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Apr 23, 2014

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Oh man I want to read more about the Harlem Renaissance and also the LGBT parts of those histories. These all sound incredibly fascinating.

I’m also hoping these historical buildings were preserved well, the influence they’ve had on music and culture is immense.

Depends on the building. The Apollo Theatre is still open, but the buildings for a lot of them like the Cotton Club and the Savoy Ballroom were torn down and turned into hotels or government housing projects. I believe the Sugar Ray's block still physically exists but just had the stores removed and was turned into government housing.

Harlem saw 5 or 6 riots starting with the one in 1935. Its economy has ebbed and flowed with the times and it was viewed as a dangerous neighborhood even by New York City standards during the height of NYC's crime wave. Today it's no worse than any other area of the city and is dealing with gentrification and increasing diversity of residents.

Bond and Leiter's visit in 1952 is right when Harlem is starting to have serious issues. They haven't hit the 1960s chaos yet, but they've already had two major riots and haven't really seen the benefits a lot of other parts of the country had with the post-war economic boom. Youth gangs are also a huge issue.

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It occurs to me that there's at least one thing this book has over the film adaptation: J.W. Pepper is nowhere in sight.

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At least we can know in confidence that the club scene hasn't really changed since the 1950s. These chapters are a little strange because the details really do match up very well with what this area would have been like in 1952, which suggests that Fleming had actually been on these trips through Harlem to these restaurants and clubs instead of just bullshitting, and Bond is genuinely enjoying himself at times so I don't think Fleming thought poorly of Harlem and its culture. It comes off as reality, but filtered through Fleming's biased view of other races that almost infantilizes them as still having primitive notions that good ol' white folks (other than those weirdo Celts) have overcome.

I think you can probably best see Fleming's attitude (and the isla lang fisher nude type of racism that he represents) by noting how he consistently uses the word "negro" instead of "men" "women" or even "people".
It wasn't like he free porn sites red hated black people, or even necessarily thought all that poorly of them, but he free sister porn video didn't see them as people, at least not in the same way as whites. It's a very weird attitude to see from a modern perspective, because in some ways it can appear -- on the surface -- quite benign compared to some contemporary forms of racism.
But as you say, it has an insidious sort of infantilising, paternalist ideology, which has an end result barely any better than the more virulent kind of hatred.

On a lighter note, the table-on-a-trapdoor is a pretty loving cool gimmick.

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Oh man I want to read more about the Harlem Renaissance and also the LGBT parts of those histories. These all sound incredibly fascinating.

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These would be the people that Lieter and Bond are getting all judgmental about.

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naked girls pooping videos Chapter 7: Mister Big


Their footsteps echoed down the stone passage. At the end there was a door. They went through into another long passage lit by an occasional bare bulb in the roof. Another door and they found themselves in a large warehouse. Cases and bales were stacked in neat piles. There were runways for overhead cranes. From the markings on the crates it seemed to be a liquor store. They followed an aisle across to an iron door. The man called Tee-Hee rang a bell. There was absolute silence. Bond guessed they must have walked at least a block away from the night club.

There was a clang of bolts and the door opened. A negro in evening dress with a gun in his hand stepped aside and they went through into a carpeted hallway.

‘Yo kin go on in, Tee-Hee,’ said the man in evening dress.

Tee-Hee knocked on a door facing them, opened it and led the way through.

In a high-backed chair, behind an expensive desk, Mr Big sat looking quietly at them.

‘Good morning, Mister James Bond.’ The voice was deep and soft. ‘Sit down.’

Bond’s guard led him across the thick carpet to a low armchair in leather and tubular steel. He released Bond’s arms and Bond sat down and faced The Big Man across the wide desk.

It was a blessed relief to be rid of the two vice-like hands. All sensation had left Bond’s forearms. He let them hang beside him and welcomed the dull pain as the blood started to flow again.

Mr Big sat looking at him, his huge head resting against the back of the tall chair. He said nothing.

Bond at once realized that the photographs had conveyed nothing of this man, nothing of the power and the intellect which seemed to radiate from him, nothing of the over-size features.

It was a great football of a head, twice the normal size and very nearly round. The skin was grey-black, taut and shining like the face of a week-old corpse in the river. It was hairless, except for some grey-brown fluff above the ears. There were no eyebrows and no eyelashes and the eyes were extraordinarily far apart so that one could not focus on them both, but only on one at a time. Their gaze was very steady and penetrating. When they rested on something, they seemed to devour it, to encompass the whole of it. They bulged slightly and the irises were golden round black pupils which were now wide. They were animal eyes, not human, and they seemed to blaze.

The nose was wide without being particularly negroid. The nostrils did not gape at you. The lips were only slightly everted, but thick and dark. They opened only when the man spoke and then they opened wide and drew back from the teeth and the pale pink gums.

There were few wrinkles or creases on the face, but there were two deep clefts above the nose, the clefts of concentration. Above them the forehead bulged slightly before merging with the polished, hairless crown.

Curiously, there was nothing disproportionate about the monstrous head. It was carried on a wide, short neck supported by the shoulders of a giant. Bond knew from the records that he was six and a half foot tall and weighed twenty stone, and that little of it was fat. But the total impression was awe-inspiring, even terrifying, and Bond could imagine that so ghastly a misfit must have been bent since childhood on revenge against fate and against the world that hated because it feared him.

The Big Man was draped in a dinner jacket. There was a hint of vanity in the diamonds that blazed on his shirt-front and at his cuffs. His huge flat hands rested half-curled on the table in front of him. There were no signs of cigarettes or an ash-tray and the smell of the room was neutral. There was nothing on the desk save a large intercom with about twenty switches and, incongruously, a very small ivory riding crop with a long thin white lash.

Mr. Big was played in the film by the great Yaphet Kotto, 6 years before he'd appear as Parker in britney spears porn pictures Alien. The film modifies the villain slightly by making him Dr. Kananga, the dictator of the fictional Caribbean island of San Monique. In the film, "Mr. Big" is a persona Kananga puts on with the aid of a latex mask. In keeping with the blaxploitation theme, the film also removes the pirate treasure and makes it about heroin, with San Monique growing poppies and Kananga distributing drugs through the restaurants owned by Mr. Big for free in the hopes of creating more addicts and driving rival dealers out of business.


Mr Big gazed with silent and deep concentration across the table at Bond.

After inspecting him carefully in return, Bond glanced round the room.

It was full of books, spacious and restful and very quiet, like the library of a millionaire.

There was one high window above Mr Big’s head but otherwise the walls were solid with bookshelves. Bond turned round in his chair. More bookshelves, packed with books. There was no sign of a door, but there might have been any number of doors faced with dummy books. The two negroes who had brought him to the room stood rather uneasily against the wall behind his chair. The whites of their eyes showed. They were not looking at Mr Big, but at a curious effigy which stood on a table in an open space of floor to the right, and slightly behind Mr Big.

Even with his slight knowledge of Voodoo, Bond recognized it at once from Leigh Fermor’s description.

A five-foot white wooden cross stood on a raised white pedestal. The arms of the cross were thrust into the sleeves of a dusty black frock-coat whose tails hung down behind the table towards the floor. Above the neck of the coat a battered bowler hat gaped at him, its crown pierced by the vertical bar of the cross. A few inches below the rim, round the neck of the cross, resting on the cross-bar, was a deep starched clergyman’s collar.

At the base of the white pedestal, on the table, lay an old pair of lemon-coloured gloves. A short malacca stick with a gold knob, its ferrule resting beside the gloves, rose against the left shoulder of the effigy. Also on the table was a battered black top hat.

This evil scarecrow gazed out across the room – God of the Cemeteries and Chief of the Legion of the Dead – Baron Samedi. Even to Bond it seemed to carry a dreadful gaping message.

Far from evil, Baron Samedi (French for "Baron Saturday") is one of the coolest loa of Haitian Voodoo. Voodoo puts God, Bondye, as distant from the world and using the loa as intermediaries to interact with humanity. The Voodoo pantheon is somewhat similar to Ancient Greek and Roman pantheons, giving each loa its own personality, traits, likes and dislikes, and special rituals and methods of service. Loa are served in different ways, often offering sacrifices.

Loa are traditionally summoned in a ritual in which the loa "mounts a horse", possessing a person through a ritual which is different for each. The loa all have different signs of their possession, such as specific actions or phrases, upon which the others assisting in the ritual perform the appropriate tasks to welcome them. It can range from giving Erzulie Fréda Dahomey (the spirit of love, beauty, jewelry, flowers, etc.) pink champagne and fine gifts of perfume and food to giving Agwe (the sovereign of the sea) wet sponges and towels as his vessel exits the water.

I really wish all of our religious rituals were this awesome.

Baron Samedi is one of many loa incarnations of the Baron, but all of them are loa of the dead; upon possession, his vessel lies on the ground and is prepared as you would prepare a corpse in a morgue, such as stuffing cotton up his nose. Those who believe in Voodoo accept the importance of death in the cycle of life and do not fear Baron Samedi. The Baron is actually reputed for being hilariously debauched and obscene, telling filthy jokes to the other spirits and drinking and smoking constantly when he's not chasing after mortal women. He welcomes every spirit into the underworld when it's their time, and as the only spirit capable of accepting an individual into the realm of the dead he's also the spirit of resurrection.

Papa Doc Duvalier would base his cult of personality on Baron Samedi and imply that he was an incarnation of him, but in traditional Voodoo he's not one to fear. If anything, he seems like he'd be the most fun to have at your party!

The film expands on Mr. Big's use of Baron Samedi. Whereas the book implies that he's an avatar, Dr. Kanaga actually has a 6'6 Baron Samedi going around with him, played by the late Trinidadian-American dancer Geoffrey Holder. Baron Samedi is one of the most well-known aspects of the film, with a hearty bass laugh and the implication that he's actually the real supernatural Baron Samedi instead of just an actor.

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Bond looked away, back to the great grey-black face across the desk.

Mr Big spoke.

‘I want you, Tee-Hee.’ His eyes shifted. ‘You can go, Miami.’

‘Yes, Sir, Boss,’ they both said together.

Bond heard a door open and close.

Silence fell again. At first, Mr Big’s eyes had been focused sharply on Bond. They had examined him minutely. Now, Bond noticed that though the eyes rested on him they had become slightly opaque. They gazed upon Bond without perception. Bond had the impression that the brain behind them was occupied elsewhere.

Bond was determined not to be disconcerted. Feeling had returned to his hands and he moved them towards his body to reach for his cigarettes and lighter.

Mr Big spoke.

‘You may smoke, Mister Bond. In case you have any other intentions you may care to lean forward and inspect the keyhole of the drawer in this desk facing your chair. I shall be ready for you in a moment.’

Bond looks at the keyhole and notices that it's conveniently about 0.45 inches in diameter. Yet another sign to Bond of how dangerous and well-organized of a villain he's facing. While Bond is worried for Leiter in the hands of the thugs, he's not worried for himself. He can't imagine that Mr. Big would be so clumsy as to disappear him just a few days after his investigation began. He takes Mr. Big's offer and lights up.


The Big Man’s lips rolled slowly back from his teeth.

‘I have not seen a member of the Secret Service for many years, Mister Bond. Not since the war. Your Service did well in the war. You have some able men. I learn from my friends that you are high up in your Service. You have a double-0 number, I believe – 007, if I remember right. The significance of that double-0 number, they tell me, is that you have had to kill a man in the course of some assignment. There cannot be many double-0 numbers in a Service which does not use assassination as a weapon. Whom have you been sent over to kill here, Mister Bond? Not me by any chance?’

The voice was soft and even, without expression. There was a slight mixture of accents, American and French, but the English was almost pedantically accurate, without a trace of slang.

Bond remained silent. He assumed that Moscow had signalled his description.

‘It is necessary for you to reply, Mister Bond. The fate of both of you depends upon your doing so. I have confidence in the sources of my information. I know much more than I have said. I shall easily detect a lie.’

Bond chooses a semi-true story, claiming to be accompanying a US Treasury agent to investigate the source of English gold coins that had been turning up in Harlem. The lie falls apart immediately: Mr. Big knows that his partner is Felix Leiter, CIA agent. He orders Tee-Hee to tie Bond to his chair, which he does with leather straps around his limbs and torso that leave him completely incapable of movement.


Mr Big pressed down a switch on the intercom.

‘Send in Miss Solitaire,’ he said and centred the switch again.

There was a moment’s pause and then a section of the bookcase to the right of the desk swung open.

One of the most beautiful women Bond had ever seen came slowly in and closed the door behind her. She stood just inside the room and stood looking at Bond, taking him in slowly inch by inch, from his head to his feet. When she had completed her detailed inspection, she turned to Mr Big.

‘Yes?’ she inquired flatly.

Mr Big had not moved his head. He addressed Bond.

‘This is an extraordinary woman, Mister Bond,’ he said in the same quiet soft voice, ‘and I am going to marry her because she is unique. I found her in a cabaret, in Haiti, where she was born. She was doing a telepathic act which I could not understand. I looked into it and I still could not understand. There was nothing to understand. It was telepathy.’

Mr Big paused.

‘I tell you this to warn you. She is my inquisitor. Torture is messy and inconclusive. People tell you what will ease the pain. With this girl it is not necessary to use clumsy methods. She can divine the truth in people. That is why she is to be my wife. She is too valuable to remain at liberty. And,’ he continued blandly, ‘it will be interesting to see our children.’

Mr Big turned towards her and gazed at her impassively.

‘For the time being she is difficult. She will have nothing to do with men. That is why, in Haiti, she was called “Solitaire”.’

In the film, Solitaire is played by a young Jane Seymour, who would become famous in the 90s as full free hardcore porn Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. Her psychic powers are still intact in the film, with the addition of a caveat that they only work as long as she remains a virgin. Rather than lusting after her, Kananga does his best to keep her isolated to keep her powers from being wrecked. As you can expect, Bond does just that.


The girl said nothing but took a chair similar to Bond’s from beside the wall and pushed it towards him. She sat down almost touching his right knee. She looked into his eyes.

Her face was pale, with the pallor of white families that have lived long in the tropics. But it contained no trace of the usual exhaustion which the tropics impart to the skin and hair. The eyes were blue, alight and disdainful, but, as they gazed into his with a touch of humour, he realized they contained some message for him personally. It quickly vanished as his own eyes answered. Her hair was blue-black and fell heavily to her shoulders. She had high cheekbones and a wide, sensual mouth which held a hint of cruelty. Her jawline was delicate and finely cut. It showed decision and an iron will which were repeated in the straight, pointed nose. Part of the beauty of the face lay in its lack of compromise. It was a face born to command. The face of the daughter of a French Colonial slave-owner.

She wore a long evening dress of heavy white matt silk whose classical line was broken by the deep folds which fell from her shoulders and revealed the upper half of her breasts. She wore diamond earrings, square-cut in broken bands, and a thin diamond bracelet on her left wrist. She wore no rings. Her nails were short and without enamel.

Solitaire is somehow inspired to push her cleavage together as she leans forward toward Bond, which Mr. Big responds to by whipping her back with the riding crop. She sits up, but as she shuffles she takes a knave of hearts and queen of hearts and "kisses" them together, which Bond takes as another subtle sign.


‘Mister Bond, look into the eyes of this girl and repeat the reason for your presence here which you gave me just now.’

Bond looked into her eyes. There was no message. They were not focused on his. They looked through him.

He repeated what he had said.

For a moment he felt an uncanny thrill. Could this girl tell? If she could tell, would she speak for him or against him?

For a moment there was dead silence in the room.

Bond tried to look indifferent. He gazed up at the ceiling – then back at her.

Her eyes came back into focus. She turned away from him and looked at Mr Big.

‘He speaks the truth,’ she said coldly.

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Far from evil, Baron Samedi (French for "Baron Saturday") is one of the coolest loa of Haitian Voodoo. Voodoo puts God, Bondye, as distant from the world and using the loa as intermediaries to interact with humanity. The Voodoo pantheon is somewhat similar to Ancient Greek and Roman pantheons, giving each loa its own personality, traits, likes and dislikes, and special rituals and methods of service. Loa are served in different ways, often offering sacrifices.

Loa are traditionally summoned in a ritual in which the loa "mounts a horse", possessing a person through a ritual which is different for each. The loa all have different signs of their possession, such as specific actions or phrases, upon which the others assisting in the ritual perform the appropriate tasks to welcome them. It can range from giving Erzulie Fréda Dahomey (the spirit of love, beauty, jewelry, flowers, etc.) pink champagne and fine gifts of perfume and food to giving Agwe (the sovereign of the sea) wet sponges and towels as his vessel exits the water.

I really wish all of our religious rituals were this awesome.

There's also a fair bit of overlap with Catholic saints - various loa use the iconography of different saints. Syncretism is extra cool!

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In the film, Solitaire is played by a young Jane Seymour, who would become famous in the 90s as free naughty lesbian videos Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. Her psychic powers are still intact in the film, with the addition of a caveat that they only work as long as she remains a virgin. Rather than lusting after her, Kananga does his best to keep her isolated to keep her powers from being wrecked. As you can expect, Bond does just that.

In the film she's also Kananga's daughter and granddaughter - they changed the "found her doing a mindreading act" to "line of hereditary priestesses" because who knows, I guess it seemed logical to someone who looked at Yaphet Kotto and Jane Seymour?

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Voodoo just seems so much cooler than stuff like Catholicism. The Grim Reaper would loving rock if he was a chain-smoking, hard-drinking skull man who kept bugging the rest of the pantheon with dirty jokes, and instead of just praying to the saints you would have them inhabit the body of a human with precise rituals so they could tell you what to do while having a drink in your kitchen.

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Voodoo just seems so much cooler than stuff like Catholicism. The Grim Reaper would loving rock if he was a chain-smoking, hard-drinking skull man who kept bugging the rest of the pantheon with dirty jokes, and instead of just praying to the saints you would have them inhabit the body of a human with precise rituals so they could tell you what to do while having a drink in your kitchen.

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A previous update talked about the famous actors who have played the role, from Barry Nelson to Daniel Craig. However, these were not the only actors to play James Bond! In fact, Sean Connery was the ebony free video porn third!

Some time after the old man porn gallery Climax! episode with Barry Nelson, there was a possibly unauthorized radio drama adaptation of free tiny teen pussy Moonraker for Springbok Radio in South Africa. Bond was voiced by Bob Holness, who would later become known as the presenter for the British version of index of pussy mpg Blockbusters before dying in 2004.

In 1967, baby got back porn Casino Royale was adapted to film for the first time. Charles K. Feldman held the film rights and tried to work with Eon to create an adaptation, but the deal fell through. Realizing he could never compete with the big budget Sean Connery films, Feldman decided instead to turn the film into a spoof. As the budget escalated, a total of 6 directors and 3 screenwriters ended up trying to create a coherent film.

At the beginning, James Bond is played by famed British actor David Niven. Pulled out of retirement to investigate SMERSH's murder of spies, MI6 decides to fool SMERSH by creating 6 fake Bonds to throw them off the trail. These include Peter Sellers as Evelyn Tremble, Ursula Andress (the first true Bond girl, Honey Rider in best of sex videos Dr. No) as Vesper Lynd, Joanna Pettet as Mata Bond (Bond's daughter from an affair with Mata Hari), Daliah Lavi as The Detainer, and Barbara Bouchet as Miss Moneypenny (said to be the daughter of the original). It also stars Woody Allen as Jimmy Bond, Bond's nephew and secretly Dr. Noah, head of SMERSH.

The incredibly bizarre spoof featured a large number of existing and future Bond actors and ended with all of them being killed. It's regarded as one of the worst films ever made.

Perhaps the most famous "non-Bond" Bond would be stuntman Bob Simmons. For the filming of the iconic gun barrel sequence in straight guys sex videos Dr. No that would soon open every film, Connery was filled in for by their stunt coordinator. Simmons is thus the first Bond seen on the big screen in an Eon production, though you'd never pick him out of a lineup. The sequence was reused until secret saturday cartoon porn Thunderball, which finally got Connery in place for it.

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I will grant you that 1967's free porn vids incest Casino Royale is a truly godawful film. If you like ludicrous entertainment trainwrecks, though, it's sort of fascinating to watch it lurch from plot point to setpiece to setpiece to something else more or less entirely unrelated to everything previous and eventually just melt into soapsuds and fake fog and so much undercranking

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I will grant you that 1967's sex videos xxx sex Casino Royale is a truly godawful film. If you like ludicrous entertainment trainwrecks, though, it's sort of fascinating to watch it lurch from plot point to setpiece to setpiece to something else more or less entirely unrelated to everything previous and eventually just melt into soapsuds and fake fog and so much undercranking

It blows up Woody Allen* at the end; what's not to love?

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leah jaye free porn Chapter 8: No Sensayuma


Mr. Big reflected for a moment. He seemed to decide. He pressed a switch on the intercom.


‘Yassuh, Boss.’

‘You’re holding that American, Leiter.’


‘Hurt him considerably. Ride him down to Bellevue Hospital and dump him nearby. Got that?’


‘Don’t be seen.’


Mr Big centred the switch.

‘God drat your bloody eyes,’ said Bond viciously. ‘The C.I.A. won’t let you get away with this!’

‘You forget, Mister Bond. They have no jurisdiction in America. The American Secret Service has no power in America – only abroad. And the F.B.I. are no friends of theirs. Tee-Hee, come here.’

I'm not sure exactly how the relationship between the CIA and FBI was in the 1950s, but Mr. Big is mostly correct. The CIA doesn't have the power to spy on US citizens and doesn't even have arrest powers. They would technically need to cooperate with the FBI to take down Mr. Big even though he's suspected of being a Soviet agent.


‘Yassuh, Boss.’ Tee-Hee came and stood beside the desk.

Mr Big looked across at Bond.

‘Which finger do you use least, Mister Bond?’

Bond was startled by the question. His mind raced.

‘On reflection, I expect you will say the little finger of the left hand,’ continued the soft voice. ‘Tee-Hee, break the little finger of Mr Bond’s left hand.’

As Bond sweats in the chair, Tee-Hee does exactly that. He slowly, ever so slowly, bends Bond's pinky finger backward until it snaps.


‘That will do,’ said Mr Big.

Tee-Hee released the mangled finger with reluctance.

Bond uttered a soft animal groan and fainted.

‘Da guy ain’t got no sensayuma,’ commented Tee-Hee.

Solitaire sat limply back in her chair and closed her eyes.

‘Did he have a gun?’ asked Mr Big.

‘Yassuh.’ Tee-Hee took Bond’s Beretta out of his pocket and slipped it across the desk. The Big Man picked it up and looked at it expertly. He weighed it in his hand, testing the feel of the skeleton grip. Then he pumped the shells out on to the desk, verified that he had also emptied the chamber and slid it over towards Bond.

‘Wake him up,’ he said, looking at his watch. It said three o’clock.

Tee-Hee went behind Bond’s chair and dug his nails into the lobes of Bond’s ears.

Bond groaned and lifted his head.

His eyes focused on Mr Big and he uttered a string of obscenities.

‘Be thankful you’re not dead,’ said Mr Big without emotion. ‘Any pain is preferable to death. Here is your gun. I have the shells. Tee-Hee, give it back to him.’

Tee-Hee took it off the desk and slipped it back into Bond’s holster.

Mr. Big explains why he's allowing Bond to live to suffer instead of getting a cement overcoat and being thrown in the Harlem River:


‘Mister Bond, I suffer from boredom. I am a prey to what the early Christians called “accidie”, the deadly lethargy that envelops those who are sated, those who have no more desires. I am absolutely pre-eminent in my chosen profession, trusted by those who occasionally employ my talents, feared and instantly obeyed by those whom I myself employ. I have, literally, no more worlds to conquer within my chosen orbit. Alas, it is too late in my life to change that orbit for another one, and since power is the goal of all ambition, it is unlikely that I could possibly acquire more power in another sphere than I already possess in this one.’

Bond listened with part of his mind. With the other half he was already planning. He sensed the presence of Solitaire, but he kept his eyes off her. He gazed steadily across the table at the great grey face with its unwinking golden eyes.

The soft voice continued.

‘Mister Bond, I take pleasure now only in artistry, in the polish and finesse which I can bring to my operations. It has become almost a mania with me to impart an absolute rightness, a high elegance, to the execution of my affairs. Each day, Mister Bond, I try and set myself still higher standards of subtlety and technical polish so that each of my proceedings may be a work of art, bearing my signature as clearly as the creations of, let us say, Benvenuto Cellini. I am content, for the time being, to be my only judge, but I sincerely believe, Mister Bond, that the approach to perfection which I am steadily achieving in my operations will ultimately win recognition in the history of our times.’

Mr Big paused. Bond saw that his great yellow eyes were wide, as if he saw visions. He’s a raving megalomaniac, thought Bond. And all the more dangerous because of it. The fault in most criminal minds was that greed was their only impulse. A dedicated mind was quite another matter. This man was no gangster. He was a menace. Bond was fascinated and slightly awestruck.

‘I accept anonymity for two reasons,’ continued the low voice. ‘Because the nature of my operations demands it and because I admire the self-negation of the anonymous artist. If you will allow the conceit, I see myself sometimes as one of those great Egyptian fresco painters who devoted their lives to producing masterpieces in the tombs of kings, knowing that no living eye would ever see them.’

The great eyes closed for a moment.

‘However, let us return to the particular. The reason, Mister Bond, why I have not killed you this morning is because it would give me no aesthetic pleasure to blow a hole in your stomach. With this engine,’ he gestured towards the gun trained on Bond through the desk drawer, ‘I have already blown many holes in many stomachs, so I am quite satisfied that my little mechanical toy is a sound technical achievement. Moreover, as no doubt you rightly surmise, it would be a nuisance for me to have a lot of busybodies around here asking questions about the disappearance of yourself and your friend Mr Leiter. Not more than a nuisance; but for various reasons I wish to concentrate on other matters at the present time.

‘So,’ Mr Big looked at his watch, ‘I decided to leave my card upon each of you and to give you one more solemn warning. You must leave the country today, and Mr Leiter must transfer to another assignment. I have quite enough to bother me without having a lot of agents from Europe added to the considerable strength of local busybodies with which I have to contend.

‘That is all,’ he concluded. ‘If I see you again, you will die in a manner as ingenious and appropriate as I can devise on that day.'

One thing Fleming is good at is charismatic villains. Le Chiffre took longer to demonstrate it because Bond severely underestimated him, but he was able to make Bond start seriously questioning his employment in the service of his country. Mr. Big, on the other hand, instantly takes control of the situation from the moment Bond shows up.

Mr. Big orders Tee-Hee to take Bond to the garage, where two men will drive him out to Central Park and toss him in the fountain. As Tee-Hee hoists Bond out of the chair, he stares at Mr. Big.


‘Those who deserve to die,’ he paused, ‘die the death they deserve. Write that down,’ he added. ‘It’s an original thought.’

Tee-Hee twists Bond's arm behind his back until it's almost being dislocated and starts marching him out. Bond stumbles and groans, exaggerating the pain he's under. Tee-Hee brings them through the revolving door back into the basement and Bond notes from the thickness of the door that it's probably soundproof.


‘You’re breaking my arm,’ he said. ‘Look out. I’m going to faint.’

He stumbled again, trying to measure exactly the negro’s position behind him. He remembered Leiter’s injunction: ‘Shins, groin, stomach, throat. Hit ’em anywhere else and you’ll just break your hand.’

‘Shut yo mouf,’ said the negro, but he pulled Bond’s hand an inch or two down his back.

This was all Bond needed.

They were half way down the passage with only a few feet more to the top of the stairs. Bond faltered again, so that the negro’s body bumped into his. This gave him all the range and direction he needed.

He bent a little and his right hand, straight and flat as a board, whipped round and inwards. He felt it thud hard into the target. The negro screamed shrilly like a wounded rabbit. Bond felt his left arm come free. He whirled round, pulling out his empty gun with his right hand. The negro was bent double, his hands between his legs, uttering little panting screams. Bond whipped the gun down hard on the back of the woolly skull. It gave back a dull klonk as if he had hammered on a door, but the negro groaned and fell forward on his knees, throwing out his hands for support. Bond got behind him and with all the force he could put behind the steel-capped shoe, he gave one mighty kick below the lavender-coloured seat of the negro’s pants.

A final short scream was driven out of the man as he sailed the few feet to the stairs. His head hit the side of the iron banisters and then, a twisting wheel of arms and legs, he disappeared over the edge, down into the well. There was a short crash as he caromed off some obstacle, then a pause, then a mingled thud and crack as he hit the ground. Then silence.

I guess this version of Tee-Hee won't be returning for the finale.


There was only one floor between him and the spread-eagled body below. When he reached the landing, he stopped again and listened. Quite close, he could hear the high-pitched whine of some form of fast wireless transmitter. He verified that it came from behind one of the two doors on the landing. This must be Mr Big’s communications centre. He longed to carry out a quick raid. But his gun was empty and he had no idea how many men he would find in the room. It could only have been the earphones on their ears that had prevented the operators from hearing the sounds of Tee-Hee’s fall. He crept on down.

Tee-Hee was either dead or dying. He lay spread-eagled on his back. His striped tie lay across his face like a squashed adder. Bond felt no remorse. He frisked the body for a gun and found one stuck in the waistband of the lavender trousers, now stained with blood. It was a Colt .38 Detective Special with a sawn barrel. All chambers were loaded. Bond slipped the useless Beretta back in its holster. He nestled the big gun into his palm and smiled grimly.

I wouldn't exactly call the Detective Special "big", unless you're someone used to carrying a .25 caliber vest pocket pistol.

Bond puts his ear to the door at the bottom of the stairs and hears an engine running on the other side. Probably the two fellas with the car waiting for Tee-Hee to bring Bond through the door to drop him off. Knowing he doesn't have long before someone goes looking, Bond tests the door bolts to make sure they're well-oiled. As they slide back easily, he whips the door open and brings the gun up, standing sideways toward his target to present a smaller target.


A few feet away stood a black sedan, its engine running. It faced the open double doors of the garage. Bright arc-lights lit up the shining bodywork of several other cars. There was a big negro at the wheel of the sedan and another stood near him, leaning against the rear door. No one else was in view.

At sight of Bond the negroes’ mouths fell open in astonishment. A cigarette dropped from the mouth of the man at the wheel. Then they both dived for their guns.

Instinctively, Bond shot first at the man standing, knowing he would be quickest on the draw.

The heavy gun roared hollowly in the garage.

The negro clutched his stomach with both hands, staggered two steps towards Bond, and collapsed on his face, his gun clattering on to the concrete.

The man at the wheel screamed as Bond’s gun swung on to him. Hampered by the wheel the negro’s shooting hand was still inside his coat.

Bond shot straight into the screaming mouth and the man’s head crashed against the side window.

Bond ran round the car and opened the door. The negro sprawled horribly out. Bond threw his revolver on to the driving seat and yanked the body out on to the ground. He tried to avoid the blood. He got into the seat and blessed the running engine and the steering wheel gear-lever. He slammed the door, rested his injured hand on the left of the wheel and crashed the lever forward.

The hand-brake was still on. He had to lean under the wheel to release it with his right hand.

As Bond struggles to get the car moving, another gunshot rings out behind him and a bullet crashes into the bodywork of the car. There's another shot (Bond sees the muzzle flash low to the floor and guesses it was the first guy he shot), which goes wide and breaks a window across the street. The car lurches out of the garage and onto the dark street as Bond realizes he has no idea where he is or what direction he's going.


He kept the big car at fifty. He came to some red traffic lights and jumped them. Several more dark blocks and then there was a lighted avenue. There was traffic and he paused until the lights went green. He turned left and was rewarded by a succession of green lights, each one sweeping him on and further away from the enemy. He checked at an intersection and read the signs. He was on Park Avenue and 116th Street. He slowed again at the next street. It was 115th. He was heading downtown, away from Harlem, back into the City. He kept going. He turned off at 60th Street. It was deserted. He switched off the engine and left the car opposite a fire hydrant. He took the gun off the seat, shoved it down the waistband of his trousers and walked back to Park Avenue.

One of the great advantages of Manhattan is that the entire island except for the very south and very north tips are on a strict numbered grid system, with only a few outliers like Park Avenue and the diagonal Broadway changing things up. If you know where you are and the corner your destination is closest to, you can navigate without a map or even reading street signs most of the time.

As Bond approaches the night porter (hiding his wounded left side), he's given a telegram from Felix Leiter that was created at 4:00 AM simply reading "Call me at once". At least Bond knows both of them made it out alive.


‘God Almighty,’ said Bond with deep gratitude. ‘What a break.’

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I like Mr. Big as a character.

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I like Mr. Big as a character.

I like the book version more than the film version, as awesome as Yaphet Kotto is.

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The film version of this scene removes pretty much all of "Mr. Big's" mystique and power. He's a classic blaxploitation villain, calling Bond a honky and taking about 5 seconds to interrogate or intimidate him before ordering him killed. Meanwhile, Bond remains perfectly suave and composed every step of the way and easily overpowers the henchmen once he's out of the room. The book places Mr. Big in the position of power and authority and emphasizes how dangerous he is, while the film puts Bond in the position of power and suggests that the only reason he didn't immediately end the movie right there is because he had too many guns pointed at him.

This also shows how incredibly different Moore's Bond is from the book much of the time. He always remains impeccably charming, ready with the perfect quip or gag in response to every single occurrence. He's practically flawless, virtually impossible to intimidate (and he'll still reply with sarcasm if he is), and clearly the smartest and most skilled man in the room.

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Wheat Loaf
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That office reminds me quite a bit of Bumpy Jonas's headquarters from barely legal non nude Shaft.

You know which character the novel versions of Mr Big reminds me of a little? Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe, who Fleming was familiar with and apparently (though I've no confirmation) enjoyed.

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I wouldn't exactly call the Detective Special "big", unless you're someone used to carrying a .25 caliber vest pocket pistol.

I don't think Fleming did any more research here than when Bond was using the mythical .45 Army Special. Colt offered the Detective Special with barrel lengths of two or three inches, hardly grounds for a chop job.

Maybe he confused it with a Fitz special.

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That office reminds me quite a bit of Bumpy Jonas's headquarters from nude photos of jessica Shaft.

The movie went really, really hard into the 1970s blaxploitation style.

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Wheat Loaf
Feb 13, 2012


It is kind of amusing in itself to see Roger Moore, who seems like the most staid Englishman alive, dropped into the middle of a blaxploitation movie with guys saying, "Take this honky out back and waste 'im!" and he replies, "Waste me? Is that bad?"

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I like Mr. Big as a character.

That's what I was going to say. I only watched the movie version once, and from what Chitoryu is saying it sounds as though that version was significantly less interesting. The book version, on the other hand, is a pretty cool villain, and I'd be happy to read more with him in it.

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We’ll cover it when we get there, but the book also has some scenes that were put in different films. Toward the end of the “adaptation era” of Bond films they started making adaptations that were simply in name only or combined aspects from multiple unrelated stories. free fucking pussy videos License to Kill is basically an extremely loose adaptation of “The Hildebrand Rarity” and one scene from this book.

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Wheat Loaf
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Likewise, the action climax of this book is transferred to the film version of pamela anderson stripping naked For Your Eyes Only.

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Bond looked at the telephone, then he got up and walked over to the sideboard. He put a handful of wilted ice cubes into a tall glass, poured in three inches of Haig and Haig and swilled the mixture round in the glass to cool and dilute it. Then he drank down half the glass in one long swallow. He put the glass down and eased himself out of his coat. His left hand was so swollen that he could only just get it through the sleeve. His little finger was still crooked back and the pain was vicious as it scraped against the cloth. The finger was nearly black. He pulled down his tie and undid the top of his shirt. Then he picked up his glass, took another deep swallow, and walked back to the telephone.

Bond's got his priorities straight: liquor before first aid.


Leiter answered at once.

‘Thank God,’ said Leiter with real feeling. ‘What’s the damage?’

‘Broken finger,’ said Bond. ‘How about you?’

‘Blackjack. Knocked out. Nothing serious. They started off by considering all sorts of ingenious things. Wanted to couple me to the compressed air pump in the garage. Start on the ears and then proceed elsewhere. When no instructions came from The Big Man they got bored and I got to arguing the finer points of Jazz with Blabbermouth, the man with the fancy six-shooter. We got on to Duke Ellington and agreed that we liked our band-leaders to be percussion men, not wind. We agreed the piano or the drums held the band together better than any other solo instrument – Jelly-roll Morton, for instance. Apropos the Duke, I told him the crack about the clarinet – “an ill woodwind that nobody blows good”. That made him laugh fit to bust. Suddenly we were friends. The other man – The Flannel, he was called – got sour and Blabbermouth told him he could go off duty, he’d look after me. Then The Big Man rang down.’

‘I was there,’ said Bond. ‘It didn’t sound so hot.’

‘Blabbermouth was worried as hell. He wandered round the room talking to himself. Suddenly he used the blackjack, hard, and I went out. Next thing I knew we were outside Bellevue Hospital. About half after three. Blabbermouth was very apologetic, said it was the least he could have done. I believe him. He begged me not to give him away. Said he was going to report that he’d left me half dead. Of course I promised to leak back some very lurid details. We parted on the best of terms. I got some treatment at the Emergency ward and came home. I was worried to Hell an’ gone about you, but after a while the telephone started ringing. Police and F.B.I. Seems The Big Man has complained that some fool Limey went berserk at The Boneyard early this morning, shot three of his men – two chauffeurs and a waiter, if you please – stole one of his cars and got away, leaving his overcoat and hat in the cloakroom. The Big Man’s yelling for action. Of course I warned off the dicks and the F.B.I., but they’re madder’n hell and we’ve got to get out of town at once. It’ll miss the mornings but it’ll be splashed all over the afternoon blatts and Radio and TV’ll have it. Apart from all that, Mr Big will be after you like a nest of hornets. Anyway, I’ve got some plans fixed. Now you tell, and God, am I glad to hear your voice!’

This is interesting. Leiter manages to strike up a rapport with one of the thugs through their mutual love of jazz. Bond survives through equivalent violence, snapping necks and shooting people in the mouth, while Leiter is more personable and better at navigating social graces.


Bond gave a detailed account of all that had happened. He forgot nothing. When he had finished, Leiter gave a low whistle.

‘Boy,’ he said with admiration. ‘You certainly made a dent in The Big Man’s machine. But were you lucky. That Solitaire dame certainly seems to have saved your bacon. D’you think we can use her?’

‘Could if we could get near her,’ said Bond. ‘I should think he keeps her pretty close.’

‘We’ll have to think about that another day,’ said Leiter. ‘Now we’d better get moving. I’ll hang up and call you back in a few minutes. First I’ll get the police surgeon round to you right away. Be along in a quarter of an hour or so. Then I’ll talk to the Commissioner myself and sort out some of the police angles. They can stall a bit by discovering the car. The F.B.I.’ll have to tip off the radio and newspaper boys so that at least we can keep your name out of it and all this Limey talk. Otherwise we shall have the British Ambassador being hauled out of bed and parades by the National Association for the Advancement of Coloured People and God knows what all.’ Leiter chuckled down the telephone. ‘Better have a word with your chief in London. It’s about half after ten their time. You’ll need a bit of protection. I can look after the C.I.A., but the F.B.I. have got a bad attack of “see-here-young-man” this morning. You’ll need some more clothes. I’ll see to that. Keep awake. We’ll get plenty of sleep in the grave. Be calling you.’

He hung up. Bond smiled to himself. Hearing Leiter’s cheerful voice and knowing everything was being taken care of had wiped away his exhaustion and his black memories.

He picked up the telephone and talked to the Overseas operator. Ten minutes’ delay, she said.

Yep, definitely the 50s. God only knows how much that call cost.

As Bond waits for the call to go through, he cleans himself up, puts on new clothes, reloads his Beretta, and wraps the Colt Detective Special in a shirt and throws it in his suitcase. Halfway through packing, the phone rings again for him and the call is connected.


‘You’re connected, caller,’ said the Overseas operator. ‘Go ahead, please. New York calling London.’

Bond heard the calm English voice. ‘Universal Export. Who’s speaking, please?’

‘Can I speak to the Managing Director,’ said Bond. ‘This is his nephew James speaking from New York.’

‘Just a moment, please.’ Bond could follow the call to Miss Moneypenny and see her press the switch on the intercom. ‘It’s New York, Sir,’ she would say. ‘I think it’s 007.’ ‘Put him through,’ M. would say.

‘Yes?’ said the cold voice that Bond loved and obeyed.

Yeah, I can definitely see where people get the idea that M is also based on Fleming's mother.


‘It’s James, Sir,’ said Bond. ‘I may need a bit of help over a difficult consignment.’

‘Go ahead,’ said the voice.

‘I went uptown to see our chief customer last night,’ said Bond. ‘Three of his best men went sick while I was there.’

‘How sick?’ asked the voice.

‘As sick as can be, Sir,’ said Bond. ‘There’s a lot of ’flu about.’

‘Hope you didn’t catch any.’

‘I’ve got a slight chill, Sir,’ said Bond, ‘but absolutely nothing to worry about. I’ll write to you about it. The trouble is that with all this ’flu about Federated think I will do better out of town.’ (Bond chuckled to himself at the thought of M.’s grin.) ‘So I’m off right away with Felicia.’

‘Who?’ asked M.

‘Felicia,’ Bond spelled it out. ‘My new secretary from Washington.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Thought I’d try that factory you advised at San Pedro.’

‘Good idea.’

‘But Federated may have other ideas and I hoped you’d give me your support.’

‘I quite understand,’ said M. ‘How’s business?’

‘Rather promising, Sir. But tough going. Felicia will be typing my full report today.’

‘Good,’ said M. ‘Anything else?’

‘No, that’s all, Sir. Thanks for your support.’

‘That’s all right. Keep fit. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye, Sir.’

It's been a while since we've gotten some proper spy speak!

Leiter calls Bond back. He lets him know that the guys he killed (Tee-Hee, McThing, and Sam Miami) were a nasty trio of gangsters so the FBI is reluctantly trying to cover for him after initially trying to get Bond sent home. They're set to head down to St. Petersburg to continue the investigation, but they can't travel together. Leiter is flying, but Bond is taking a train.


‘Pennsylvania Station. Track 14. Ten-thirty this morning. “The Silver Phantom”. Through train to St Petersburg via Washington, Jacksonville and Tampa. I’ve got you a compartment. Very luxurious. Car 245, Compartment H. Ticket’ll be on the train. Conductor will have it. In the name of Bryce. Just go to Gate 14 and down to the train. Then straight to your compartment and lock yourself in till the train starts. I’m flying down in an hour by Eastern, so you’ll be alone from now on. If you get stuck call Dexter, but don’t be surprised if he bites your head off. Train gets in around midday tomorrow. Take a cab and go to the Everglades Cabanas, Gulf Boulevard West, on Sunset Beach. That’s on a place called Treasure Island where all the beach hotels are. Connected with St Petersburg by a causeway. Cabby’ll know it.'

This is actually the exact same route Fleming and his wife would take to get to Jamaica, which is probably why he's so familiar with NYC. Fleming is using a fictionalized (or possibly misremembered) name, but the Silver Meteor and Silver Star are real sister trains and this route still exists, albeit with modern rolling stock. The current route goes from Miami to New York City

Bond can't use a police escort on the train because of how obvious it is, so Leiter advises him to sneak out and grab a cab when he can. The police surgeon shows up after 6:30 AM and checks Bond's finger; it's a clean fracture, but it'll take a few days to heal.


When he had gone, Bond finished packing. He was wondering how soon he could order breakfast when the telephone rang.

Again, priorities.


Bond was expecting a harsh voice from the Police or the F.B.I. Instead, a girl’s voice, low and urgent, asked for Mr Bond.

‘Who’s calling?’ asked Bond, gaining time. He knew the answer.

‘I know it’s you,’ said the voice, and Bond could feel that it was right up against the mouthpiece. ‘This is Solitaire.’ The name was scarcely breathed into the telephone.

Bond waited, all his senses pricked to what might be the scene at the other end of the line. Was she alone? Was she speaking foolishly on a house-phone with extensions to which other listeners were now coldly, intently glued? Or was she in a room with only Mr Big’s eyes bent carefully on her, a pencil and pad beside him so that he could prompt the next question?

‘Listen,’ said the voice. ‘I’ve got to be quick. You must trust me. I’m in a drugstore, but I must get back at once to my room. Please believe me.’ Bond had his handkerchief out. He spoke into it.

‘If I can reach Mr Bond what shall I tell him?’

‘Oh drat you,’ said the girl with what sounded like a genuine touch of hysteria. ‘I swear by my mother, by my unborn children. I’ve got to get away. And so have you. You’ve got to take me. I’ll help you. I know a lot of his secrets. But be quick. I’m risking my life here talking to you.’ She gave a sob of exasperation and panic. ‘For God’s sake trust me. You must. You must!’

Bond still paused, his mind working furiously.

‘Listen,’ she spoke again, but this time dully, almost hopelessly. ‘If you don’t take me, I shall kill myself. Now will you? Do you want to murder me?’

If it was acting, it was too good acting. It was still an unpardonable gamble, but Bond decided.

He spoke directly into the telephone, his voice low. ‘If this is a double-cross, Solitaire, I’ll get at you and kill you if it’s the last thing I do. Have you got a pencil and paper?’

Think Bond's still got some lingering memories of the last girl he tried to help out of a bad situation?

He gives her the information on the Silver Phantom, saying to tell the conductor she's Mrs. Bryce. Just in case, he says the train is going to Washington instead of its real destination. Sentimentality has won out again, and she hangs up. Without anything else to do, he orders breakfast.


‘Room Service, good morning,’ said the golden voice. ‘Breakfast, please,’ said Bond. ‘Pineapple juice, double. Cornflakes and cream. Shirred eggs with bacon. Double portion of Café Espresso. Toast and marmalade.’

‘Yes, Sir,’ said the girl. She repeated the order. ‘Right away.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Bond grinned to himself.

‘The condemned man made a hearty breakfast,’ he reflected.

Shirred eggs are a dish that you don't really see any more. It's simply eggs cracked into a flat-bottomed dish and baked with butter and cream until thick.


He sat down by the window and gazed up at the clear sky, into the future.

Up in Harlem, at the big switchboard, The Whisper was talking to the town again, passing Bond’s description again to all Eyes: ‘All de railroads, all de airports. Fifth Avenue an’ 55th Street doors of da San Regis. Mr Big sez we gotta chance da highways. Pass it down da line. All de railroads, all de airports…’

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The total list of names we've gotten so far:

* Tee-Hee Johnson
* McThing
* Blabbermouth Foley
* Sam Miami
* The Flannel

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This also shows how incredibly different Moore's Bond is from the book much of the time. He always remains impeccably charming, ready with the perfect quip or gag in response to every single occurrence. He's practically flawless, virtually impossible to intimidate (and he'll still reply with sarcasm if he is), and clearly the smartest and most skilled man in the room.
Moore's Bond is my favourite Bond, because of his sheer unflappability, humour and terrible dad quips. Moore himself was of course already famous as Simon Templar in The Saint, which blended light comedy with action-adventure, and he essentially reprised the role under a different name. He himself admitted that as an actor he had a limited range, but within that range he was extremely charismatic and successful.

But yes, Moore's smooth and suave English gentleman is so unlike Fleming's damaged and sneering blunt instrument (he's more like The Avengers' John Steed, played by Patrick MacNee, who appeared with Moore in AVTAK) that the code number is about all they have in common.

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Bond, the collar of his new raincoat up round his ears, was missed as he came out of the entrance of the St. Regis Drugstore on 55th Street, which has a connecting door into the hotel.

He waited in the entrance and leaped at a cruising cab, hooking the door open with the thumb of his injured hand and throwing his light suitcase in ahead of him. The cab hardly checked. The negro with the collecting-box for the Coloured Veterans of Korea and his colleague fumbling under the bonnet of his stalled car stayed on the job until, much later, they were called off by a man who drove past and sounded two shorts and a long on his horn.

But Bond was immediately spotted as he left his cab at the drive-in to the Pennsylvania Station. A lounging negro with a wicker basket walked quickly into a call-box. It was ten-fifteen.

Only fifteen minutes to go and yet, just before the train started, one of the waiters in the diner reported sick and was hurriedly replaced by a man who had received a full and careful briefing on the telephone. The chef swore there was something fishy, but the new man said a word or two to him and the chef showed the whites of his eyes and went silent, surreptitiously touching the lucky bean that hung round his neck on a string.

The scene in the film where Bond's every move is tracked as he follows Mr. Big to the Filet of Soul restaurant, right down to the cabbie being in on it, isn't really an exaggeration from the novel. Mr. Big's Eyes are porn and hot sex everywhere and constantly in communication with each other even in a book written in the days before common portable radios. With how far they extend, it does bear some unfortunate implications as to how much the black community of America works together for a criminal enterprise in a way that you'll never see Fleming depict white people doing.


Bond had walked quickly through the great glass-covered concourse and through Gate 14 down to his train.

It lay, a quarter of a mile of silver carriages, quietly in the dusk of the underground station. Up front, the auxiliary generators of the 4000 horsepower twin Diesel electric units ticked busily. Under the bare electric bulbs the horizontal purple and gold bands, the colours of the Seaboard Railroad, glowed regally on the streamlined locomotives. The engineman and fireman who would take the great train on the first two hundred mile lap into the south lolled in the spotless aluminium cabin, twelve feet above the track, watching the ammeter and the air-pressure dial, ready to go.

Penn Station is still a bit of a sore spot for older New York City residents. At the time Bond visited it, it was a gigantic, gleaming white building in similar fashion to the James A. Farley post office across the street. At its height in 1954, it saw over 100 million passengers a year. However, air travel and the expanding interstate highway system led to a decrease in rail travel. As the building and business declined, the Pennsylvania Railroad purchased the air rights for the property. In 1962, they announced the impending demolition of the station to be replaced with an office building and sports complex. The rest of the train station would be relocated underground where the tracks already were.

The decision to destroy such a beautiful historic structure was extremely controversial, with even international bodies protesting. But nothing stops progress, and in October 1963 demolition began. The outrage was so great that it directly led to new laws regarding architectural preservation, which would save Grand Central Terminal from the same fate a decade later. The current station lies underneath Madison Square Garden, accessed predominately by stairs and escalators from street level. You'd never identify it as a train station otherwise.


It was quiet in the great concrete cavern below the city and every noise threw an echo.

There were not many passengers. More would be taken on at Newark, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington. Bond walked a hundred yards, his feet ringing on the empty platform, before he found Car 245, towards the rear of the train. A Pullman porter stood at the door. He wore spectacles. His black face was bored but friendly. Below the windows of the carriage, in broad letters of brown and gold, was written ‘Richmond, Fredericksburg and Potomac’, and below that ‘Bellesylvania’, the name of the Pullman car. A thin wisp of steam rose from the couplings of the central heating near the door.

‘Compartment H,’ said Bond.

‘Mr Bryce, Suh? Yassuh. Mrs Bryce just come aboard. Straight down da cyar.’

Bond stepped on to the train and turned down the drab olive green corridor. The carpet was thick. There was the usual American train-smell of old cigar-smoke. A notice said ‘Need a second pillow? For any extra comfort ring for your Pullman Attendant. His name is,’ then a printed card, slipped in: ‘Samuel D. Baldwin.’

H was more than half way down the car. There was a respectable-looking American couple in E, otherwise the rooms were empty. The door of H was closed. He tried it and it was locked.

‘Who’s that?’ asked a girl’s voice, anxiously.

‘It’s me,’ said Bond.

The door opened. Bond walked through, put down his bag and locked the door behind him.

She was in a black tailor-made. A wide-mesh veil came down from the rim of a small black straw hat. One gloved hand was up to her throat and through the veil Bond could see that her face was pale and her eyes were wide with fear. She looked rather French and very beautiful.

‘Thank God,’ she said.

Bond gave a quick glance round the room. He opened the lavatory door and looked in. It was empty.

The "all aboard" signal is called. As the iron steps are pulled up, the train quietly rolls down the track into the tunnel leading under the river into New Jersey. Solitaire takes her hat and veil off; Bond sees dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep.


There was a table between them. Suddenly she reached forward and pulled his right hand towards her on the table. She held it in both her hands and bent forward and kissed it. Bond frowned and tried to pull his hand away, but for a moment she held it tight in both of hers.

She looked up and her wide blue eyes looked candidly into his.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you for trusting me. It was difficult for you.’ She released his hand and sat back.

‘I’m glad I did,’ said Bond inadequately, his mind trying to grapple with the mystery of this woman. He dug in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter. It was a new pack of Chesterfields and with his right hand he scrabbled at the cellophane wrapper. She reached over and took the pack from him.

She slit it with her thumb-nail, took out a cigarette, lit it and handed it to him. Bond took it from her and smiled into her eyes, tasting the hint of lipstick from her mouth.

‘I smoke about three packs a day,’ he said. ‘You’re going to be busy.’

‘I’ll just help with the new packs,’ she said. ‘Don’t be afraid I’m going to fuss over you the whole way to St Petersburg.’

Bond’s eyes narrowed and the smile went out of them.

‘You don’t believe I thought we were only going as far as Washington,’ she said. ‘You weren’t very quick on the telephone this morning. And anyway, Mr Big was certain you would make for Florida. I heard him warning his people down there about you. He spoke to a man called “The Robber“, long distance. Said to watch the airport at Tampa and the trains. Perhaps we ought to get off the train earlier, at Tarpon Springs or one of the small stations up the coast. Did they see you getting on the train?’

‘Not that I know of,’ said Bond. His eyes had relaxed again. ‘How about you? Have any trouble getting away?’

For the second book in a row, Bond underestimates a woman. This time, however, she's on his side and is very open about how quickly she outsmarted his attempt to lie to her over the phone. I'm not sure if he ever learns to trust women to be play free sex videos capable as opposed to adult free sex tv dangerous, however; there's a tendency among misogynists who acknowledge intelligent women to interpret their intelligence as a threat rather than a potential ally.


‘It was my day for a singing lesson. He’s trying to make a torch singer out of me. Wants me to go on at The Boneyard. One of his men took me to my teacher as usual and was due to pick me up again at midday. He wasn’t surprised I was having a lesson so early. I often have breakfast with my teacher so as to get away from Mr Big. He expects me to have all my meals with him.’ She looked at her watch. He noted cynically that it was an expensive one – diamonds and platinum, Bond guessed. ‘They’ll be missing me in about an hour. I waited until the car had gone, then I walked straight out again and called you. Then I took a cab downtown. I bought a toothbrush and a few other things at a drugstore. Otherwise I’ve got nothing except my jewellery and the mad money I’ve always kept hidden from him. About five thousand dollars. So I won’t be a financial burden.’ She smiled. ‘I thought I’d get my chance one day.’ She gestured towards the window. ‘You’ve given me a new life. I’ve been shut up with him and his friend of the family gangsters for nearly a year. This is heaven.’

No, Solitaire! We can't have sex with baby video three overt racists in this book!


The train was running through the unkempt barren plains and swamps between New York and Trenton. It wasn’t an attractive prospect. It reminded Bond of some of the stretches on the pre-war Trans-Siberian Railway except for the huge lonely hoardings advertising the current Broadway shows and the occasional dumps of scrap-iron and old motor cars.

As a fellow non-fan of New Jersey, I find this description accurate even today in the winter.

Bond asks Solitaire seriously about whether she has supernatural powers. Probably expecting her to admit it's an act, she instead is very confident that she has them. Back in Haiti, she took advantage of the local superstitions to turn her powers into a cabaret act of sorts for money, but she legitimately has (or at least believes to have) the ability to see what will happen to people. She instantly knew, for instance, that Bond was going to save her and lied to Mr. Big to keep him alive.


The conductor arrived at the same time as the Pullman attendant. Bond ordered Old Fashioneds, and stipulated ‘Old Grandad’ Bourbon, chicken sandwiches, and decaffeined ‘Sanka’ coffee so that their sleep would not be spoilt.

‘I have to collect another fare from you, Mr Bryce,’ said the conductor.

‘Of course,’ said Bond. Solitaire made a movement towards her handbag. ‘It’s all right, darling,’ said Bond, pulling out his notecase. ‘You’ve forgotten you gave me your money to look after before we left the house.’

‘Guess the lady’ll need plenty for her summer frocks,’ said the conductor. ‘Shops is plenty expensive in St Pete. Plenty hot down there too. You folks been to Florida before?’

‘We always go at this time of year,’ said Bond.

‘Hope you have a pleasant trip,’ said the conductor.

It's telling how fancy the food aboard the Silver Phantom/Meteor/Star is that Bond is actually able to stipulate what kind of bourbon he wants in his drink.

Old Grand-Dad is unusual among the brands that Bond eats and drinks in that it hasn't really changed since! It was founded in 1840 and purchased in 1987 by the company that would become Beam Suntory. All of the bourbon brands produced at the Jim Beam plant in Kentucky have been switched to the Jim Beam mashbill with only slight variations...except Old Grand-Dad. They've been kept on the original recipe, which means it doesn't taste exactly like Jim Beam and Old Crow. I did try it and I initially wasn't a huge fan, but as the bottle aged and was exposed to oxygen on my table for a few weeks it started to develop a better taste.

The Old Fashioned is the original cocktail, hands down. I actually just had one yesterday after dinner! You sometimes see the Sazerac of New Orleans called the "first cocktail", but it's actually a variant on the Old Fashioned. Once upon a time in the early 19th century, "cocktail" simply meant a mixture of liquor, sugar, water, and bitters. What we now call an Old Fashioned was just the original way of making a cocktail. You can technically make it with any liquor in existence and brandy used to be common, but the modern definition specifies whiskey (preferably bourbon), the most American of drinks. There's an older variant a friend and fellow goon found from colonial Louisiana made with a mix of brandy and rum, sweetened with sorghum syrup.

The reason it started being called an Old Fashioned was the rise of more complex cocktails around the turn of the 20th century. Some older people were tired of menus having weird poo poo with eggs and carbonated water and fruit juices and started asking for a cocktail "made the old fashioned way". It's a good way to introduce whiskey to someone, as the sugar and water temper the burn and sweeten the drink. You can also have a wide variety of fruit garnishes, though I enjoy simply lemon.

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Sanka is a brand of instant decaffeinated coffee, one of the first brands of decaf to be sold around the world. While it uses the French marketing name, it was developed in Germany in 1903.


Bond turned to the window and watched the pretty clapboard houses slip by as they approached Trenton. He loved trains and he looked forward with excitement to the rest of the journey.

The train was slowing down. They slid past sidings full of empty freight cars bearing names from all over the States – ‘Lackawanna’, ‘Chesapeake and Ohio’, ‘Lehigh Valley’, ‘Seaboard Fruit Express’, and the lilting ‘Acheson, Topeka and Santa Fe’ – names that held all the romance of the American railroads.

‘British Railways?’ thought Bond. He sighed and turned his thoughts back to the present adventure.

Contrary to what you would expect for a Brit and their rivalries, Fleming was quite fond of America and the variety it provided.

As Solitaire heads to the lavatory to freshen up, Bond thinks about her. He's starting to find an attraction, but is unsure about how serious Mr. Big was that she has nothing to do with men. He imagines that she was probably raised on a dying old plantation in Haiti, seeking out her job in the seedy nightclubs to avoid being forced into prostitution. Mr. Big probably gave her promises of a shot at stardom in New York City.


He heard the door unlock. The girl came back and slid into the seat opposite him. She looked fresh and gay. She examined him carefully.

‘You have been wondering about me,’ she said. ‘I felt it. Don’t worry. There is nothing very bad to know. I will tell you all about it some day. When we have time. Now I want to forget about the past. I will just tell you my real name. It is Simone Latrelle, but you can call me what you like. I am twenty-five. And now I am happy. I like this little room. But I am hungry and sleepy. Which bed will you have?’

Bond smiled at the question. He reflected.

‘It’s not very gallant,’ he said, ‘but I think I’d better have the bottom one. I’d rather be close to the floor – just in case. Not that there’s anything to worry about,’ he added, seeing her frown, ‘but Mr Big seems to have a pretty long arm, particularly in the negro world. And that includes the railroads. Do you mind?’

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘I was going to suggest it. And you couldn’t climb into the top one with your poor hand.’

After lunch, Bond rings for their Pullman porter, Baldwin. He hints that he wants to talk to Bond in private, and they put Solitaire in the next room.


Bond waited for a moment. He remembered the negro's name.

‘Got something on your mind, Baldwin?’ he asked.

Relieved, the attendant turned and looked straight at him.

‘Sho’ have, Mister Bryce. Yassuh.’ Once started, the words came in a torrent. ‘Shouldn be tellin’ yuh this, Mister Bryce, but dere’s plenty trouble ’n this train this trip. Yuh gotten yoself a henemy ’n dis train, Mister Bryce. Yassuh. Ah hears tings which Ah don’ like at all. Cain’t say much. Get mahself ’n plenty trouble. But yuh all want to watch yo step plenty good. Yassuh. Certain party got da finger ’n yuh, Mister Bryce, ’n dat man is bad news. Better take dese hyah,’ he reached in his pocket and brought out two wooden window wedges. ‘Push dem under the doors,’ he said. ‘Ah cain’t do nuthen else. Git mah throat cut. But Ah don’ like any foolin’ aroun’ wid da customers ’n my cyar. Nossuh.’

Bond took the wedges from him. ‘But…’

‘Cain’t help yuh no more, Sah,’ said the negro with finality, his hand on the door. ‘Ef yuh ring fo me dis evenin’, Ah’ll fetch yo dinner. Doan yuh go lettin’ any person else in the room.’

His hand came out to take the twenty-dollar bill. He crumpled it into his pocket.

‘Ah’ll do all Ah can, Sah,’ he said. ‘But dey’ll git me ef Ah don’ watch it. Sho will.’ He went out and quickly shut the door behind him.

Bond thought for a moment then he opened the communicating door. Solitaire was reading.

‘He’s fixed everything,’ he said. ‘Took a long time about it. Wanted to tell me all his life-story as well. I’ll keep out of your way until you’ve climbed up to your nest. Call me when you’re ready.’

Bond doesn't want to frighten Solitaire quite yet. As they get into bed, Bond shoves the wooden wedges under the doors.


A few cars away, in the deserted diner, a negro waiter read again what he had written on a telegraph blank and waited for the ten-minute stop at Philadelphia.

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Lord Zedd-Repulsa
Jul 21, 2007

Devour a good book.

The main place I go to that serves alcohol has cut back their cocktail offerings to just a selection of classic ones and I keep eyeing the Old Fashioned but haven't been sure if it'd be overwhelming. Might have to give it a try next time I'm there now that I've read your thoughts on it

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The main place I go to that serves alcohol has cut back their cocktail offerings to just a selection of classic ones and I keep eyeing the Old Fashioned but haven't been sure if it'd be overwhelming. Might have to give it a try next time I'm there now that I've read your thoughts on it

It’s an easy way to get into whiskey while still tasting like whiskey. It only really overwhelms young people who have only been drinking fruity stuff that intentionally hides any alcohol taste or burn. The Manhattan is similar.

They key is quality ingredients applied with a skilled hand. There’s nothing complex about it but mixing Jack Daniels, cheap grocery store bitters, and white sugar won’t be as good as a drink with fine bourbon, a mix of Angostura bitters and orange bitters, and demerara.

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Feb 14, 2008

My favorite old fashioned recipe is bookers bourbon, lots of simple syrup, bitters, a luxardo maraschino cherry or two, and a thin blood orange slice. The cherries are super boozy and delicious instead of sugary and neon red. The extra simple syrup takes the edge off of the bookers, which is barrel proof and hot. Blood orange gives it a nice bit of citrus that’s just slightly different.

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Darth Walrus
Feb 13, 2012

It’s amazing how much it says about Bond (and Fleming) that his ideal of feminine beauty is ‘looks like a slave-owner’.

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The main place I go to that serves alcohol has cut back their cocktail offerings to just a selection of classic ones and I keep eyeing the Old Fashioned but haven't been sure if it'd be overwhelming. Might have to give it a try next time I'm there now that I've read your thoughts on it

Do it! I stopped drinking a couple years ago, but I really liked Old Fashioneds when I did. And if you hate it, then there's nothing wrong with just drinking Tom Collins all night long.

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When I went to the bar last night, the entire bar to the left of me was drinking Old Fashioneds. I've never seen so many identical drinks, right down to the lemon peel twists.

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May 28, 2001

Be seeing you.

Fan of Britches

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Holy poo poo, that’s just brain breakingly racist. The dialogue, the description of the city.

Just, jesus. Were other “pulp” books written in this time period as bad?

Bond isn't pulp, but if you're speaking of action/adventure stories, yes, quite often. This is one of those reasons I sort of laugh whenever I see HP Lovecraft pegged as some kind of uber racist; it's usually just a tell to me that the person in question hasn't read any other sensationalist literature from that time. I mean, look at all the problems we have today with racism. Now think what it was like 65 years ago, when this book came out; stories and takes like these were a dime a dozen. Grab a thriller pocket book with any sort of significant exotic/racial element and you're going to have no problem finding this stuff. It applies to homosexual elements too: lesbians are always women who desperately want to be men, and gays failed men who are always outrageously femme, even in those rare books that tries to write about them in a sensitive light (with the rare exception of a few groundbreaking pieces written by actual gays and lesbians, like Ann Bannon). For authors who weren't interested in that kind of moderating angle (say, with Spillane and Mike Hammer), you're in for quite the alien viewpoint. Hammer, for instance, loathes transexuals; the way Spillane writes about them makes them sound like one of the greatest abominations imaginable. (Hammer actually might make for a neat Let's Read, actually).

Still, even being really used to this sort of stuff, I have to say that man this book makes me cringe regardless. It's not the vehemence of the opinions, because in that regard Fleming is fairly "generous" at times (the statement that "the negro races are just beginning to throw up geniuses in all the professions" was not something that everyone would accept back then, for example). I think it's how dominant the race element is to the plot. In a lot of these stories you get it as just a momentary mention or a side element, so you laugh or roll your eyes or just accept it as the times and then move on. The ones that purport to take you to darkest, most savage Africa or whatever mean you have to go through it page after page, and after a while it's really just wearing, no matter how comparatively moderate Fleming might be. I've read this one, and I don't think I'll ever revisit it (though I'm enjoying this readthrough; great thread).

Also, chitoryu12: has Bond commented about tea as of yet? His attitudes there have always stuck with me.

Edit: removed bit about Goldfinger; I see chitoryu asked earlier to keep that specific element out until the appropriate time.

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The crack train thundered on through the bright afternoon towards the south. They left Pennsylvania behind, and Maryland. There came a long halt at Washington, where Bond heard through his dreams the measured clang of the warning bells on the shunting engines and the soft think-speak of the public-address system on the station. Then on into Virginia. Here the air was already softer and the dusk, only five hours away from the bright frosty breath of New York, smelled almost of spring.

An occasional group of negroes, walking home from the fields, would hear the distant rumble on the silent sighing silver rails and one would pull out his watch and consult it and announce, ‘Hyah comes da Phantom. Six o’clock. Guess ma watch is right on time.’ ‘Sho nuff,’ one of the others would say as the great beat of the Diesels came nearer and the lighted coaches streaked past and on towards North Carolina.

Around 7:00 PM, Bond and Solitaire wake up to the sound of crossing bells. They're unmolested, so Bond pulls the wedges out from under the doors.


He ordered dry Martinis and when the two little ‘personalized’ bottles appeared with the glasses and the ice they seemed so inadequate that he at once ordered four more.

They argued over the menu. The fish was described as being ‘Made From Flaky Tender Boneless Filets’ and the chicken as ‘Delicious French Fried to a Golden Brown, Served Disjointed’.

‘Eyewash,’ said Bond, and they finally ordered scrambled eggs and bacon and sausages, a salad, and some of the domestic Camembert that is one of the most welcome surprises on American menus.

Bond is still keeping up with his usual meal. Not sure why he's so dismissive of the menu when he was previously ordering perfectly fine chicken sandwiches and specifying which bourbon he wanted in his cocktail.

When Baldwin comes to clear away the dishes, Bond asks him when the train is set to arrive in Jacksonville. It's on schedule for 5:00 AM, so he asks if there's a subway on the platform. This is a statement that confused me until I did some research, and "subway" in this context is actually referring to one of those stair passages that goes down under the tracks and pops up on the other platform. Guess it's easy to call it that when you call your underground trains the "metro".

Bond slips Baldwin ten bucks to have the door open and steps lowered when they stop in Jacksonville. After he leaves, he tells Solitaire about Baldwin's warning to them.


‘I’m not surprised,’ said the girl when he had finished. ‘They must have seen you coming into the station. He’s got a whole team of spies called “The Eyes“ and when they’re put out on a job it’s almost impossible to get by them. I wonder who he’s got on the train. You can be certain it’s a negro, either a Pullman attendant or someone in the diner. He can make these people do absolutely anything he likes.’

‘So it seems,’ said Bond. ‘But how does it work? What’s he got on them?’

She looked out of the window into the tunnel of darkness through which the lighted train was burning its thundering path. Then she looked back across the table into the cool wide grey-blue eyes of the English agent. She thought: how can one explain to someone with that certainty of spirit, with that background of common sense, brought up with clothes and shoes among the warm houses and the lighted streets? How can one explain to someone who hasn’t lived close to the secret heart of the tropics, at the mercy of their anger and stealth and poison; who hasn’t experienced the mystery of the drums, seen the quick workings of magic and the mortal dread it inspires? What can he know of catalepsy, and thought-transference and the sixth sense of fish, of birds, of negroes; the deadly meaning of a white chicken’s feather, a crossed stick in the road, a little leather bag of bones and herbs? What of Mialism, of shadow-taking, of the death by swelling and the death by wasting?

Ah yes, that sixth sense held by animals and the blacks! Fleming is really digging in his heels here with the idea that Africans have an instinctual racial connection to magic and fear of it, with some secret to good sex extremely troubling implications that it's due to some kind of lower evolutionary standard that makes them closer to animals than men.


She shivered and a whole host of dark memories clustered round her. Above all, she remembered that first time in the Houmfor where her black nurse had once taken her as a child. ‘It do yuh no harm, Missy. Dis powerful good juju. Care fe yuh res ’f yo life.’ And the disgusting old man and the filthy drink he had given her. How her nurse had held her jaws open until she had drunk the last drop and how she had lain awake screaming every night for a week. And how her nurse had been worried and then suddenly she had slept all right until, weeks later, shifting on her pillow, she had felt something hard and had dug it out from the pillow-case, a dirty little packet of muck. She had thrown it out of the window, but in the morning she could not find it. She had continued to sleep well and she knew it must have been found by the nurse and secreted somewhere under the floorboards.

Years later, she had found out about the Voodoo drink – a concoction of rum, gunpowder, grave-dirt and human blood. She almost retched as the taste came back to her mouth.

What could this man know of these things or of her half-belief in them?

Don't be so dramatic, Solitaire! I'm sure there's some hipster bar in New York now serving that exact same drink!

This is a real potion, by the way. Warriors in Tacky's Rebellion (a slave revolt in Jamaica in 1760) drank it to prepare for battle and an 1865 peasant uprising in Morant Bay had it forcibly drunk by captured law enforcement as a show of loyalty to the rebels. It was used as a way of sealing oaths and is now part of the Obeah religious practices.

Bond recognizes Solitaire's look and basically reads her mind, assuring her that he believes in the science behind Voodoo even if it doesn't affect him because he doesn't have childish superstitious fears.


Solitaire smiled. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Then all I need tell you is that they believe The Big Man is the Zombie of Baron Samedi. Zombies are bad enough by themselves. They’re animated corpses that have been made to rise from the dead and obey the commands of the person who controls them. Baron Samedi is the most dreadful spirit in the whole of Voodooism. He is the spirit of darkness and death. So for Baron Samedi to be in control of his own Zombie is a very dreadful conception. You know what Mr Big looks like. He is huge and grey and he has great psychic power. It is not difficult for a negro to believe that he is a Zombie and a very bad one at that. The step to Baron Samedi is simple. Mr Big encourages the idea by having the Baron’s fetish at his elbow. You saw it in his room.’ She paused.

She went on quickly, almost breathlessly: ‘And I can tell you that it works and that there’s hardly a negro who has seen him and heard the story who doesn’t believe it and who doesn’t regard him with complete and absolute dread. And they are right,’ she added. ‘And you would say so too if you knew the way he deals with those who haven’t obeyed him completely, the way they are tortured and killed.’

Like we covered before, Baron Samedi is hardly a "spirit of darkness and death". He's a chill dude who likes to party and welcomes everyone to their final resting place regardless of color or creed, and is even the guy you would pray to if you want to keep someone from dying because he's the only one with that power.

This is a really common trope that you see, treating the gods or otherwise representations of death as evil. The Mummy movies did it with Anubis in the original trilogy and the remake bizarrely did it with Set (who was recast as the god of death, when in reality he was the god of things like violence, storms, and foreigners and still wasn't depicted as totally evil and hated). But a lot of these cultures never ascribed evilness to death. It was an accepted part of the cycle of life, one that everyone knew had to be done. Especially in ancient times when medical and food preservation technology weren't very good and death was around every corner (especially for infants), it didn't do very well to treat death as something evil and fearsome. The personification or gods of death were more likely to be seen as fair judges making sure everyone went to the proper place when their heart stopped, or even a positive presence comforting the dying so they didn't fear crossing over.

But things are a bit different today. The death of someone young is unusual, and death of the child or mother in birth is a terrible tragedy rather than a likely outcome. For many people, death sacred 2 nude patch is something to fear, the end of a long and happy life that everyone expects to have. Gods of death are now often reinterpreted as evil, potentially even being the ones who cause death rather than the ones who take the dead.


‘Where does Moscow come in?’ asked Bond. ‘Is it true he’s an agent of SMERSH?’

‘I don’t know what SMERSH is,’ said the girl, ‘but I know he works for Russia, at least I’ve heard him talking Russian to people who come from time to time. Occasionally he’s had me in to that room and asked me afterwards what I thought of his visitors. Generally it seemed to me they were telling the truth although I couldn’t understand what they said. But don’t forget I’ve only known him for a year and he’s fantastically secretive. If Moscow does use him they’ve got hold of one of the most powerful men in America. He can find out almost anything he wants to and if he doesn’t get what he wants somebody gets killed.’

‘Why doesn’t someone kill him?’ asked Bond.

‘You can’t kill him,’ she said. ‘He’s already dead. He’s a Zombie.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Bond slowly. ‘It’s quite an impressive arrangement. Would you try?’

She looked out of the window, then back at him. ‘As a last resort,’ she admitted unwillingly. ‘But don’t forget I come from Haiti. My brain tells me I could kill him, but…’ She made a helpless gesture with her hands. ‘…my instinct tells me I couldn’t.’

Interestingly, after saying really clearly multiple times that the fear of the supernatural is inherent to the African race, Solitaire's childhood in Haiti has imbued her with the same instinctual connection. The book intentionally leaves it ambiguous as to whether the magic and Solitaire's fortune telling are actually real or if it's all just a load of hooey and Bond is the only sane man in the book.


She smiled at him docilely. ‘You must think me a hopeless fool,’ she said.

Bond reflected. ‘Not after reading all those books,’ he admitted. He put his hand across the table and covered hers with it. ‘When the time comes,’ he said, smiling, ‘I’ll cut a cross in my bullet. That used to work in the old days.’

She looked thoughtful. ‘I believe that if anybody can do it, you can,’ she said. ‘You hit him hard last night in exchange for what he did to you.’ She took his hand in hers and pressed it. ‘Now tell me what I must do.’

‘Bed,’ said Bond. He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. ‘Might as well get as much sleep as we can. We’ll slip off the train at Jacksonville and chance being spotted. Find another way down to the Coast.’

They got up. They stood facing each other in the swaying train.

Suddenly Bond reached out and took her in his right arm. Her arms went round his neck and they kissed passionately. He pressed her up against the swaying wall and held her there. She took his face between her two hands and held it away, panting.

Her eyes were bright and hot. Then she brought his lips against hers again and kissed him long and lasciviously, as if she was the man and he the woman.

Bond cursed the broken hand that prevented him exploring her body, taking her. He freed his right hand and put it between their bodies, feeling her hard breasts, each with its pointed stigma of desire. He slipped it down her back until it came to the cleft at the base of her spine and he let it rest there, holding the centre of her body hard against him until they had kissed enough.

She took her arms away from around his neck and pushed him away.

‘I hoped I would one day kiss a man like that,’ she said. ‘And when I first saw you, I knew it would be you.’

Fortunately, we're spared a more extensive scene by Bond's broken pinky. They eventually separate and start heading to bed.


‘We’ll just see if we have company next door,’ he said.

He softly pulled the wedge away from under the communicating door and gently turned the lock. He took the Beretta out of its holster, thumbed back the safety-catch and gestured to her to pull open the door so that she was behind it. He gave the signal and she wrenched it quickly open. The empty compartment yawned sarcastically at them.

Bond smiled at her and shrugged his shoulders.

‘Call me when you’re ready,’ he said and went in and closed the door.

As Solitaire prepares for bed, Bond looks over the rooms to see if he can identify any other means of taking them out. He dismisses the air vent in the ceiling, as it would kill the entire car, and the waste pipes leading down from the lavatory because of the kind of acrobatics that would be needed to insert a bomb up into the toilet from a moving train. The doors were the only viable place for someone to break in.


The bedclothes were pulled up round her shoulder. Bond guessed that she was naked. Her black hair fell away from her head in a dark cascade. With only the reading-lamp on behind her, her face was in shadow. Bond climbed up the little aluminium ladder and leant towards her. She reached towards him and suddenly the bedclothes fell away from her shoulders.

‘drat you,’ said Bond. ‘You…’

She put her hand over his mouth.

‘“Allumeuse” is the nice word for it,’ she said. ‘It is fun for me to be able to tease such a strong silent man. You burn with such an angry flame. It is the only game I have to play with you and I shan’t be able to play it for long. How many days until your hand is well again?’

Bond bit hard into the soft hand over his mouth. She gave a little scream.

‘Not many,’ said Bond. ‘And then one day when you’re playing your little game you’ll suddenly find yourself pinned down like a butterfly.’

And the kink returns.

With their little game over, Bond leaves Solitaire and returns to his own berth. It's around 11:00 PM as the train crosses between Columbia and Savannah, Georgia. He has trouble sleeping, alternating with his light on and off and reading to try and take his mind off of everything. He finally starts to drift off at 1:00 AM...until he hears a little clink at the doors.


There was someone at the passage door and the lock was being softly tried.

Bond was immediately on the floor and moving silently on his bare feet. He gently pulled the wedge away from under the door to the next compartment and as gently pulled the bolt and opened the door. He crossed the next compartment and softly began to open the door to the corridor.

There was a deafening click as the bolt came back. He tore the door open and threw himself into the corridor, only to see a flying figure already nearing the forward end of the car.

If his two hands had been free he could have shot the man, but to open the doors he had to tuck his gun into the waistband of his trousers. Bond knew that pursuit would be hopeless. There were too many empty compartments into which the man could dodge and quietly close the door. Bond had worked all this out beforehand. He knew his only chance would be surprise and either a quick shot or the man’s surrender.

Looking down, Bond sees a piece of cheap ruled notebook paper folded up on the floor. He takes it back to his room, quietly sitting on his bed without waking Solitaire, and opens it. It's written in red ink:


hot men naked pictures Oh Witch [he read] do not slay me,
Spare me. His is the body.

The divine drummer declares that
When he rises with the dawn
He will sound his drums for YOU in the morning
Very early, very early, very early, very early.
Oh Witch that slays the children of men before they are fully matured
Oh Witch that slays the children of men before they are fully matured
The divine drummer declares that
When he rises with the dawn
He will sound his drums for YOU in the morning
Very early, very early, very early, very early.
We are addressing YOU And YOU will understand.

Bond lay down on his bed and thought.

Then he folded the paper and put it in his pocket-book.

He lay on his back and looked at nothing, waiting for day-break.

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Apr 23, 2014

normal size penis porn Goodness no, now that wouldn't do at all!

Also, that poem on the paper is pamela anderson naked boobs It's a section of a Ghanese drum poem (traditionally transmitted through skilled drumming that replicates the tonal language with stock phrases) praising the materials and gods that allowed for the creation of the drums before launching into a description of the tribal chief's lineage. This particular section is pacifying the witches who could seize the drummer's wrists and cause him to make mistakes.

It's a bit of an unusual section to use, as while it looks threatening its meaning is really just a traditional stock prayer.

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Wheat Loaf
Feb 13, 2012


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For authors who weren't interested in that kind of moderating angle (say, with Spillane and Mike Hammer), you're in for quite the alien viewpoint. Hammer, for instance, loathes transexuals; the way Spillane writes about them makes them sound like one of the greatest abominations imaginable. (Hammer actually might make for a neat Let's Read, actually).

I have generally enjoyed what Hammer I've read, but a lot of the time it reads like a parody of the kind of hardboiled style developed by Hammett, Chandler, Macdonald etc.

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Sep 22, 2006

holy smoke sex scenes They smelled of pubs, and Wormwood Scrubs, and too many right-wing meetings.

So I twatted them with a magic yo-yo. Because, hell, why not?

Interesting to see that Fleming breaks one of the rules of fiction; he switches POVs mid-scene so that we get inside the heads of both Bond and Solitaire. (By 'rules' I mean 'generally accepted practices that critics get pissy about if you don't follow them'.)

So if anyone calls you on doing the same thing, just say "If it's good enough for Ian Fleming..."

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