00-Melon

James woke with a jerk, the manic beeping of his solar powered-waterproof to 250m-potentially explosive watch with HD video communication being the only sound to pierce the gentle throbbing of the breaking waves. And the less gentle throbbing of his hangover. Damn, he thought.He had to meet Q at 0800, and judging by the country’s transport system, he wouldn’t arrive until 1100. Contrary to popular opinion, rather than making love to beautiful ladies on a beautiful island, he actually had spent the previous night attempting to find a pub in Bognor Regis that sold pints that were less than 20% saliva. Following a certain incident involving a Japanese air hostess and an aeroplane loo, Bond was banned from leaving Britain, and thus was forced to seek entertainment at a dead seaside town.

But an hour and thirty minutes later, he wished more than death on that bloody town, its inhabitants, and its God-forsaken transport system. Not only was he painfully late for his meeting, but was painfully aware of the fact that he had, in traditional British fashion, had had a penis tattooed onto the back of his hand. Not quite sure how it got there – or indeed, whose penis it was based on – Bond knew that it would not be well received.

‘007, I demand an explanation. Saying that you got drunk with the lads and were dared to do this for fifty pounds is not good enough.You’re a spy, Bond, not a 19 stone builder from Glasgow. You’re suave, sophisticated. And a crude anatomical line drawing of male genitalia does not scream sophistication.’

Bond knew that he would blow every chance of promotion if he told Q the truth; the story would get to M, and then he’d be banished to somewhere terrible like Doncaster. There was physically no way that Q could find out the truth from other sources – the builders were from Swindon, not Glasgow – so there was no harm in… embellishing it.

‘I’ve been initiated into a gang. The uninitiated might think that having a dick tattooed is a sign of stupidity – which is why they’ve done it. I’ve managed to infiltrate a gang of Brazilian drug barons.’

Q sighed. He still was more inclined to believe the ‘lads’ night out’ that Bond’s general appearance was describing, but Bond had carried out similar antics before. There had been many other situations – the most memorable being at 6 am on a Sunday morning, when Q opened his front door to Bond’s Lycra-clad comatose body – that Bond had managed to talk his way out of, truthfully or otherwise, so Q hoped that Bond would be able to talk his way out of this one too.

Flexing his muscles, Bond seemed to be admiring the thing. It would be his ticket out of Britain – infiltration of gangs was a big business in the Secret Service (seriously, the amount of money lost and won on bets was astronomical), and so he could have anything he wanted. Or not.

Q had seized his chance while Bond was dreaming about future rewards, and had whisked him down to the weapons testing area. In the basement of HQ, it was a sprawling labyrinth of partially demolished mannequins, sandbags and cars, many of which were courtesy of Bond’s complete disregard for road laws. However, what awaited Bond was something completely unexpected, and so utterly ridiculous that 007 would have wished he’d gone for laser tattoo removal.

‘WHAT IN GOD’S NAME IS A PINEAPPLE DOING DOWN HERE?’

Q chuckled to himself, after all, it was not often that he heard Bond raise his voice.

‘We’ve done away with the exploding pens this year. As you’ll be going to Brazil to fraternise with the drugs barons, I thought that you could try this prototype out. We’ve got other fruits too; strawberries, bananas – I considered giving you that – and melons. The latter was designed specifically for you, it will only respond to your fingerprints. Take your new weapon… 00-Melon.’

Thanks to Will over at https://leavebeforeitstoolate.wordpress.com/ for suggesting ‘use of pineapples as murder weapons’ – if you’re into comics, Marvel or just random bursts of spontaneity, then I’d seriously recommend checking his work. He’s also the only person I know who could rock prom in a velvet jacket (which I was very tempted to beg/borrow/downright steal) and a sneaky comic book shirt. Fabulous.

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