Bond sprayed the assassin with alcohol, and he burst into flames. The melting man staggered to the railing, and threw himself off the ship. Bond took the explosive device hidden in the cake and clasped it in the other assailant’s hands. Then, using his martial arts, he reconfigured his attacker so his hands and the explosive device were pinned between his legs. Another quick motion and the second assassin was over the railing, and the bomb detonated.
“Well, he certainly left with his tails between his legs!” Bond quipped.
Later in bed, his passion spent, Bond stared off into the night. The girl was deep in a satisfied sleep.
Why had he said that? It wasn’t really all that funny. Juxtaposed with the near death experience, of course, any attempt at wit would win the day. Yes, anything to show that you weren’t afraid. Put off the fear until another day. But why be so cavalier? These men had tried to kill him, and he had killed men. More blood on his hands. More blood on your hands, Bond. Go ahead, laugh.
And who was this woman, really? A business contact in a con, really. He’d fooled her and then drawn her into his world of danger. Protected her, and put the moves on. It was pure manipulation. It was meaningless. Would he ever love again?
Was his violence creating more assassins? More Blofelds? Was SPECTRE metastasizing? He killed and killed again, and nothing seemed to change. Nothing will ever change.
He played it over in his head again, changing the scenarios. He incapacitated the man, and defused the bomb. He killed him, but said nothing. He maintained professionalism, even in murder. He tried to come up with a better quip.
“YOU take the cake!”
“You really shouldn’t go so overboard!”
Nothing he could think of salved the grimness of murder with anything reassembling laughter. Maybe he didn’t make a joke. He briefly explained the necessity of death. It was you or me, friend. You would do the same. You were trying to do the same. I’m really sorry. Dear God forgive me!
Dear God forgive me.
Bond in Iran