In 2008 I worked at a college that required an hour commute. To amuse myself, I would imagine myself as a different character each morning then compose a short story based loosely on my commute. Afterwards I would write them down and post them to my blog. They began as one-paragraph shorts, but with time and practice I grew more ambitious.

In this example, I imagined myself as 007 during my morning commute.

The Omega beeps an urgent message from MI6 and jerks me out of sleep: NUCFLASH. Can someone tell me how the Yanks keep misplacing these damn things?

I grab the shoulder holster and the Walther PPK from under my pillow, put them on, shower, then dress. I opt for the grey, three-piece suit with a solid tie. Breakfast on the way out the door is a dirty martini—shaken not stirred.

I fall into the leather seat of the Aston Martin and hit the asphalt freewheeling, but black sedans infest the highway. I zip past Jaws, he’s shoehorned into a black Volkswagen Jetta. Go figure. He floors it, trying to come around the driver’s side. I fumble for buttons looking for a smoke screen, machine guns, oil slick – anything. All I find is the cigarette lighter and hazard lights. I do find an unmarked button on my right, and press it. The trunk opens and out flies Honey Ryder’s white bikini and nightgown. That’s the trick! They fly onto the window forcing Jaws to swerve off the road with a CRASH!

Now the black sedans try their luck – Oddjob, Hugo Drax, Mr. Kidd, and Mr. Wint. They pull alongside. Dr. No drives lead. He’s seriously stressed; he’s bent the steering wheel into a square.  I toy with them, running into them, knocking a few off the road before flooring it and leaving them in the dust.

Then a black Lamborghini appears in my right mirror. It accelerates cutting behind me and coming along the left. Seems SPECTRE saved the best for last. I should’ve guessed. It’s Roger Moore and his henchman, Dom DeLuise from another movie franchise. Moore looks pasty and plastered. Dom DeLuise barks something unintelligible while making an obscene gesture.

I too have saved the best for last. My SIG 556 sits in the passenger seat with the stock folded, and I leave the Lamborghini spewing black smoke from its newly minted ventilation holes then drop the hammer.

I skid into MI6 headquarters, open the door to the office, and have the uncanny desire to pitch my hat on the rack. But I haven’t any hat. Miss Moneypenny makes a pass as I head to the briefing with M and Q. And then I’m off to prevent World War III. It’s what I do.

The name?

Bond. James Bond.

Written March 3, 2008

©2008 Kent Gutschke. All rights reserved.