My friends call me Jim, a eulogy
He jumps out of the rear of a cargo plane without a parachute or even a plan, but has enough time to shoot and dispatch a few adversaries on the way down, before being miraculously but calculatingly saved by his own opportunistic ingenuity. He then safely reaches the ground again, seemingly unaffected by the whole experience, judging by his stony lack of expression, and largely unaltered countenance or appearance. He doesn’t shrink from further objectives though, and is now eager to gain entrance to the casino, where the odds and the stakes, while unobtainably fantastic and out of reach for most others, are achievable, and even confidently predictable, for him. He was trained well, very well indeed, far back in deeply classified days that will always remain undisclosed, and successfully navigating extremely unlikely odds is always intrinsically linked to the overall success of his mission, which simply cannot be allowed to fail, for any reason.
He is undoubtedly a thrill-seeker, although it can be hard to tell this from his expression alone. He has learned to control his fear to such a degree, that death is simply no longer a matter of concern, at least the death of others around him. Whilst his work is always highly necessary and of utmost priority, people often drop around him like he’s carrying the Ebola virus, but its sadly just the price he has to pay in the course of fulfilling his duties. Sometimes he expertly takes others out by making educated guesses or acting purely on survival instinct, but other times simply being in his proximity is a very unlucky outcome for almost anyone, and can easily turn out to be fatal.
Bond always has stories to tell, but they are quite a bit more fantastic than most others’, whilst also somehow having more predicable outcomes. If you get into a conversation with him then it will, if he’s off the clock, probably be centred around Martinis, and luxury locations, women, cars, watches and other carefully sanctioned indulgences. Although he sometimes has the television or radio on in the background in his hotel room, or attends an opera or some other performance in a tuxedo, on a low-profile stakeout, it always serves some other unrelated official purpose, and he is completely uninterested in any entertainment provided, so that just won’t be a topic for discussion. If you’re lucky, he might share details of a specific, unlikely sounding gadget, the proud product of labcoat and tweed wearing colleagues who possess great genius, and display resourceful, highly intuitive and sometimes almost impossibly perceptive, ingenuity.
His aftershave will of course be highly exclusive and exquisite, and is never available for purchase from common pharmacies. He doesn’t simply buy his own, but astutely and deservedly expects female admirers to instinctively choose the most mysterious and expensive concoction available, and offer it to him as a gift, pending of course his full personal approval, as inappropriate scent could completely endanger the entire operation. Once, a friendly, but overly-optimistic and slightly delusional female colleague, almost bankrupted herself through attempting to aspire to the lofty aspiration of acquiring and providing the ultimate olfactory agreeableness achievable, so she now simply and sensibly declares the outlay to the vast and opaque accounting department of his government, and writes it off as a necessary expense instead.
When not in temporary disguise, or otherwise seamlessly blending in with his current environment, the attire he dons, even wetsuits, flippers and masks, are of the finest quality available, and made for him exclusively. Any tailor or outfitter of dubious fortune, but obvious great skill, that is assigned to his wardrobe, knows full well the consequences of sub-standard results, and so simply never allows themselves to indulge in such things in the first place. After all, their life is already in danger, simply due to his strictly official, but unfortunately completely clandestine and therefore uninsurable presence, and they probably now have only a 50% chance of survival, perhaps less.
If you meet him, and especially if he or you indulge in mutual conversation, then your own likelihood of survival has also suddenly become very uncertain, no matter how close or intimate you become in the brief time that you know each other. His chance of survival, on the other hand, is much more likely in almost every circumstance. That’s precisely because it is of paramount importance to the noble organization he serves, and is therefore of the utmost priority to him also. Sometimes he lightly mocks his superiors, or engages in outrageous, but invariably irresistable acts of flirtation and seduction, but his sense of duty and responsibility is always unwavering and true. If you engage in conversation with him during the course of his duties, he probably won’t be much interested in anything you say, even if you are given the opportunity, unless of course it is fully relevant and useful to the fulfilment of his objectives. However if he’s saying something to you, especially if it’s not openly flirtatious or humorous, even though that is not really a reliable indicator of personal safety either, then you should be listening, as your life may depend on it, and it’s probably wise to at the very least to look interested, even if feeling deeply disturbed or even quite frightened by his complete lack of visible or verbally expressed concern for your well-being.
If you do get shot, either by him purposefully, or as a result of unfortunate proxy to his presence and therefore swathes of potential enemies, he might say “oh well”, and then button up his cufflinks, synchronize his Seamaster, and simply get on with the next phase of the mission, ultimately undistracted by your untimely demise. He simply can’t afford to deal with it any other way, because he rarely has the luxury of sentimentality, attachment or regret in his profession. In all fairness, and as the product of extensive psychological training and the high level of resulting discipline, it’s the same reaction that he has to practically anyone’s expiry, whether he was directly responsible or not, although the most dangerous and bothersome opponents are always granted a witty post-mortem observation, which is a well-established personal character trait of his which, although others can attempt to imitate, only he has mastered. It is perhaps delivered as an unconscious mark of mutual, but ultimately misplaced respect, but it is both humourous, and always highly relevant to the situation at hand. He obviously knows exactly what he is doing at all times, so must also know exactly what to say at any specific time. His logic and chosen methods can’t be faulted, after all they are highly effective, so he should therefore be allowed a few petty indulgences, whether uncommittingly amorous, violently physical, ironically verbal, or even moderately unethical. His post-mortem remarks are also a way for him to not only demonstrate his intelligence, wit and analytical skill, but also to finally freely express honest opinion about that person’s character traits, or the current situation in particular, which is something that is often denied him by the very subtle nature, and inherent secrecy and duplicituousness of his job.
He hopefully won’t have to do that job for much longer though. He has successfully completed seemingly countless high risk missions, each becoming subsequently more dangerous and difficult than the last, but he surely can’t, against all reasonable odds, successfully cheat death forever. But perhaps death has finally given up on him and admitted defeat, or has perhaps been officially briefed regarding the vital importance of his continued function by representatives from his government, and now no longer seeks unauthorized contact with him.
Everything comes to an end though, and he will surely eventually or inevitably become tired of the unique taste of Martini, and will no longer want to take huge risks at casinos, his wagers supported by eye-wateringly large sums of taxpayer money, despite the unnaturally high probability of success he has in those situations. Perhaps he’ll begin to run low on possible witty observations regarding fallen foes, perhaps becoming somehow affected by the vast mystery surrounding the unfathomable new state of being that he himself has instigated in another, and now simply stares down at their lifeless corpse in respectful silence, or has simply become uninterested or bored with maintaining that perhaps once entertaining personal custom into perpetuity. He might feel a growing desire to finally interact with females without the encounter unavoidably signing their death warrant, and therefore giving him more time to actually get to know them properly for a change.
He might slowly realise that most watches, despite obviously lacking the wholly unexpected, completely hidden and strictly opportunistic purposes that his always embodied, work surprisingly well when primarily used for their intended purpose, and the sometimes evolving specific brand and model his superiors themselves provided, was often a bit openly indulgent, and frequently had to be hastily removed and discarded, or gifted to a grateful boy in a busy Persian market, before donning suitable disguise. Sometimes a new brand of timepiece was selected for him for no apparent reason, and it was not always his preferred brand or style, but as long as it could fire a poisoned dart, house a high-powered laser, or facilitate a remarkably powerful magnet that didn’t impede its own standard and expected function, he saw little reason for complaint. Also, he now no longer spends a considerable amount of time underwater, or exposes objects strapped to his wrist to constant danger from freak impact. He will grow fond of his miraculously surviving and always familiar Rolex, even if it is not offically sanctioned by his superiors. Maybe that’s a final cheeky act of rebellion, similar to the fact that Martini is now simply never present in his drinks cabinet for any reason, acts which defiantly dash expectations and smash stereotypes. It has no built-in gadget that could somehow save his life, at least none that he is aware of, but if he wants to know what time it is, then there are much worse, and less familiar accurate and reliable, ways to tell it. It reminds him of simpler days, when not everything had to incorporate a highly inventive, but largely subjective and often unrelated alternative purpose to be useful.
He’ll retire somewhere quiet, after receiving extensive survivor counselling and therapy from an initially astounded, and then quickly overwhelmed professional, and also after learning how to deal with massive levels of unaddressed latent guilt effectively. Eventually he will learn acceptance, especially of the inalterable nature of the past, and of the inevitable destiny of those like him who fully surrender themselves to patriotic duty, and learn to chuckle about those times that he fell out of planes without parachutes, or skied right over an exploding power-plant, or distractedly defied physics while driving his favourite fast car on winding mediterranean roads. And, of course, he’ll learn to truly value the immortal quips that he himself came up with, right there and then on the spot, always without fail. He will undoubtedly go on to tell really interesting stories at social gatherings or parties, and will receive endless invites, ever and always a natural people magnet and conversation-starter, and now listeners will finally be exempted from the inherent danger that surrounded his occupation, danger which was previously always immediately introduced into their lives, and they can finally relax in his company, safe in the knowledge that their light-fawn shagpile carpet is now quite safe from the ravages of vital bodily fluids.
He will continue to receive the finest gifts on birthdays and at Christmas, especially from rare potential female survivors that he is still in contact with, but his wardrobe will now be much more relaxed, choosing well-fitting but casual sweaters, more durable and practical corduroy trousers, and well-made, unashamedly comfortable shoes. Sometimes the government will send him a wry nod and a smile, in the shape of a new pair of cufflinks, or the latest diver’s watch that they have carefully selected to be visibly worn by future agents, and that makes him smile, but he really has little use for them these days, and they usually end up in that special drawer with all the medals, and the otherwise disposable bullets made from highly precious metal, and on top of his considerably large collection of passports, each stamped with every destination under the sun. He still considers being such a uniquely successful agent to be his undeniable crowning achievement, but now realises that life can be more subtly rewarding, and increasingly and comfortingly predictable and pleasing, and he now no longer has to present a constant, wildly circumstantial, unpredictably random, but naturally very unfortunate and completely unavoidable, threat to all others around him. His priorites have become saner, and safer, and although greatly diminished in national importance, give slow and steady rewards and returns. If you met him following his retirement, the conversation might turn out very different than any of those previously applicable, and may instead cover his expert geopolitical analysis of previous foreign destinations, extensive hobbies and past-times, or fond accounts of close friends and family, and of course anything at all regarding ridiculously nimble and fast sports cars.
Like a fully retired tradesman who no longer requires the finest tools to be at his disposal, and which would be mostly redundant anyway, he doesn’t bother much with guns or other weapons anymore. Although the license to utilise them and to extinguish life still persists, which is a privilege that those of his profession often retain for the remainder of their days, for him, guns no longer have an offical purpose to serve, and he was never overly fond or protective of them anyway. He often just opportunistically used the nearest available, and then casually discarded it again when emptied, giving it no further thought. His government once gave him the choice between a few different acceptable, iconic and reliable types of handgun, but he really only chose one to humour them, and actually felt little genuine attachment to the sidearm. After all, there really wasn’t much point, due to the fact that he was always completely familiar and highly skilled at using any feasible weapon that might opportunistically fall into his hands, fully negating the need for any unnecessary firearm nostalgia, or impractical sentimental preference regarding chosen methods of dispatch. Regarding fast cars though, he knows exactly what his preferences are, his sheer skill at driving being the only thing that could possibly eclipse his skill with firearms, infiltration, communicating with women, or the infiltration of women. He doesn’t remember all of the different guns or the bullets that they fired, but he certainly remembers all the cars he drove, and exactly where and how fast he drove them.
James Orlando Bond, the highly decorated and greatly respected public servant, died peacefully in his sleep last night at the age of 92. He is survived by his wife Penny, his daughter Tracy, and his cat Stavro. His later contributions to his local community, especially his talks on public health and safety, and official government accountability and responsibility, were always well received by attendees. The sterling example that he consistently provided to others, remains not only unparalleled, but is now also simply impossible to emulate or explore further, and it is highly unlikely and improbable that another will ever match his long list of incredible achievements, and his passing will undoubtedly mark a firm and decisive end to an epoch. We salute you, commander.