Daily Micro: Yesterday’s Artists in Today’s World ~ Ian Lancaster (Fleming)

Acknowledging Ian Lancaster (Fleming)

With hawk-like awareness, Bond surveyed the emir’s private landing strip. As the G-7 glided to

a stop…NO, NO, NO…I will not write another piece of trash propaganda… The British

Imperium is DEAD, EXPOSED. The Yanks will be next, maybe the last, NATO their graveyard. No, my new Bond will be a true champion.

2,000 words I will write, everyday. NO, NO, NO. I have no limits. I am not there any longer. This shall be fun. My words will drift downward into a new consciousness, into someone who will hear them and record them. To you, then. Play, enjoy my words!

Bond was finally free. He was with the people. Even his skin was different. Brown and tawny red in places. He grabbed a hoe and braced his sleek, muscular legs against the soil. Thin lines of sweat ran through his eyebrows, down his cheeks. He was with the earth. He moved closer, silently toward the hacienda.

The elite internationalists, bankers and politicos gorged themselves in the late afternoon on the wide, sun-splashed pavilion. Their bellies full, they cheered the scantily clad dancers. One of them, the doctor drunk with rum, red-faced and stuffed, spit on a native servant girl with the long golden hair (NO, NO, NO, Ian-strike, strike, strike) xxx long black hair. Bond stiffened and knew what he must do.

He slipped the glistening sliver of wood that he had sharpened into a crystalline point, that he had cut out of the handle of the hoe, that he had wrapped into his frayed belt, into his steely hand. With a quick turn of his wrist, he flicked the razor-edged angel of death on a line of flight that skinned a low barrier wall and, like a laser, headed for flesh.

Before they screamed, before the fat, slovenly doctor would feel the scream of pain for a brief fleeting instant, the last in his life, he pivoted, dug his hoe into the waiting earth and dreamed of her long black hair against his brown skin.

What name shall she call him in the nighttime, my drear friend who hears these words. That is for you to decide when you pull down the truth of the words I write into your consciousness.

~ Stephen J. Bergstrom

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