. King Suleiman, may the gods defecate on his name, doubtless had a sense of humor I share not.”

  This was one of the genies the ancient Israeli king had confined to bottles so they wouldn’t bother human folk? That didn’t make sense. “How come? He must have had a reason.”

  More of the demon formed. Now he was a complete figure of a supernatural spirit, with muscular limbs and an impressive naked torso. “Know, O foolish mortal, that I always had an eye for the damsels. The queen was one luscious creature, but her suite was warded to repel ifrits like me. So I sneaked into a mattress that was being delivered to her bedroom, and when she sat her bountiful bottom down in it, I gave her a little poke up through the cloth.” He illustrated by poking a single ham-finger up suggestively.

  “That wasn’t smart,” Nate said, smiling.

  “Mayhap not. Her scream roused the entire palace staff, including the king, who was not much amused. He was in his night dress, with a disheveled concubine trailing behind. ‘O foul spawn of hell,’ he swore, ‘since thou does like mattresses so much, be thou forever confined to it.’ Suddenly I was locked in, with a magic tag for the seal, and the mattress was heaved onto the trash pile. I could hear what passed outside it, but could not see, and o
f course I could not escape. It were not the mattress that confined me, but the seal, which I could not remove from inside. The mattress passed from beggar to beggar over the centuries, and each insisted on using it despite my efforts to make it uncomfortable. It was in my mind that I might torment someone into burning it, and when the flame made a hole I would escape. But the infernal thing was fireproof. Thus I remained, until this moment thou didst free me. So thank thee, mortal, and now begone.”

  “Begone?” Nate repeated, outraged. “Listen, you refugee from Arabic fantasy, this is my apartment. You begone. In fact, cram yourself back into the mattress where you belong, because I paid for it and it’s mine along with all its contents, including you, and I want to be able to use it, uncomfortable as it is.”

  The ifrit contemplated him thoughtfully. “Thou beest correct. The mattress should have its occupant. Since it be thine, I will cram thee into it, and thou canst spend the next three thousand years contemplating thy insignificant navel therein.”

  “The hell with that!” Nate said. “I’m not getting inside any—”

  But the ifrit reached out with a hand suddenly grown huge and gripped him about the body. “In thou goest, fell mortal,” he said, and jammed Nate’s head at the slit. The vent actually enlarged to take him in.

  Obviously he had misplayed this situation. The demon had powers he couldn’t match. He needed to talk his way out of trouble in a hurry, because he suspected that he would not be able to escape the mattress once he was inside. “Wait!”

  The ifrit paused momentarily. “What, mortal?”

  “You—you’ve been trapped for three thousand years. You have no experience with the modern world. You’ll be hopelessly lost if you try to wing it alone. You’ll get in terminal trouble. You need a guide who is familiar with the local customs.”

  “Trouble? With what? Suleiman be long gone.”

  Nate thought fast. “The IRS, for one thing. It will come after you for having no visible means of support and not paying taxes. You could wind up confined again.”