Doomsealer

I am at a loss to explain this find, but I am amused by it nevertheless.


DOOMSEALER

I

“Respite Over”

It had been another necessary vacation for James Bond. The stay at the small cottage that lay reclusively sheltered within the heavily-treed, widely-spread beachfront property at the western tip of Jamaica could not have been more welcomed nor idyllic for him. It was owned by his good friend Felix Leiter, who suggested it to him as a retreat in exchange for some minor repairs and a repainting of the exterior on the home. The maintenance on it had been overlooked for one year too many.

The weather had been at its most favourable during the late May, early June three-week period Bond had chosen for his holiday. It was a time he had sorely needed for himself, a time to heal the wounds incurred by the constant and often unforgiving involvement in the affairs of his life and his work. It was a time when all the toxicity that had accrued within him for much too long had become well overdue for another purging. And that time was almost equally shared between tending to the repairs and the painting work, which he found to be remarkably therapeutic, and tackling the books he had long neglected to read as he relaxed on the verandah, often being distracted by, and losing himself in, the calming, expansive ocean view. He had made it a point to repeatedly refrain as much as he could from smoking, in the hope of encouraging himself into quitting – eventually. Daily inhaling the saline-fragrant air of the Atlantic waters alone seemed to help him forget half-a-pack a day’s worth. Occasional sips of wine substituted for what had, quietly over the last several months, become steadily increasing intakes of Scotch, insidiously supplanting his normally favoured Vodka martini. He knew he had to put a capper on that one, and the sooner, the better. Even women needed to be banished for a time. They, too, had become just as toxic as smoking and drinking and working. He needed to be free of their presence, their voices, their gazes, their aromas, and above all their issues, and even to go so far as to deliberately avoid meeting any of them casually altogether. As he reclaimed and embraced his solitude, he rediscovered his knack for preparing quick, light, nutritious meals for himself, sparing no sprinkling of a palate-delighting seasoning or spice. Domestic cuisine proved to be a pleasant change from the frequent dining at pricey restaurants. He looked forward to the leisurely walks into town for groceries and supplies, as well as to the solitary strolls along the shore against the setting orange sun at each twilight. And after twenty consecutive days of this exercise of shedding the scaly skin of his bruised and battered former self, he finally emerged from it wholly rested, well-tanned, and content and satisfied in having succeeded in his regenerative undertaking. Or at least, having succeeded about as well as he could in the allotted time that he had. Feeling replenished, James Bond was now prepared to once again return to the real world and to resume his familiar mode of living.

The taxi ride to the Sangster International Airport in Montego Bay was an entertaining twenty-minute drive on his final day on the island. The Rastafarian-looking driver was in a cheerful mood, regaling Bond with a tale of the wayward nature of his teenage daughter. Bond was amused by the account of the daughter’s wanton lifestyle with members of both genders, a story related with comic exaggeration, but also not without an underlying depth of a father’s dismay and concern. Although, it escaped Bond as to why the driver would want to freely share this personal matter with a stranger, and a paying fare at that. Seldom did Bond deal with the supposed joys and inevitable pangs of anyone’s fatherhood since his own world was so far removed from such a ... condition. Yet, in listening to the tawdry details of the daughter’s bawdy escapades, he was glad that there had never been an iota of a need to realize any paternal instincts he may have ever had. Besides, there was always the underlying fear or dread of suffering the cruel irony of siring a daughter himself. No, Bond had wisely chosen his true course in life: that of a secret agent who bedded other fathers’ daughters. The thought of that made him snicker under his breath.

“What am I to do?” the driver asked in exasperation as he parked the taxi at the departure station of the airport.

“Unfortunately, I have no experience in that area.” Bond felt disingenuous with his insubstantial reply. After all, with his own numerous dalliances with women, could he have not at least offered the driver a glimmer of wisdom or hope? No. He decided he wasn’t yet ready to engage in other people’s lives, even if simply to offer advice. He would instead stay the course and abide by his original plans, waiting until he arrived in London to begin to fully reconnect with the human race again.

The driver could only shrug and then stepped out of the taxi to pull Bond’s single suitcase out from the trunk, Bond joining him at the rear of the car.

“Good luck anyway,” Bond said, paying the driver the fare with an accompanying tip.
“Thank you, mister.” The driver accepted the payment with a tilt of his cap, his genial, broad smile displaying a gleaming gold front tooth. “I think I need it.”

Bond returned a curt smile of his own, took hold of his suitcase and turned for the airport entrance, but then stopped short and looked back to the driver.

“Driver,” Bond called to him. The driver halted before re-entering his taxi and looked to Bond, who moved to the passenger side of the vehicle and handed another monetary note across the car roof to the driver. “A little extra, for a good book on the subject.”

The driver beamed at the additional generous tip and tilted his cap again as he accepted it. “Thank you very much, mister. You just might be a lifesaver.” Bond could not restrain a second curt smile at the comment.

As Bond sought his seat on the plane, he hoped the duration of his flight would be unaccompanied by any passenger assigned to sit next to him or one intruding upon him. As prepared as he believed he was to soon face it all again, a little corner within him still yearned for a last few hours of invisibility. He found his seat next to a window near the centre of the plane and settled into it. And as luck would have it, precisely at 12:20 p.m. the jet began its taxi down the runway – mercifully without anyone seated beside him. Relieved, Bond then gazed out through the window at the tarmac to watch it begin to move past him, gradually rushing faster as the plane steadily gained in speed and momentum for its ascent. And then before he knew it, the five-hour flight approached its end. Looking ahead through the window, Bond saw the nearing late afternoon London skyline greet him like a warm, old friend. He felt the city tug at him as his vacation slipped into little more than an evaporated memory. He now anticipated the inevitable wear and tear of the metropolis below and the bestial work that awaited him once more. And then he knew it would be another year or so before he would feel just as ravaged as he had felt three weeks earlier.