Double Oh

by Eli Lyons

Sam pushes his mop across the linoleum floor. The fluorescent-lit hallways of the building are his kingdom. He rounds a corner and sees a particularly ugly stain on his off-white floor. Immediately he attacks it with his mop, moving it vigorously side to side. The stain is undamaged. He rewets the mop and continues, but to no avail.

“Stupid stain…” he mumbles to himself.

He does not hear the silent footsteps behind him, and feels the arm around his neck too late. He is unconscious. The man standing behind him tucks a small vial marked “Staining Fluid” into his jacket pocket and remarks, “thanks, Q,” in a dashing British accent.

Dressed in janitor’s clothes, the man makes his way towards the elevator. “Sam”, stitched in blue cursive, reflects off the polished metal doors. A ding resonates through the shiny plastic hallways. The doors open, the man walks in with a mop and cart. He pushes the top button.

“I really shouldn’t…,” he says to himself. Reaching into his jumpsuit he removes a small vial, unscrews it and puts a dab of black liquid on the 1^st floor button. He chuckles.

The doors open. The man steps out, pushing the cart. A man in a suit walks towards him.

“Mornin’ Sam,” he says.

Sam does not reply. His eyes are fixed on the door in front of him, which has two guards standing by it. He begins mopping towards them, keeping the mop cart close. In one fluid motion, he kicks the cart into the first, and brings the mop around into the face of the other. He hits the first guard, now on the ground, with the mop on the backswing and brings the handle around once more upon the second. With both men unconscious, he approaches the door.

“Looks like you boys just got…hit…in the head…with a mop…” says the man. “I’m sure glad nobody heard that one.”

Recollecting himself, the man draws a pistol from his garments and opens the door. Inside is a large mahogany desk with an oversized chair facing the floor to ceiling window on the far wall.

“Benson? Is that you? Good. I need those TPS reports immediately,” says a fat, capitalist voice from behind the chair.

“Its not, Benson,” says the man.

The chair swivels around revealing a grey haired man in a three piece suit. His triple chin is complemented by his bulging eyes.

“Sam!” exclaims the man in the chair.

“Bond,” corrects the other. “James Bond.” He levels his pistol towards the man.

“Are you sure? I believe your jumper says Sam.”

“It’s not mine. I took it.”

“Are you going to give it back?”

“No, it’s quite soft, but that’s beside the point,” says Bond. “Now…tell me the location of the rebel base!”

“…What?”

“Damn! I said it again. Tell me the location of the microfilm plans!”

The man in the chair leans forwards. “Oh, you mean these?” He pulls a small metal cylinder from his coat pocket.

Bonds eyes glint. “Open it.”

The man opens it, revealing tightly rolled transparent film.

“Good, now put it back, and hands up,” Bond commands.

The man complies. Bond moves towards the desk, not noticing the small remote in the other’s hand. Bond extends his own hand slowly for the metal canister.

“Goodbye,” says the man, pressing a button on the remote.

The floor beneath Bond drops away before he is able to reach the microfilm. He falls down a chute, which eventually levels out and dumps him into a small, dimly lit room.

“Greetings,” says a raspy voice.

“Who’s there!” questions Bond, standing up, fists at the ready. He turns around in place, squinting in the darkness. He hears a footstep behind him and swivels around, only to have his legs swiped out from under him. Getting up, Bond cries, “Who’s there!”

“The Ninja.”

“Where are you?”

“That, I cannot say.” The Ninja lands another blow on Bond, who retreats into a corner.

“Are you also a prisoner?” inquires Bond.

“The Ninja never speaks.”

“You’ve already said three sentences!”

“The Ninja is allowed to converse.”

“Ok, so talk! Are you being kept here?” Bond’s vision finally adjusts to the lighting. A figure swathed in tight black robes crouches before him.

“It is true. I too am a prisoner of Mr. Fischer,” says the Ninja.

“Why?” questions Bond, peeling off Sam’s jumpsuit, revealing a neatly kept black and white suit.

“I came to avenge my ninja brethren who perished at his large, obese hand.”

“What is your name?” asks Bond, staring the Ninja in the eyes.

“I told you. The Ninja.”

“What does your mother call you?”

“Sally,” replies the Ninja, as she removes her mask and lets her long, blonde hair flow free. It whips around in the wind, and she leans forward, revealing her oversized bosoms. “Take me now, James!”

Bond shakes his head vigorously to pull himself out of the daydream. The Ninja is crouched in front of him.

“I’m sorry, your name?”

“Anita,” says the Ninja, removing her mask. Her long, brown hair falls around her neck. “Anita Cox.” The raspy voice has transformed into a smooth, sultry one.

Bond shakes his head once again. This time however, when he opens his eyes Anita remains.

“Allow me to properly introduce myself. The name’s Bond. James Bond.”

“Really? Because your jumpsuit said Sam.”

“It’s quite soft, care to feel it?”

“Certainly,” says Anita. “You know…I’m really glad you came.”

“If I had six-pence for every time I heard that,” says Bond, standing erect. “I bet hardly anyone comes down here.”

“Except you and I,” says Anita.

“Have you discovered a way out yet?”

“Yes, but it requires penetration. There is a hollow space behind this wall, but I think it’s reinforced.”

Bond moves over to the wall and knocks on it.

“Yes, yes…its quite firm. Did you try rigid thrusts in quick succession?” questions Bond.

“Of course. Maybe if we both go at we’ll get somewhere.”

“I have a better idea,” says Bond, removing his wristwatch. “The band is plastic explosive.”

“Do you have protection?” asks Anita.

Bond turns and gives her a wry smile. He sticks the band to the wall and hits a button on his watch. The room is filled with debris. A small hole is formed in the wall.

“Good work! Now just plunge through that hole and into the space beyond it,” says Anita.

“It looks pretty tight,” says Bond. “I think I see a crawlspace past it.”

“You can probably enter it if you push hard enough,” says Anita, encouragingly.

“You think I can fit all the way in?”

“I’m sure you can.”

Bond walks to the far end of the room, and with a running start slams into the far wall. He repeats this process until the hole is large enough for him to fit through.

“See! I knew you could do it!” Anita screams excitedly from the other side of the wall.

“Now you!” says Bond.

The two make their way into the crawlspace and exit from a street level vent. Bond makes his way to a pay phone.

“M?” he asks into the receiver.

“What is it Bond?”

“Fischer has the microfilm. I was unable to procure it.”

“What! Bond, get back in there now and get it!”

“I can’t, he trapped me in his dungeon. It doesn’t look like I’ll be able to escape without assistance. You may want to call Jack Bauer.”

“You’re trapped? Then how are you making this ca–”

Bond hangs up the phone.

“Who was that?” asks Anita.

“My man at the Ritz telling me my room is available,” replies Bond. “Taxi!”