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This is a really common trope that you see, treating the gods or otherwise representations of death as evil.

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He freed his right hand and put it between their bodies, feeling her hard breasts, each with its pointed stigma of desire.

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euro sex parties sexnastics Chapter 12: The Everglades


It was around five o’clock in the morning when they slipped off the train at Jacksonville.

It was still dark and the naked platforms of the great Florida junction were sparsely lit. The entrance to the subway was only a few yards from Car 245 and there was no sign of life on the sleeping train as they dived down the steps. Bond had told the attendant to keep the door of their compartment locked after they had gone and the blinds drawn and he thought there was quite a chance they would not be missed until the train reached St Petersburg.

They came out of the subway into the booking-hall. Bond verified that the next express for St Petersburg would be the Silver Meteor, the sister train of the Phantom, due at about nine o’clock, and he booked two Pullman seats on it. Then he took Solitaire’s arm and they walked out of the station into the warm dark street.

There were two or three all-night diners to choose from and they pushed through the door that announced ‘Good Eats’ in the brightest neon. It was the usual sleazy food-machine – two tired waitresses behind a zinc counter loaded with cigarettes and candy and paper-backs and comics. There was a big coffee percolator and a row of butane gas-rings. A door marked ‘Restroom’ concealed its dreadful secrets next to a door marked ‘Private’ which was probably the back entrance. A group of overalled men at one of the dozen stained crueted tables looked up briefly as they came in and then resumed their low conversation. Relief crews for the Diesels, Bond guessed.

There were four narrow booths on the right of the entrance and Bond and Solitaire slipped into one of them. They looked dully at the stained menu card.

After a time, one of the waitresses sauntered over and stood leaning against the partition, running her eyes over Solitaire’s clothes.

‘Orange juice, coffee, scrambled eggs, twice,’ said Bond briefly.

‘’Kay,’ said the girl. Her shoes lethargically scuffed the floor as she sauntered away.

‘The scrambled eggs’ll be cooked with milk,’ said Bond. ‘But one can’t eat boiled eggs in America. They look so disgusting without their shells, mixed up in a tea-cup the way they do them here. God knows where they learned the trick. From Germany, I suppose. And bad American coffee’s the worst in the world, worse even than in England. I suppose they can’t do much harm to the orange juice. After all we are in Florida now.’ He suddenly felt depressed by the thought of their four-hour wait in this unwashed, dog-eared atmosphere.

This is a hilarious image. James Bond and his Bond Girl escape danger by....sitting for 4 hours in a lovely 24/7 diner in Jacksonville.


‘Everybody’s making easy money in America these days,’ said Solitaire. ‘That’s always bad for the customer. All they want is to strip a quick dollar off you and toss you out. Wait till you get down to the coast. At this time of the year, Florida’s the biggest sucker-trap on earth. On the East Coast they fleece the millionaires. Where we’re going they just take it off the little man. Serves him right, of course. He goes there to die. He can’t take it with him.’

‘For heaven’s sake,’ said Bond, ‘what sort of a place are we going to?’

‘Everybody’s nearly dead in St Petersburg,’ explained Solitaire. ‘It’s the Great American Graveyard. When the bank clerk or the post-office worker or the railroad conductor reaches sixty he collects his pension or his annuity and goes to St Petersburg to get a few years’ sunshine before he dies. It’s called “The Sunshine City” The weather’s so good that the evening paper there, The Independent, is given away free any day the sun hasn’t shone by edition time. It only happens three or four times a year and it’s a fine advertisement. Everybody goes to bed around nine o’clock in the evening and during the day the old folks play shuffleboard and bridge, herds of them. There’s a couple of baseball teams down there, the “Kids“ and the “Kubs“, all over seventy-five! Then they play bowls, but most of the time they sit squashed together in droves on things called “Sidewalk Davenports“, rows of benches up and down the sidewalks of the main streets. They just sit in the sun and gossip and doze. It’s a terrifying sight, all these old people with their spectacles and hearing-aids and clicking false-teeth.’

It's been a few years since I've been to St. Pete, but I only live about 2 hours away. It doesn't really fit into this mold any more and is starting to become more of a proper "beach town". You know, beach bars and pirate stuff and fruity drinks. The Tampa area in general has really tried to embrace its loose pirate heritage for boosting tourism.

Bond asks Solitaire why Mr. Big would choose such a dreadful place to operate out of. It's obvious: there's basically no crime ("except cheating at bridge and Canasta", says Solitaire) so there's no real police force to contend with. The Coast Guard is more concerned with sponge fishing out of season and stopping smugglers from Cuba, so his yacht never really falls under suspicion. He has an agent, The Robber, down there that she suspects may have some connection to the communists in Cuba.


‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘St Petersburg is probably the most innocent town in America. Everything’s very “folksy” and “gracious”. It’s true there’s a place called “The Restorium”, a hospital for alcoholics. But very old ones, I suppose,’ she laughed, ‘and I expect they’re past doing anyone any harm. You’ll love it,’ she smiled maliciously at Bond. ‘You’ll probably want to settle down there for life and be an “Oldster” too. That’s the great word down there …“oldster”.’

‘God forbid,’ said Bond fervently. ‘It sounds rather like Bournemouth or Torquay. But a million times worse. I hope we don’t get into a shooting match with “The Robber” and his friends. We’d probably hurry a few hundred oldsters off to the cemetery with heart-failure. But isn’t there anyone young in this place?’

‘Oh yes,’ laughed Solitaire. ‘Plenty of them. All the local inhabitants who take the money off the oldsters, for instance. The people who own the motels and the trailer-camps. You could make plenty of money running the bingo tournaments. I’ll be your “barker” – the girl outside who gets the suckers in. Dear Mr Bond,’ she reached over and pressed his hand, ‘will you settle down with me and grow old gracefully in St Petersburg?’

Bond sat back and looked at her critically. ‘I want a long time of disgraceful living with you first,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’m probably better at that. But it suits me that they go to bed at nine down there.’

Her eyes smiled back at him. She took her hand away from his as their breakfast arrived. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You go to bed at nine. Then I shall slip out by the back door and go on the tiles with the Kids and the Kubs.’

The breakfast was as bad as Bond had prophesied.

Returning to the waiting room at the train station, they pass the time with Bond grilling Solitaire about Mr. Big's operations. She doesn't have much more information than he already knew; she was kept under strict guard by two black women as a virtual prisoner, rarely let out for anything but divining whether one of Mr. Big's captives was telling the truth. There's some implication that Solitaire was picking her answers based on sensing good or evil within them rather than actual truthfulness, which may suggest that her powers aren't as real as she claims.


The Silver Meteor came in on time and they were both relieved to be on their way again and to get away from the dreary world of the big junction.

The train sped on down through Florida, through the forests and swamps, stark and bewitched with Spanish moss, and through the mile upon mile of citrus groves.

All through the centre of the state the moss lent a dead, spectral feeling to the landscape. Even the little townships through which they passed had a grey skeletal aspect with their dried-up, sun-sucked clapboard houses. Only the citrus groves laden with fruit looked green and alive. Everything else seemed baked and desiccated with the heat.

Looking out at the gloomy silent withered forests, Bond thought that nothing could be living in them except bats and scorpions, horned toads and black widow spiders.

They had lunch and then suddenly the train was running along the Gulf of Mexico, through the mangrove swamps and palm groves, endless motels and caravan sites, and Bond caught the smell of the other Florida, the Florida of the advertisements, the land of ‘Miss Orange Blossom 1954’.

They left the train at Clearwater, the last station before St Petersburg. Bond took a cab and gave the address on Treasure Island, half an hour’s drive away. It was two o’clock and the sun blazed down out of a cloudless sky. Solitaire insisted on taking off her hat and veil. ‘It’s sticking to my face,’ she said. ‘Hardly a soul has ever seen me down here.’

Fleming's depiction of Florida is quite different from how you'd recognize it today. This is so early that even Disneyfree mexican nude pics land hasn't opened yet in California and we're still 19 years away from Walt Disney World suddenly infusing a ton of cash into the local economy and boosting real estate through the roof. My home metro area of Orlando is mostly prominent for being the largest city and having a lot of Air Force bases. By the time my mom moved into the area in 1979, the Longwood/Lake Mary area I live in was nothing but one-lane dirt roads surrounded by trees. Now it's a network of suburbs, strip malls, hipster food joints that I unironically go to, and classic car shows.

It's a stark contrast to New York City, where we were earlier. Only the businesses have really changed (and some, like the St. Regis Hotel, are still there!), while the buildings and streets remain the same. The parts of Florida that Bond is passing through have had whole mature free sex video cities spring up in the decades since.


A big negro with a face pitted with ancient smallpox was held up in his cab at the same time as they were checked at the intersection of Park Street and Central Avenue, where the Avenue runs on to the long Treasure Island causeway across the shallow waters of Boca Ciega Bay.

When the negro saw Solitaire’s profile his mouth fell open. He pulled his cab into the kerb and dived into a drugstore. He called a St Petersburg number.

‘Dis is Poxy,’ he said urgently into the mouthpiece. ‘Gimme da Robber ’n step on it. Dat you, Robber? Lissen, Da Big Man muss be n’town. Whaddya mean yuh jes talked wit him ’n New York? Ah jes seen his gal ’n a Clearwater cab, one of da Stassen Company’s. Headin’ over da Causeway. Sho Ahm sartin. Cross ma heart. Couldn mistake dat eyeful. Wid a man ’n a blue suit, grey Stetson. Seemed like a scar down his face. Whaddya mean, follow ’em? Ah jes couldn believe yuh wouldn tell me da Big Man wuz ’n town ef he wuz. Thought mebbe Ahd better check ’n make sho. Okay, okay. Ah’ll ketch da cab when he comes back over da Causeway, else at Clearwater. Okay, okay. Keep yo shirt on. Ah ain’t done nuthen wrong.’

The man called ‘The Robber’ was through to New York in five minutes. He had been warned about Bond but he couldn’t understand where Solitaire tied in to the picture. When he had finished talking to The Big Man he still didn’t know, but his instructions were quite definite.

He rang off and sat for a while drumming his fingers on his desk. Ten Grand for the job. He’d need two men. That would leave eight Grand for him. He licked his lips and called a poolroom in a downtown bar in Tampa.

Bond and Solitaire take the cab to The Everglades, a group of beach cabanas for rent overlooking the Gulf.


Bond went through a door marked ‘Office’ with Solitaire demurely at his heels. He rang a bell that said, ‘Manageress: Mrs Stuyvesant’, and a withered shrimp of a woman with blue-rinsed hair appeared and smiled with her pinched lips.

‘Yes?’ ‘Mr Leiter?’

‘Oh yes, you’re Mr Bryce. Cabana Number One, right down on the beach. Mr Leiter’s been expecting you since lunchtime. And …?’ She heliographed with her pince-nez towards Solitaire.

‘Mrs Bryce,’ said Bond.

‘Ah yes,’ said Mrs Stuyvesant, wishing to disbelieve. ‘Well, if you’d care to sign the register, I’m sure you and Mrs Bryce would like to freshen up after the journey. The full address, please. Thank you.’

She led them out and down the cement path to the end cottage on the left. She knocked and Leiter appeared. Bond had looked forward to a warm welcome, but Leiter seemed staggered to see him. His mouth hung open. His straw-coloured hair, still faintly black at the roots, looked like a haystack.

‘You haven’t met my wife, I think,’ said Bond.

‘No, no, I mean, yes. How do you do?’

The whole situation was beyond him. Forgetting Solitaire, he almost dragged Bond through the door. At the last moment he remembered the girl and seized her with his other hand and pulled her in too, banging the door shut with his heel so that Mrs Stuyvesant’s ‘I hope you have a happy …’ was guillotined before the ‘stay’.

Once inside, Leiter could still not take them in. He stood and gaped from one to the other.

As Leiter goes full , Bond takes stock of the cottage. The way Fleming describes it is so detailed that I can't help but imagine he's exactly replicating the details of an actual place he stayed in:


Bond dropped his suitcase on the floor of the little lobby. There were two doors. He pushed open the one on his right and held it for Solitaire. It was a small living-room that ran the width of the cottage and faced across the beach to the sea. It was pleasantly furnished with bamboo beach chairs upholstered in foam rubber covered with a red and green hibiscus chintz. Palm leaf matting covered the floor. The walls were duck’s-egg blue and in the centre of each was a colour print of tropical flowers in a bamboo frame. There was a large drum-shaped table in bamboo with a glass top. It held a bowl of flowers and a white telephone. There were broad windows facing the sea and to the right of them a door leading on to the beach. White plastic jalousies were drawn half up the windows to cut the glare from the sand.

The phone rings, knocking Leiter out of his trance as Bond lights up another cigarette. The call is from a police lieutenant, and Leiter tells him in surprise that Bond is alive and in one piece so they can call off the Homicide detectives. It turns out the train was stopped between Waldo and Ocala and some goons machine gunned and bombed Bond's compartment, unfortunately killing nobody except Baldwin standing out in the hall. With "Mr. and Mrs. Bryce" missing, Leiter was certain they had been kidnapped and had detectives out of Orlando looking all over for them. Bond tells Leiter what happened and gives him the drum poem that was left outside their compartment; Leiter figures it was meant to be found on the body as a warning sign.


‘Let me see,’ said Solitaire. She reached across for the paper.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s an elizabeth wong nude pix ouanga, a Voodoo fetish. It’s the invocation to the Drum Witch. It’s used by the Ashanti tribe in Africa when they want to kill someone. They use something like it in Haiti.’ She handed it back to Bond. ‘It was lucky you didn’t tell me about it,’ she said seriously. ‘I would still be having hysterics.’

That's...not exactly what my research indicated the poem is for.


‘I didn’t care for it myself,’ said Bond. ‘I felt it was bad news. Lucky we got off at Jacksonville. Poor Baldwin. We owe him a lot.’

RIP Baldwin.


He finished the story of the rest of their trip.

‘Anyone spot you when you left the train?’ asked Leiter.

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said Bond. ‘But we’d better keep Solitaire under cover until we can get her out. Thought we ought to fly her over to Jamaica tomorrow. I can get her looked after there till we come on.’

‘Sure,’ agreed Leiter. ‘We’ll put her in a charter plane at Tampa. Get her down to Miami by tomorrow lunch-time and she can take one of the afternoon services – KLM or Panam. Get her in by dinner-time tomorrow. Too late to do anything this afternoon.’

‘Is that all right, Solitaire?’ Bond asked her.

The girl was staring out of the window. Her eyes had the faraway look that Bond had seen before.

Suddenly she shivered.

Her eyes came back to Bond. She put out a hand and touched his sleeve.

‘Yes,’ she said. She hesitated. ‘Yes, I guess so.’

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Fleming's depiction of Florida is quite different from how you'd recognize it today. This is so early that even Disneyerin andrews nude fake land hasn't opened yet in California and we're still 19 years away from Walt Disney World suddenly infusing a ton of cash into the local economy and boosting real estate through the roof. My home metro area of Orlando is mostly prominent for being the largest city and having a lot of Air Force bases. By the time my mom moved into the area in 1979, the Longwood/Lake Mary area I live in was nothing but one-lane dirt roads surrounded by trees. Now it's a network of suburbs, strip malls, hipster food joints that I unironically go to, and classic car shows.

For another look at pre-Disney Orlando, check out Pat Frank's Alas, Babylon.

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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.

I've got a distinct suspicion it's because Solitaire wanted something he didn't and it's Not Manly to let women choose what to eat. Note that she doesn't get to choose either then or later in the diner; she eats what Bond orders.

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From these books, Ian Fleming seems like he’d be an awful dinner companion.

“Bosh Wellington! This American “slop. Joint.” Doesn’t serve steak tournedos with Hollandaise sauce? Well harrumph I’ll just have scrambled eggs!”
*the eggs at a diner are average*

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I've got a distinct suspicion it's because Solitaire wanted something he didn't and it's Not Manly to let women choose what to eat. Note that she doesn't get to choose either then or later in the diner; she eats what Bond orders.

It might be intended as some kind of characterization and scene-setting. Vesper orders her own food and Bond was quite taken with her, but she was a very different woman in a very different place. Solitaire is a bit more sheltered, in some ways, so mumble mumble mumble...

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It might be intended as some kind of characterization and scene-setting. Vesper orders her own food and Bond was quite taken with her, but she was a very different woman in a very different place. Solitaire is a bit more sheltered, in some ways, so mumble mumble mumble...

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the best videos porno Chapter 13: Death of a Pelican


Solitaire stood up.

‘I must go and tidy myself,’ she said. ‘I expect you’ve both got plenty to talk about.’

‘Of course,’ said Leiter, jumping up. ‘Crazy of me! You must be dead beat. Guess you’d better take James’s room and he can bed down with me.’

Solitaire followed him out into the little hall and Bond heard Leiter explaining the arrangement of the rooms.

In a moment Leiter came back with a bottle of Haig and Haig and some ice.

‘I’m forgetting my manners,’ he said. ‘We could both do with a drink. There’s a small pantry next to the bathroom and I’ve stocked it with all we’re likely to need!’

He fetched some soda water and they both took a long drink.

‘Let’s have the details,’ said Bond, sitting back. ‘Must have been the hell of a fine job.’

‘Sure was,’ agreed Leiter, ‘except for the shortage of corpses.’ He put his feet on the table and lit a cigarette.

How popular was Haig & Haig back in the 50s? It's been seen everywhere from Normandy to New York City to St. Petersburg.

Leiter summarizes for Bond exactly what happened to the train he bailed from. Mr. Big's men communicated heavily and his spy aboard the train hung a towel in the window of the compartment next to the "Bryce's" to signal which one to attack. On a long stretch of track running alongside a state highway between Waldo and Ocala, they tripped the emergency signals to force the train to stop. A stolen Buick pulled alongside and three of Mr. Big's men got out, sprayed the window of Bond's empty compartment with Thompson submachine guns, then threw a frag grenade in. The only casualty was Baldwin, who had been hiding from the gunfire in the corridor outside the door.


Bond laughed. ‘What an organization!’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s all beautifully covered up and alibied. What a man! He certainly seems to have the run of this country. Just shows how one can push a democracy around, what with sleeping girls sex video habeas corpus and human rights and all the rest. Glad we haven’t got him on our hands in England. Wooden truncheons wouldn’t make much of a dent in him. Well,’ he concluded, ‘that’s three times I’ve managed to get away with it. The pace is beginning to get a bit hot.’

Yeah, darn America for having...human rights for the accused?

Leiter says the free twink porn movies Secatur, Mr. Big's yacht, always comes straight from Jamaica to the Ourobouros bait factory in St. Petersburg. Bond quickly realizes that The Robber, Mr. Big's man down in Tarpon Springs, is probably operating out of Ourobouros and the Greek that's listed in the files as the manager is just a figurehead who probably has no clue what's going on with the gold smuggling.

The nina hartley sex pics Secatur left St. Petersburg a week before and is currently in Cuba. Customs didn't find anything, so Leiter isn't sure how the yacht is doing its smuggling. He gets on the phone to tell Orlando and Washington about Bond's survival so they can try to catch up to Mr. Big's man on the train. Solitaire is terrified to be left alone, but reluctantly allows them to go on the hunt.


He followed Leiter to his car on the Parkway feeling vaguely troubled. He couldn’t imagine that the girl could come to any harm in this peaceful, law-abiding place, or that The Big Man could conceivably have traced her to The Everglades, which was only one of a hundred similar beach establishments on Treasure Island. But he respected the extraordinary power of her intuitions and her attack of nerves made him uneasy.

The sight of Leiter’s car put these thoughts out of his mind.

Bond liked fast cars and he liked driving them. Most American cars bored him. They lacked personality and the patina of individual craftsmanship that European cars have. They were just ‘vehicles’, similar in shape and in colour, and even in the tone of their horns. Designed to serve for a year and then be turned in in part exchange for the next year’s model. All the fun of driving had been taken out of them with the abolition of a gear-change, with hydraulic-assisted steering and spongy suspension. All effort had been smoothed away and all of that close contact with the machine and the road that extracts skill and nerve from the European driver. To Bond, American cars were just beetle-shaped Dodgems in which you motored along with one hand on the wheel, the radio full on, and the power-operated windows closed to keep out the draughts.

But Leiter had got hold of an old Cord, one of the few American cars with a personality, and it cheered Bond to climb into the low-hung saloon, to hear the solid bite of the gears and the masculine tone of the wide exhaust. Fifteen years old, he reflected, yet still one of the most modern-looking cars in the world.

Cord is an old automobile brand that ceased production in 1937, so Leiter's car would likely be from the last production year. While they look sleek and had somewhat advanced features (like retractable headlights), the brand was killed by reliability and production problems. Maybe Tesla could learn something?


They swung on to the causeway and across the wide expanse of unrippled water that separates the twenty miles of narrow island from the broad peninsula sprawling with St Petersburg and its suburbs.

Already as they idled up Central Avenue on their way across the town to the Yacht Basin and the main harbour and the big hotels, Bond caught a whiff of the atmosphere that makes the town the ‘Old Folks Home’ of America. Everyone on the sidewalks had white hair, white or blue, and the famous Sidewalk Davenports that Solitaire had described were thick with oldsters sitting in rows like the starlings in Trafalgar Square.

Bond noted the small grudging mouths of the women, the sun gleaming on their pince-nez; the stringy, collapsed chests and arms of the men displayed to the sunshine in Truman shirts. The fluffy, sparse balls of hair on the women showing the pink scalp. The bony bald heads of the men. And, everywhere, a prattling camaraderie, a swapping of news and gossip, a making of folksy dates for the shuffleboard and the bridge-table, a handing round of letters from children and grandchildren, a tut-tutting about prices in the shops and the motels.

Treasure Island, where Bond's bungalow is, is a narrow island that's now home to plenty of beach resorts, bars, and pirate memorabilia. Central Avenue is the main road leading to downtown St. Petersburg; for almost its entire length until you hit downtown, it's just an identical grid of suburban streets, motels, and small diners that seem to stretch forever.

"Truman shirt" is an outdated term for a short-sleeved button-up shirt, like camp shirts, bowling shirts, or Hawaiian shirts. As you can probably guess from the name, President Truman was fond of wearing them in the summer when he got out of his suit. In January when this book takes place, St. Petersburg would be in the 60s or 70s Fahrenheit most of the time.


You didn’t have to be amongst them to hear it all. It was all in the nodding and twittering of the balls of blue fluff, the back-slapping and hawk-an-spitting of the little old baldheads.

‘It makes you want to climb right into the tomb and pull the lid down,’ said Leiter at Bond’s exclamations of horror. ‘You wait till we get out and walk. If they see your shadow coming up the sidewalk behind them they jump out of the way as if you were the Chief Cashier coming to look over their shoulders in the bank. It’s ghastly. Makes me think of the bank clerk who went home unexpectedly at midday and found the President of the bank sleeping with his wife. He went back and told his pals in the ledger department and said, “Gosh, fellers, he nearly caught me!”’

Bond laughed.

‘You can hear all the presentation gold watches ticking in their pockets,’ said Leiter. ‘Place is full of undertakers, and pawnshops stuffed with gold watches and masonic rings and bits of jet and lockets full of hair. Makes you shiver to think of it all. Wait till you go to “Aunt Milly’s Place” and see them all in droves mumbling over their corn-beef hash and cheeseburgers, trying to keep alive till ninety. It’ll frighten the life out of you. But they’re not all old down here. Take a look at that ad over there.’ He pointed towards a big hoarding on a deserted lot.

It was an advertisement for maternity clothes. ‘STUTZHEIMER & BLOCK,’ it said, ‘IT’S NEW! OUR ANTICIPATION DEPARTMENT, AND AFTER! CLOTHES FOR CHIPS (1-4) AND TWIGS (4-8).’

Bond groaned. ‘Let’s get away from here,’ he said. ‘This is really beyond the call of duty.’

Remember when the only image anyone had of James Bond was fantastic adventures in exotic places with hot babes? Now he's hiding out in a lovely 24-hour diner and gawking in horror at a retirement community in Florida.

They drive to the bay and then turn right (I'm guessing south?) to head down the waterfront harbor. In contrast to the streets full of old people, it's a typical district of wharves, warehouses, and the smell of fish. They stop a block away from Ourobouros and walk the rest of the way.


They left the car beside the harbour and sauntered along past a timber warehouse and some oil storage tanks. Then they turned left again towards the sea.

The side-road ended at a small weather-beaten wooden jetty that reached out twenty feet on barnacled piles into the bay. Right up against its open gate was a long low corrugated iron warehouse. Over its wide double doors was painted, black on white, ‘Ourobouros Inc. Live Worm and Bait Merchants. Coral, Shells, Tropical Fish. Wholesale only.’ In one of the double doors there was a smaller door with a gleaming Yale lock. On the door was a sign: ‘Private. Keep Out.’

Against this a man sat on a kitchen chair, its back tilted so that the door supported his weight. He was cleaning a rifle, a Remington 30 it looked like to Bond. He had a wooden toothpick sticking out of his mouth and a battered baseball cap on the back of his head. He was wearing a stained white singlet that revealed tufts of black hair under his arms, and slept-in white canvas trousers and rubber-soled sneakers. He was around forty and his face was as knotted and seamed as the mooring posts on the jetty. It was a thin, hatchet face, and the lips were thin too, and bloodless. His complexion was the colour of tobacco dust, a sort of yellowy-beige. He looked cruel and cold, like the bad man in a film about poker-players and gold mines.

Bond and Leiter walked past him and on to the pier. He didn’t look up from his rifle as they went past but Bond sensed that his eyes were following them.

‘If that isn’t The Robber,’ said Leiter, ‘it’s a blood relation.’ would you know?


A pelican, grey with a pale yellow head, was hunched on one of the mooring posts at the end of the jetty. He let them get very close, then reluctantly gave a few heavy beats of his wings and planed down towards the water. The two men stood and watched him flying slowly along just above the surface of the harbour. Suddenly he crashed clumsily down, his long bill snaking out and down in front of him. It came up clutching a small fish which he moodily swallowed. Then the heavy bird got up again and went on fishing, flying mostly into the sun so that its big shadow would give no warning. When Bond and Leiter turned to walk back down the jetty it gave up fishing and glided back to its post. It settled with a clatter of wings and resumed its thoughtful consideration of the late afternoon.

The man was still bent over his gun, wiping the mechanism with an oily rag.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Leiter. ‘You the manager of this wharf?’

‘Yep,’ said the man without looking up.

‘Wondered if there was any chance of mooring my boat here. Basin’s pretty crowded.’


Leiter took out his notecase. ‘Would twenty talk?’

‘Nope.’ The man gave a rattling hawk in his throat and spat directly between Bond and Leiter.

‘Hey,’ said Leiter. ‘You want to watch your manners.’

The man deliberated. He looked up at Leiter. He had small, close-set eyes as cruel as a painless dentist’s.

Leiter tries to give a fake name for his boat, but the man knows every boat in the basin and knows he's lying. As he finishes wiping down his gun, he starts slowly turning the rifle.


The gun slowly traversed Leiter’s stomach, then Bond’s. The two men stood like statues, not risking a move of the hand. The gun stopped pivoting. It was pointing down the wharf. The Robber looked briefly up, narrowed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The pelican gave a faint squawk and they heard its heavy body crash into the water. The echo of the shot boomed across the harbour.

‘What the hell d’you do that for?’ asked Bond furiously.

‘Practice,’ said the man, pumping another bullet into the breech.

The man runs the pair off the wharf finally. They're absolutely convinced that he must be The Robber despite the almost total lack of even circumstantial evidence, but they can't get in through the front. They agree to come back another time and try breaking in. Leiter ribs Bond about his attraction to Solitaire on the way.


They were still chaffing each other when they arrived at The Everglades and they were laughing when the grim Mrs Stuyvesant greeted them on the lawn.

‘Pardon me, Mr Leiter,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid we can’t allow music here. I can’t have the other guests disturbed at all hours.’

They looked at her in astonishment. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Stuyvesant,’ said Leiter. ‘I don’t quite get you.’

‘That big radiogram you had sent round,’ said Mrs Stuyvesant. ‘The men could hardly get the packing-case through the door.’

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How popular was Haig & Haig back in the 50s? It's been seen everywhere from Normandy to New York City to St. Petersburg.

At the time it was have been one of the most popular Scotch whiskies in the world, pretty much where Johnnie Walker is today (though I understand Bond drinks Macallan these days). Playboy was barely a spark this early in the 50s, but later (and through the 70s) you'd have been hard pressed to find an issue without at least one of Haig's ads in it. Their Five Star (now Gold Label) was the #1 best-selling whisky in Britain from the late 30s through the 70s, and Dimple or Pinch (depending on which side of the ocean you were on) would have been a pretty common and recognizable upgrade.

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‘Pardon me, Mr Leiter,’ she said. ‘But I’m afraid we can’t allow music here. I can’t have the other guests disturbed at all hours.’

They looked at her in astonishment. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Stuyvesant,’ said Leiter. ‘I don’t quite get you.’

‘That big radiogram you had sent round,’ said Mrs Stuyvesant. ‘The men could hardly get the packing-case through the door.’

"What the gently caress is a radiogram?"


In British English, a radiogram is a piece of furniture that combined a radio and record player. The word radiogram is a portmanteau of radio and gramophone. The corresponding term in American English is console.

Whoops, Fleming hosed up.
(I'm British and I'd never head that word before, but I'm only 30 so I guess it's a bit before my time.)

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If you've seen free korean sex movie License to Kill, this will trigger memories.


The girl had not put up much of a struggle.

When Leiter and Bond, leaving the manageress gaping on the lawn, raced down to the end cottage, they found her room untouched and the bedclothes barely rumpled.

The lock of her room had been forced with one swift wrench of a jemmy and then the two men must have just stood there with guns in their hands.

‘Get going, Lady. Get your clothes on. Try any tricks and we’ll let the fresh air into you.’

Then they must have gagged her or knocked her out and doubled her into the packing-case and nailed it up. There were tyre marks at the back of the cottage where the truck had stood. Almost blocking the entrance hall was a huge old-fashioned radiogram. Second-hand it must have cost them under fifty bucks.

Bond could see the expression of blind terror on Solitaire’s face as if she was standing before him. He cursed himself bitterly for leaving her alone. He couldn’t guess how she had been traced so quickly. It was just another example of The Big Man’s machine.

Leiter gets on the phone to FBI headquarters in Tampa, ordering them to search the highways, airports, and railroad terminals. He tells Bond to interrogate Mrs. Stuyvesant, pretending that it was a routine burglary and that "Mrs. Bryce" skipped off with the men. Bond looks and finds Solitaire's purse hidden under the bed, presumably where she kicked it during her kidnapping; he takes a small knife and cuts out the lining, taking the $5000 cash she had hidden inside.

Around 8:00 PM, they finish their routine work cleaning up and covering their bases and head to the resort's central dining room. The rest of the guests seem to be looking at them with fear; it sounds like they've had plenty of rumors going around about the burglary.


Bond and Leiter were shown to a bad table near the service door. The set dinner was a string of inflated English and pidgin French. What it came down to was tomato juice, boiled fish with a white sauce, a strip of frozen turkey with a dab of cranberry, and a wedge of lemon curd surmounted by a whorl of stiff cream substitute. They munched it down gloomily while the dining-room emptied of its oldster couples and the table lights went out one by one. Fingerbowls, in which floated one hibiscus petal, was the final gracious touch to their meal.

It sounds like Fleming was trying to invent the most boring possible dinner you could be served in America.

Bond gets drunk enough to dull his feelings about the night (considering how much he drinks, presumably an entire bottle of scotch) and heads to bed, sleeping in Solitaire's room. He makes up his mind to go after The Robber in the morning and strangle the truth out of him.

He wakes up at 8:00 AM, cursing at how late he slept in. After cleaning up, he goes to the living room and finds it empty except for a half-full bottle of whiskey and an ashtray full of cigarette butts. There's an envelope on the chair by the door.


traci lords legal porn Got to thinking and don’t feel like sleep. It’s about five a.m. Going to visit the worm-and-bait store. All same early bird. Odd that trick-shot artist was sitting there while S. was being snatched. As if he knew we were in town and was ready for trouble in case the snatch went wrong. If I’m not back by ten, call out the militia. Tampa 88. FELIX  

Bond didn’t wait. While he shaved and dressed he ordered some coffee and rolls and a cab. In just over ten minutes he had got them all and had scalded himself with the coffee. He was leaving the cottage when he heard the telephone ring in the living-room. He ran back.

‘Mr Bryce? Mound Park Hospital speaking,’ said a voice. ‘Emergency ward. Doctor Roberts. We have a Mr Leiter here who’s asking for you. Can you come right over?’[

‘God Almighty,’ said Bond, gripped with fear. ‘What’s the matter with him. Is he bad?’

‘Nothing to worry about,’ said the voice. ‘Automobile accident. Looks like a hit-and-run job. Slight concussion. Can you come over? He seems to want you.’

‘Of course,’ said Bond, relieved. ‘Be there right away.’

Bond guesses it's code for "I got beaten up and left in the street", so he hurries across the lawn and jumps in the cab. As they drive across the causeway, an ambulance passes going in the opposite direction toward Treasure Island.

The cab arrives at the hospital, just a few blocks from Ourobouros.


Bond paid off the cab and ran up the steps of the impressive building. There was a reception desk in the spacious entrance hall. A pretty nurse sat at the desk reading the ads in the St Petersburg Times.

‘Dr Roberts?’ inquired Bond.

‘Dr which?’ asked the girl looking at him with approval.

‘Dr Roberts, Emergency ward,’ said Bond impatiently. ‘Patient called Leiter, Felix Leiter. Brought in this morning.’

‘No doctor called Roberts here,’ said the girl. She ran a finger down a list on the desk. ‘And no patient called Leiter. Just a moment and I’ll call the ward. What did you say your name was?’

‘Bryce,’ said Bond. ‘John Bryce.’ He started to sweat profusely although it was quite cool in the hall. He wiped his wet hands on his trousers, fighting to keep from panic. The drat girl just didn’t know her job. Too pretty to be a nurse. Ought to have someone competent on the desk. He ground his teeth as she talked cheerfully into the telephone.

Bond really needs to work on his issue of immediately defaulting to "Girls suck at everything" when he doesn't get what he wants.


She put down the receiver. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bryce. Must be some mistake. No cases during the night and they’ve never heard of a Dr Roberts or a Mr Leiter. Sure you’ve got the right hospital?’

Bond races out of the hospital, jumping in a cab that's just finishing a drop-off. They race back to The Everglades.


Mrs Stuyvesant hurried out when she saw him leave the cab.

‘Your poor friend,’ she said without sympathy. ‘Really he should be more careful.’

‘Yes, Mrs Stuyvesant. What is it?’ said Bond impatiently.

‘The ambulance came just after you left.’ The woman’s eyes were gleaming with the bad news. ‘Seems Mr Leiter was in an accident with his car. They had to carry him to the cottage on a stretcher. Such a nice coloured man was in charge. He said Mr Leiter would be quite all right but he mustn’t be disturbed on any account. Poor boy! Face all covered with bandages. They said they’d make him comfortable and a doctor would be coming later. If there’s anything I can…’

Bond didn’t wait for more. He ran down the lawn to the cottage and dashed through the lobby into Leiter’s room.

There was the shape of a body on Leiter’s bed. It was covered with a sheet. Over the face, the sheet seemed to be motionless. Bond gritted his teeth as he leant over the bed. Was there a tiny flutter of movement?

Bond snatched the shroud down from the face. There was no face. Just something wrapped round and round with dirty bandages, like a white wasps’ nest.

He softly pulled the sheet down further. More bandages, still more roughly wound, with wet blood seeping through. Then the top of a sack which covered the lower half of the body. Everything soaked in blood.

There was a piece of paper protruding from a gap in the bandages where the mouth should have been.

Bond pulled it away and leant down. There was the faintest whisper of breath against his cheek. He snatched up the bedside telephone. It took minutes before he could make Tampa understand. Then the urgency in his voice got through. They would get to him in twenty minutes.

He put down the receiver and looked vaguely at the paper in his hand. It was a rough piece of white wrapping paper. Scrawled in pencil in ragged block letters were the words:  


And underneath in brackets:  


This scene is placed in young anime girl porn License to Kill, the second and final Timothy Dalton film. The villain, Sanchez, sends his men to perform the deed while Leiter is on his honeymoon; it also includes the surprise sex and murder of his wife, of course.


With the movements of a sleep-walker, Bond put the piece of paper down on the bedside table. Then he turned back to the body on the bed. He hardly dared touch it for fear that the tiny fluttering breath would suddenly cease. But he had to find out something. His fingers worked softly at the bandages on top of the head. Soon he uncovered some of the strands of hair. The hair was wet and he put his fingers to his mouth. There was a salt taste. He pulled out some strands of hair and looked closely at them. There was no more doubt.

He saw again the pale straw-coloured mop that used to hang down in disarray over the right eye, grey and humorous, and below it the wry, hawk-like face of the Texan with whom he had shared so many adventures. He thought of him for a moment, as he had been. Then he tucked the lock of hair back into the bandages and sat on the edge of the other bed and quietly watched over the body of his friend and wondered how much of it could be saved.

The police surgeon arrives with two detectives. Bond flatly tells them everything he knows; they've sent a squad car to Ourobouros on his tip. After the surgeon finishes, he tells Bond there's a 50/50 chance Leiter will survive. It looks like an animal attack: half his left leg and one arm completely gone, plus superficial damage to the face. They won't know for sure until they take him to the hospital and find traces of teeth.

The phone rings intermittently from all the different FBI, police, and government offices they're involved with, trying to get information. Finally, a police lieutenant calls them from a call box down by the docks.


They had been over The Robber’s place with a toothcomb. Nothing but tanks of fish and bait and cases of coral and shells. The Robber and two men who were down there in charge of the pumps and the water-heating had been taken in custody and grilled for an hour. Their alibis had been checked and found to be solid as the Empire State. The Robber had angrily demanded his mouthpiece and when the lawyer had finally been allowed to get to them they had been automatically sprung. No charge and no evidence to base one on. Dead-ends everywhere except that Leiter’s car had been found the other side of the yacht basin, a mile away from the wharf. A mass of fingerprints, but none that fitted the three men. Any suggestions?

‘Keep with it,’ said the senior man in the cottage who had introduced himself as Captain Franks. ‘Be along presently. Washington says we’ve got to get these men if it’s the last thing we do. Two top operatives flying down tonight. Time to get co-operation from the Police. I’ll tell ’em to get their stoolies working in Tampa. This isn’t only a St Petersburg job. ’Bye now.’

It was three o’clock. The police ambulance came and left again with the surgeon and the body that was so near to death. The two men left. They promised to keep in touch. They were anxious to know Bond’s plans. Bond was evasive. Said he’d have to talk to Washington. Meanwhile, could he have Leiter’s car? Yes, it would be brought round directly Records had finished with it.

When they had gone, Bond sat lost in thought. They had made sandwiches from the well-stocked pantry and Bond now finished these and had a stiff drink.

Bond gets another call, this time from the head of the CIA. He very politely informs Bond that the CIA and MI6 want him to move on to Jamaica at once and asks when they should expect him at Station C. He says he'll be taking a plane out to Nassau the next day. They also let him know that Mr. Big and his girlfriend were reported as leaving from Vero Beach via charter plane (a company too small for the FBI to have kept tabs on) to Havana, where the holly madison naked photo Secatur is still docked with no sailing date.


Bond thought for a while, then he picked up the telephone and spoke briefly to a man at the Eastern Garden Aquarium at Miami and consulted him about buying a live shark to keep in an ornamental lagoon.

‘Only place I ever heard of is right near you now, Mr Bryce,’ said the helpful voice. ‘“Ourobouros Worm and Bait.” They got sharks. Big ones. Do business with foreign zoos and suchlike. White, Tiger, even Hammerheads. They’ll be glad to help you. Costs a lot to feed ’em. You’re welcome. Any time you’re passing. ’Bye.’

Bond took out his gun and cleaned it, waiting for the night.

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This scene is placed in jennifer anniston naked photos License to Kill, the second and final Timothy Dalton film. The villain, Sanchez, sends his men to perform the deed while Leiter is on his honeymoon; it also includes the surprise sex and murder of his wife, of course.

And the lead henchman was Benicio Del Toro. These days, I tend to assume that the screenwriter wrote the script immediately after seeing dad fuck teen daughter Lethal Weapon because it really does feel like a Lethal Weapon movie more than a Bond one.

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And the lead henchman was Benicio Del Toro. These days, I tend to assume that the screenwriter wrote the script immediately after seeing top 100 porn websites Lethal Weapon because it really does feel like a Lethal Weapon movie more than a Bond one.

One point I remember confusing me when I first read this book, years ago, was Bond thinking about Leiter as "the Texan 3d star wars porn with whom he had shared so many adventures." I honestly wasn't sure if there were meant to be other stories that went in between this and free xxx sex stories Casino Royale because otherwise it doesn't really seem like they've had "so many adventures" together.

He's probably referring to each individual outing they've had as an "adventure", like going to Harlem is a separate one. The book establishes at the beginning that he hasn't seen Leiter since Royale-Les-Eaux.

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free porn videos wap Chapter 15: Midnight Among The Worms


Around six Bond packed his bag and paid the check. Mrs Stuyvesant was glad to see the last of him. The Everglades hadn’t experienced such alarums since the last hurricane.

Leiter’s car was back on the Boulevard and he drove it over to the town. He visited a hardware store and made various purchases. Then he had the biggest steak, rare, with French fries, he had ever seen. It was a small grill called Pete’s, dark and friendly. He drank a quarter of a pint of Old Grandad with the steak and had two cups of very strong coffee. With all this under his belt he began to feel more sanguine.

He spun out the meal and the drinks until nine o’clock. Then he studied a map of the city and took the car and made a wide detour that brought him within a block of The Robber’s wharf from the south. He ran the car down to the sea and got out.

It was a bright moonlit night and the buildings and warehouses threw great blocks of indigo shadow. The whole section seemed deserted and there was no sound except the quiet lapping of the small waves against the sea-wall and water gurgling under the empty wharves.

The top of the low sea-wall was about three feet wide. It was in shadow for the hundred yards or more that separated him from the long black outline of the Ourobouros warehouse.

Bond hears the high-pitched hum of the air pumps running the HVAC system of the building, keeping the aquariums inside temperature controlled. There's large windows to let in sunlight during the day and a back door; Bond quickly notes the leaded wires on it, likely a burglar alarm, so he ignores the door. Instead he finds a large discarded tire from the detritus tossed around the warehouse and some bricks, using it to make an unsteady platform to reach the window.

On his way to dinner, Bond had purchased a small glass cutter and hunk of putty. Under the cover of the HVAC system running, he starts cutting the glass and affixes the putty as a knob in the center.


While he worked he gazed through into the moonlit vistas of the huge repository. The endless rows of tanks stood on wooden trestles with narrow passages between. Down the centre of the building there was a wider passage. Under the trestles Bond could see long tanks and trays let into the floor. Just below him, broad racks covered with regiments of sea-shells jutted out from the walls. Most of the tanks were dark but in some a tiny strip of electric light glimmered spectrally and glinted on little fountains of bubbles rising from the weeds and sand. There was a light metal runway suspended from the roof over each row of tanks and Bond guessed that any individual tank could be lifted out and brought to the exit for shipment or to extract sick fish for quarantine. It was a window into a queer world and into a queer business. It was odd to think of all the worms and eels and fish stirring quietly in the night, the thousands of gills sighing and the multitude of antennae waving and pointing and transmitting their tiny radar signals to the dozing nerve-centres.

After about 15 minutes of work, the pane of glass pops free attached to the putty in Bond's hand. He takes off his steel-toed shoes and stuffs them inside his shirt in case he needs to use them for beating up someone and climbs in, gingerly moving aside some shells with his toes so he can lower himself down onto a shelf.


He was in the aquarium-fish section, and as he examined the labels he caught flashes of coloured light from the deep tanks and occasionally a piece of living jewellery would materialize and briefly goggle at him before he moved on.

There were all kinds – Swordtails, Guppies, Platys, Terras, Neons, Cichlids, Labyrinth and Paradise fish, and every variety of exotic Goldfish. Underneath, sunk in the floor, and most of them covered with chicken wire, there were tray upon tray swarming and heaving with worms and baits: white worms, micro worms, Daphnia, shrimp, and thick slimy clam worms. From these ground tanks, forests of tiny eyes looked up at his torch.

There was the foetid smell of a mangrove swamp in the air and the temperature was in the high seventies. Soon Bond began to sweat slightly and to long for the clean night air.

Bond moves to the central passageway and finds the poisonous fish section. Each tank appears to only have one specimen, covered in labels reading "VERY DANGEROUS" with skulls and crossbones. There's at least a hundred tanks of poisonous fish, all of them seemingly half full of mud or sand at the bottom.


He chose a tank containing a six-inch Scorpion Fish. He knew something of the habits of this deadly species and in particular that they do not strike, but poison only on contact.

The top of the tank was on a level with his waist. He took out a strong pocket-knife he had purchased and opened the longest blade. Then he leant over the tank and with his sleeve rolled up he deliberately aimed his knife at the centre of the craggy head between the overhung grottoes of the eye-sockets. As his hand broke the surface of the water the white dinosaur spines stood threateningly erect and the mottled stripes of the fish turned to a uniform muddy brown. Its broad, wing-like pectorals rose slightly, poised for flight.

Bond lunged swiftly, correcting his aim for the refraction from the surface of the tank. He pinned the bulging head down as the tail threshed wildly and slowly drew the fish towards him and up the glass side of the tank. He stood aside and whipped it out on to the floor, where it continued flapping and jumping despite its shattered skull.

He leant over the tank and plunged his hand deep into the centre of the mud and sand.

Yes, they were there. His hunch about the poison fish had been right. His fingers felt the close rows of coin deep under the mud, like counters in a box. They were in a flat tray. He could feel the wooden partitions. He pulled out a coin, rinsing it and his hand in the cleaner surface water as he did so. He shone his torch on it. It was as big as a modern five-shilling piece and nearly as thick and it was gold. It bore the arms of Spain and the head of Philip II.

He looked at the tank, measuring it. There must be a thousand coins in this one tank that no customs officer would think of disturbing. Ten to twenty thousand dollars’ worth, guarded by one poison-fanged Cerberus. These must be the cargo brought in by the big cock free porno Secatur on her last trip a week ago. A hundred tanks. Say one hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of gold per trip. Soon the trucks would be coming for the tanks and somewhere down the road men with rubber-coated tongs would extract the deadly fish and throw them back in the sea or burn them. The water and the mud would be emptied out and the gold coin washed and poured into bags. Then the bags would go to agents and the coins would trickle out on the market, each one strictly accounted for by Mr Big’s machine.

It was a scheme after Mr Big’s philosophy, effective, technically brilliant, almost foolproof.

This chapter only gets more "pulp detective novel" from here, but this is straight out of a two-fisted mystery.


Bond was full of admiration as he bent to the floor and speared the Scorpion Fish in the side. He dropped it back in the tank. There was no point in divulging his knowledge to the enemy.

It was as he turned away from the tank that all the lights in the warehouse suddenly blazed on and a voice of sharp authority said, ‘Don’t move an inch. Stick ’em up.’

As Bond took a rolling dive under the tank he caught a glimpse of the lank figure of The Robber squinting down the sights of his rifle about twenty yards away, up against the main entrance. As he dived he prayed that The Robber would miss, but also he prayed that the floor tank which was to take his dive would be one of the covered ones. It was. It was covered with chicken wire. Something snapped up at him as he hit the wire and sprawled clear in the next passageway. As he dived, the rifle cracked and the Scorpion Fish tank above his head splintered sharply and water gushed down.

Bond sprints down the corridor, a tank of angel fish exploding next to his head from another bullet. Bond and The Robber find themselves on opposite ends of the warehouse, 50 yards apart. The tanks are on stands, as Bond is reminded of when The Robber crouches down and starts shooting at his legs, blowing carboys and piles of conches and shellfish apart. Figuring two can play at this game, Bond fires two shots from his Beretta that shatter a tank over The Robber's head.


He immediately dropped to one knee and fired two shots at The Robber’s legs, but fifty yards for his small-calibre pistol was too much. There was the crash of another tank but the second shot clanged emptily into the iron entrance gates.

Then The Robber was shooting again and Bond could only dodge to and fro behind the cases and wait to be caught in the kneecap. Occasionally he fired a shot in return to make The Robber keep his distance, but he knew the battle was lost. The other man seemed to have endless ammunition. Bond had only two shots left in his gun and one fresh clip in his pocket.

As he shuttled to and fro, slipping on the rare fish that flapped wildly on the concrete, he even stooped to snatching up heavy queen conchs and helmet shells and hurling them towards the enemy. Often they burst impressively on top of some tank at The Robber’s end and added to the appalling racket inside the corrugated iron shed. But they were quite ineffective. He thought of shooting out the lights, but there were at least twenty of them in two rows.

Finally Bond decided to give up. He had one ruse to fall back on, and any change in the battle was better than exhausting himself at the wrong end of this deadly coconut-shy.

As he passed a row of cases of which the one near him was shattered, he pushed it on to the floor. It was still half full of rare Siamese Fighting Fish, and Bond was pleased with the expensive crash as the remains of the tank burst in fragments on the floor. A wide space was cleared on the trestle table, and after making two quick darts to pick up his shoes he dashed back to the table and jumped up.

With no target for The Robber to shoot at there was a moment’s silence save for the whine of the pumps, the sound of water dripping out of broken tanks and the flapping of dying fish. Bond slipped his shoes on and laced them tight.

‘Hey, Limey,’ called The Robber patiently. ‘Come on out or I start using pineapples. I been expectin’ you an’ I got plenty ammo.’

‘Guess I got to give up,’ answered Bond through cupped hands. ‘But only because you smashed one of my ankles.’

You may notice this is the exact same trick Bond pulled back in Harlem.


‘I’ll not shoot,’ called The Robber. ‘Drop your gun on the floor and come down the central passage with your hands up. We’ll have a quiet little talk.’

‘Guess I got no option,’ said Bond, putting hopelessness into his voice. He dropped his Beretta with a clatter on to the cement floor. He took the gold coin out of his pocket and clenched it in his bandaged left hand.

Dragging his left leg behind him, Bond limps up the central passage to meet The Robber; he's soaking wet and has a cut over one eye from the shattered aquariums Bond rained down on him. Bond notices that when he stops, his foot is sitting on a small obstruction in the cement floor.


He gestured with his rifle. ‘Higher,’ he said harshly.

Bond groaned and lifted his hands a few inches so that they were almost across his face, as if in defence.

Between the fingers he saw The Robber’s toes kick something sharply sideways and there was a faint clang as if a bolt had been drawn. Bond’s eyes glinted behind his hands and his jaw tightened. He knew now what had happened to Leiter.

The Robber came on, his hard, thin frame obscuring the spot where he had paused.

‘Christ,’ said Bond, ‘I gotta sit down. My leg won’t hold me.’

The Robber stopped a few feet away. ‘Go ahead and stand while I ask you a few questions, Limey.’ He bared his tobacco-stained teeth. ‘You’ll soon be lying down, and for keeps.’ The Robber stood and looked him over. Bond sagged. Behind the defeat in his face his brain was measuring in inches.

‘Nosey bastard,’ said The Robber…

At that moment Bond dropped the gold coin out of his left hand. It clanged on the cement floor and started to roll.

In the fraction of a second that The Robber’s eyes flickered down, Bond’s right foot in its steel-capped shoe lashed out to its full length. It kicked the rifle almost out of The Robber’s hands. At the same moment that The Robber pulled the trigger and the bullet crashed harmlessly through the glass ceiling, Bond launched himself in a dive at the man’s stomach, his two arms flailing.

Both hands connected with something soft and brought a grunt of agony. Pain shot through Bond’s left hand and he winced as the rifle crashed down across his back. He bore on into the man, blind to pain, hitting with both hands, his head down between hunched shoulders, forcing the man back and off his balance. As he felt the balance yield he straightened himself slightly and lashed out again with his steel-capped foot. It connected with The Robber’s kneecap. There was a scream of agony and the rifle clattered to the ground as The Robber tried to save himself. He was half way to the floor when Bond’s uppercut hit him and projected the body another few feet.

The Robber fell in the centre of the passage just opposite what Bond could now see was a drawn bolt in the floor.

As the body hit the ground a section of the floor turned swiftly on a central pivot and the body almost disappeared down the black opening of a wide trap-door in the concrete.

Once again, the villains get all the gadgets! Le Chiffre has a caltrop carpet deployed from his car trunk, Mr. Big has his elevator booth and a trap door shark pit in his warehouse, and Bond has a dinky little .25 and his shoes.

The Robber grabs the edge of the pivoting section of floor, his weight causing it to rest perfectly 90 degrees upright with him hanging from the top. Bond looks down into the darkness and hears water lapping against the buildings foundations, plus the sharks stirring from the sudden light pouring in.


‘Pull me out, friend. Give me a break. Pull me out. I can’t hold much longer. I’ll do anything you want. Tell you anything.’ The Robber’s voice was a hoarse whisper of supplication.

‘What happened to Solitaire?’ Bond stared down into the frenzied eyes.

‘The Big Man did it. Told me to fix a snatch. Two men in Tampa. Ask for Butch and The Lifer. Poolroom behind the “Oasis”. She came to no harm. Lemme out, pal.’

‘And the American, Leiter?’

The agonized face pleaded. ‘It was his fault. Called me out early this mornin’. Said the place was on fire. Seen it passing in his car. Held me up and brought me back in here. Wanted to search the place. Just fell through the trap. Accident. I swear it was his fault. We pulled him out before he was finished. He’ll be okay.’

Bond looked down coldly at the white fingers desperately clinging to the sharp edge of concrete. He knew that The Robber must have got the bolt back and somehow engineered Leiter over the trap. He could hear the man’s laugh of triumph as the floor swung open, could see the cruel smile as he pencilled the note and stuck it into the bandages when they had fished the half-eaten body out.

For a moment blind rage seized him.

He kicked out sharply, twice.

One short scream came up out of the depths. There was a splash and then a great commotion in the water.

Bond walked to the side of the trap-door and pushed the upright concrete slab. It revolved easily on its central pivot.

Just before its edges shut out the blackness below, Bond heard one terrible snuffling grunt as if a great pig was getting its mouth full. He knew it for the grunt that a shark makes as its hideous flat nose comes up out of the water and its sickle-shaped mouth closes on a floating carcass. He shuddered and kicked the bolt home with his foot.

Having just killed a man in cold blood, Bond picks up his gun and the gold coin and takes stock of the destroyed warehouse. He notes that with so many tanks shattered, there's no evidence for Mr. Big's men to figure out that their secret to smuggling the coins has been found out.


Bond grimly shut his mind to the horror beneath the floor of the warehouse. He turned off the lights and let himself out by the main entrance.

A small payment had been made on account of Solitaire and Leiter.

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One thing that came to mind after making the post is that the scene of The Robber's demise actually bears a very close resemblance to Bond's killing of Loque in pam andersons sex tapes For Your Eyes Only. It's not a shark pit, but the intention remains the same.

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I'll talk about it more when we get to that story, but nude and sexy video For Your Eyes Only was the only Moore film to really step away from the campiness and super suaveness. I can't think of any darker moment for Moore's Bond than this scene.

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It was two o’clock in the morning. Bond eased his car away from the sea-wall and moved off through the town on to 4th Street, the highway to Tampa.

He dawdled along down the four-lane concrete highway through the endless gauntlet of motels, trailer camps and roadside emporia selling beach furniture, sea-shells and concrete gnomes.

He stopped at the ‘Gulf Winds Bar and Snacks’ and ordered a double Old Grandad on the rocks. While the barman poured it he went into the washroom and cleaned himself up. The bandages on his left hand were covered with dirt and the hand throbbed painfully. The splint had broken on The Robber’s stomach. There was nothing Bond could do about it. His eyes were red with strain and lack of sleep. He went back to the bar, drank down the Bourbon and ordered another one. The barman looked like a college kid spending his holidays the hard way. He wanted to talk but there was no talk left in Bond. Bond sat and looked into his glass and thought about Leiter and The Robber and heard the sickening grunt of the feeding shark.

Bond is really feeling the Old Grand-Dad in this book. You'd almost think Fleming had a sponsorship with how much he's chugging down after getting on the train.


He paid and went out and on again over the Gandy Bridge, and the air of the Bay was cool on his face. At the end of the bridge he turned left towards the airport and stopped at the first motel that looked awake.

The middle-aged couple that owned the place were listening to late rhumba music from Cuba with a bottle of rye between them. Bond told a story of a blow-out on his way from Sarasota to Silver Springs. They weren’t interested. They were just glad to take his ten dollars. He drove his car up to the door of Room 5 and the man unlocked the door and turned on the light. There was a double bed and a shower and a chest-of-drawers and two chairs. The motif was white and blue. It looked clean and Bond put his bag down thankfully and said good night. He stripped and threw his clothes unfolded on to a chair. Then he took a quick shower, cleaned his teeth and gargled with a sharp mouthwash and climbed into bed.

He plunged at once into a calm untroubled sleep. It was the first night since he had arrived in America that did not threaten a fresh battle with his stars on the morrow.

He awoke at midday and walked down the road to a cafeteria where the short-order cook fixed him a delicious three-decker western sandwich and coffee. Then he came back to his room and wrote a detailed report to the F.B.I. at Tampa. He omitted all reference to the gold in the poison tanks for fear that The Big Man would close down his operations in Jamaica. The nature of these had still to be discovered. Bond knew that the damage he had done to the machine in America had no bearing on the heart of his assignment – the discovery of the source of the gold, its seizure, and the destruction, if possible, of Mr Big himself.

Unless I'm getting it really wrong, a western sandwich is simply a western omelette between two pieces of bread. A triple-decker would have a terrifying amount of calories.

Bond catches the plane to Jamaica with minutes to spare; he spots a man in an unnecessary raincoat standing around the airport souvenir shop without buying anything and quickly pegs him as an FBI agent. He figures they're very glad to see him finally leaving America instead of leaving more corpses for them to clean up. At 5:00 PM, they circle over Tampa and head east.


The plane swept on across the waist of Florida, across the acres of jungle and swamp without sign of human habitation, its wing-lights blinking green and red in the gathering dark. Soon they were over Miami and the monster chump-traps of the Eastern Seaboard, their arteries ablaze with Neon. Away to port, State Highway No. 1 disappeared up the coast in a golden ribbon of motels, gas stations and fruit-juice stands, up through Palm Beach and Daytona to Jacksonville, three hundred miles away. Bond thought of the breakfast he had had at Jacksonville not three days before and of all that had happened since. Soon, after a short stop at Nassau, he would be flying over Cuba, perhaps over the hideout where Mr Big had put her away. She would hear the noise of the plane and perhaps her instincts would make her look up towards the sky and feel that for a moment he was nearby.

Bond wondered if they would ever meet again and finish what they had begun. But that would have to come later, when his work was over – the prize at the end of the dangerous road that had started three weeks before in the fog of London.

They stop in Nassau, the "richest island in the world", long enough for a cocktail and dinner before continuing on. As they pass over Cuba, they run into a violent tropical storm that sends crockery crashing in the pantry as the plane bucks and shakes.


Bond gripped the arms of his chair so that his left hand hurt and cursed softly to himself.

He looked at the racks of magazines and thought: they won’t help much when the steel tires at fifteen thousand feet, nor will the eau-de-cologne in the washroom, nor the personalized meals, the free razor, the ‘orchid for your lady’ now trembling in the ice-box. Least of all the safety-belts and the life-jackets with the whistle that the steward demonstrates will really blow, nor the cute little rescue-lamp that glows red.

No, when the stresses are too great for the tired metal, when the ground mechanic who checks the de-icing equipment is crossed in love and skimps his job, way back in London, Idlewild, Gander, Montreal; when those or many things happen, then the little warm room with propellers in front falls straight down out of the sky into the sea or on to the land, heavier than air, fallible, vain. And the forty little heavier-than-air people, fallible within the plane’s fallibility, vain within its larger vanity, fall down with it and make little holes in the land or little splashes in the sea. Which is anyway their destiny, so why worry? You are linked to the ground mechanic’s careless fingers in Nassau just as you are linked to the weak head of the little man in the family saloon who mistakes the red light for the green and meets you head-on, for the first and last time, as you are motoring quietly home from some private sin. There’s nothing to do about it. You start to die the moment you are born. The whole of life is cutting through the pack with death. So take it easy. Light a cigarette and be grateful you are still alive as you suck the smoke deep into your lungs. Your stars have already let you come quite a long way since you left your mother’s womb and whimpered at the cold air of the world. Perhaps they’ll even let you get to Jamaica tonight. Can’t you hear those cheerful voices in the control tower that have said quietly all day long, ‘Come in B.O.A.C. Come in Panam. Come in KLM’? Can’t you hear them calling you down too: ‘Come in Transcarib. Come in Transcarib’? Don’t lose faith in your stars. Remember that hot stitch of time when you faced death from The Robber’s gun last night. You’re still alive, aren’t you? There, we’re out of it already. It was just to remind you that being quick with a gun doesn’t mean you’re really tough. Just don’t forget it. This happy landing at Palisadoes Airport comes to you by courtesy of your stars. Better thank them.

Bond unfastened his seat-belt and wiped the sweat off his face.

To hell with it, he thought, as he stepped down out of the huge strong plane.

Bond's philosophy of the world could best be summed up as "positive nihilism". Death is inevitable, and his business only means it comes faster than it would for the rest of us. He gives little thought to his unhealthy habits - smoking several packs a day, drinking enough to kill a lesser man, eating the fattiest foods in the greatest quantities - because it isn't any worse for his health than just living. Once you accept that death is coming, nothing holds you back from enjoying life to the fullest.


Strangways, the chief Secret Service agent for the Caribbean, was at the airport to meet him and he was quickly through the Customs and Immigration and Finance Control.

It was nearly eleven and the night was quiet and hot. There was the shrill sound of crickets from the dildo cactus on both sides of the airport road and Bond gratefully drank in the sounds and smells of the tropics as the military pick-up cut across the corner of Kingston and took them up towards the gleaming, moonlit foothills of the Blue Mountains.

They talked in monosyllables until they were settled on the comfortable veranda of Strangways’s neat white house on the Junction Road below Stony Hill.

Strangways poured a strong whisky-and-soda for both of them and then gave a concise account of the whole of the Jamaica end of the case.

He was a lean, humorous man of about thirty-five, a former Lieutenant-Commander in the Special Branch of the R.N.V.R. He had a black patch over one eye and the sort of aquiline good looks that are associated with the bridges of destroyers. But his face was heavily lined under its tan and Bond sensed from his quick gestures and clipped sentences that he was nervous and highly strung. He was certainly efficient and he had a sense of humour, and he showed no signs of jealousy at someone from headquarters butting in on his territory. Bond felt that they would get on well together and he looked forward to the partnership.

I currently can't post the most readily available artwork of Strangways's book appearance yet. In the film adaptation of unsimulated sex scenes movies Dr. No he's played by Timothy Moxon; as this was the final appearance in the books, he's cut entirely from fat girl lesbian sex Live and Let Die along with changing Jamaica to the fictional San Monique.


This was the story that Strangways had to tell.

It had always been rumoured that there was treasure on the Isle of Surprise and everything that was known about Bloody Morgan supported the rumour.

The tiny island lay in the exact centre of Shark Bay, a small harbour that lies at the end of the Junction Road that runs across the thin waist of Jamaica from Kingston to the north coast.

The great buccaneer had made Shark Bay his headquarters. He liked to have the whole width of the island between himself and the Governor at Port Royal so that he could slip in and out of Jamaican waters in complete secrecy. The Governor also liked the arrangement. The Crown wished a blind eye to be turned on Morgan’s piracy until the Spaniards had been cleared out of the Caribbean. When this was accomplished, Morgan was rewarded with a Knighthood and the Governorship of Jamaica. Till then, his actions had to be disavowed to avoid a European war with Spain.

So, for the long period before the poacher turned gamekeeper, Morgan used Shark Bay as his sallyport. He built three houses on the neighbouring estate, christened Llanrumney after his birthplace in Wales. These houses were called ‘Morgan’s’, ‘The Doctor’s’ and ‘The Lady’s’. Buckles and coins are still turned up in the ruins of them.

His ships always anchored in Shark Bay and he careened them in the lee of the Isle of Surprise, a precipitous lump of coral and limestone that surges straight up out of the centre of the bay and is surmounted by a jungly plateau of about an acre.

This goes on for quite a while and is just Fleming showing off his love of pirates. Long story short, Captain Morgan was kicked off the Assembly of Jamaica in 1683 due to controversy over his continued dealing with pirates. He became a serious alcoholic and drank himself to death 5 years later; while Fleming claims that he died in poverty, historical records indicate that he owned 3 plantations with 129 slaves and had a decent personal fortune. According to rumor, his vast treasure hoard was left behind. For 200 years, people dug on the Isle of Surprise but found nothing.

Six months before Bond's assignment, a young fisherman from Shark Bay disappeared. A few weeks later, an anonymous syndicate from New York City purchased the island Llanrumney Estate is on. Another few weeks after that, the wild free porn video Secatur dropped anchor off the island and offloaded a huge crew that cut a stairway in the face of the rock and established Jamaican wattle and daub huts. They told customs they were there to catch poisonous fish and rare shells for Ourobouros in St. Petersburg.


For a week they carried out blasting operations on the island and it was given out that these were for the purpose of excavating a large fish-tank.

The nikki cox naked pics Secatur began a fortnightly shuttle-service with the Gulf of Mexico and watchers with binoculars confirmed that, before each sailing, consignments of portable fish-tanks were taken aboard. Always half a dozen men were left behind. Canoes approaching the island were warned off by a watchman, at the base of the steps in the cliff, who fished all day from a narrow jetty alongside which the bad girl sex stories Secatur on her visits moored with two anchors out, well sheltered from the prevailing north-easterly winds.

No one succeeded in landing on the island by daylight and, after two tragic attempts, nobody tried to gain access by night.

The first attempt was made by a local fisherman spurred on by the rumours of buried treasure that no talk of tropical fish could suppress. He had swum out one dark night and his body had been washed back over the reef next day. Sharks and barracuda had left nothing but the trunk and the remains of a thigh.

At about the time he should have reached the island the whole village of Shark Bay was awakened by the most horrible drumming noise. It seemed to come from inside the island. It was recognized as the beating of Voodoo drums. It started softly and rose slowly to a thunderous crescendo. Then it died down again and stopped. It lasted about five minutes.

From that moment the island was ju-ju, or obeah, as it is called in Jamaica, and even in daylight canoes kept at a safe distance.

By this time Strangways was interested and he made a full report to London. Since 1950 Jamaica had become an important strategic target, thanks to the development by Reynolds Metal and the Kaiser Corporation of huge bauxite deposits found on the island. So far as Strangways was concerned, the activities on Surprise might easily be the erection of a base for one-man submarines in the event of war, particularly since Shark Bay was within range of the route followed by the Reynolds ships to the new bauxite harbour at Ocho Rios, a few miles down the coast.

London followed the report up with Washington and it came to light that the New York syndicate that had purchased the island was wholly owned by Mr Big.

This was three months ago. Strangways was ordered to penetrate the island at all costs and find out what was going on. He mounted quite an operation. He rented a property on the western arm of Shark Bay called Beau Desert. It contained the ruins of one of the famous Jamaican Great Houses of the early nineteenth century and also a modern beach-house directly across from the family guy sex meg Secatur’s anchorage up against Surprise.

He brought down two very fine swimmers from the naval base at Bermuda and set up a permanent watch on the island through day- and night-glasses. Nothing of a suspicious nature was seen and on a dark calm night he sent out the two swimmers with instructions to make an underwater survey of the foundations of the island.

Strangways described his horror when, an hour after they had left to swim across the three hundred yards of water, the terrible drumming had started up somewhere inside the cliffs of the island.

That night the two men did not return.

On the next day they were both washed up at different parts of the bay. Or rather, the remains left by the shark and barracuda.

Bond interrupts Strangways. Sharks and barracudas aren't that aggressive out here and they hadn't had a single attack since 1942. Strangways agrees and likewise finds it unusual that the waters would be so dangerous.

Strangways is frustrated, saying that because the island is owned by an American it's made the investigative process via the Colonial Office and Washington much slower. They have no proof and Mr. Big has good lawyers and probably some people in Washington, so getting legitimate access to the island for a search is basically impossible.


‘What are the on top during sex Secatur’s movements?’ asked Bond.

‘Still in Cuba. Sailing in about a week, according to the C.I.A.’

‘How many trips has she done?’

‘About twenty.’

Bond multiplied one hundred and fifty thousand dollars by twenty. If his guess was right, Mr Big had already taken a million pounds in gold out of the island.

‘I’ve made some provisional arrangements for you,’ said Strangways. ‘There’s the house at Beau Desert. I’ve got you a car, Sunbeam Talbot coupé. New tyres. Fast. Right car for these roads. I’ve got a good man to act as your factotum. A Cayman Islander called Quarrel. Best swimmer and fisherman in the Caribbean. Terribly keen. Nice chap. And I’ve borrowed the West Indian Citrus Company’s rest-house at Manatee Bay. It’s the other end of the island. You could rest up there for a week and get in a bit of training until the Secatur comes in. You’ll need to be fit if you’re going to try to get over to Surprise, and I honestly believe that’s the only answer. Anything else I can do? I’ll be about, of course, but I’ll have to stay around Kingston to keep up communications with London and Washington. They’ll want to know everything we do. Anything else you’d like me to fix up?’

Bond had been making up his mind. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You might ask London to get the Admiralty to lend us one of their frogmen suits complete with compressed-air bottles. Plenty of spares. And a couple of good underwater harpoon guns. The French ones called “Champion” are the best. Good underwater torch. A commando dagger. All the dope they can get from the Natural History Museum on barracuda and shark. And some of that shark-repellent stuff the Americans used in the Pacific. Ask B.O.A.C. to fly it all out on their direct service.’

Bond paused. ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘And one of those things our saboteurs used against ships in the war. Limpet mine, with assorted fuses.’

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nys sex offender locator Chapter 17: The Undertaker's Wind


Paw-paw with a slice of green lime, a dish piled with red bananas, purple star-apples and tangerines, scrambled eggs and bacon, Blue Mountain coffee – the most delicious in the world – Jamaican marmalade, almost black, and guava jelly.

As Bond, wearing shorts and sandals, had his breakfast on the veranda and gazed down on the sunlit panorama of Kingston and Port Royal, he thought how lucky he was and what wonderful moments of consolation there were for the darkness and danger of his profession.

Bond knew Jamaica well. He had been there on a long assignment just after the war when the Communist headquarters in Cuba was trying to infiltrate the Jamaican labour unions. It had been an untidy and inconclusive job but he had grown to love the great green island and its staunch, humorous people. Now he was glad to be back and to have a whole week of respite before the grim work began again.

Fleming doesn't even wait for the chapter to start before gushing about Jamaican food. Ordinarily never straying from his very British/American breakfast of bacon and eggs, Bond piles his plate high with fruit. Blue Mountain coffee is a sweet, mild coffee with a reputation as one of the most expensive in the world, so Fleming's audience likely never would have seen a single cup in their lives.


After breakfast, Strangways appeared on the veranda with a tall brown-skinned man in a faded blue shirt and old brown twill trousers.

This was Quarrel, the Cayman Islander, and Bond liked him immediately. There was the blood of Cromwellian soldiers and buccaneers in him and his face was strong and angular and his mouth was almost severe. His eyes were grey. It was only the spatulate nose and the pale palms of his hands that were negroid.

Bond shook him by the hand.

‘Good morning, Captain,’ said Quarrel. Coming from the most famous race of seamen in the world, this was the highest title he knew. But there was no desire to please, or humility, in his voice. He was speaking as mate of the ship and his manner was straightforward and candid.

That moment defined their relationship. It remained that of a Scots laird with his head stalker; authority was unspoken and there was no room for servility.

This is where I have to do something awkward and spoil a much later book because of the way the adaptations messed up continuity. Quarrel reappears in teen girls and boy Dr. No and is killed toward the end of the book. This creates a bit of a problem because auto insurance teen drivers Dr. No was the first book to be adapted, long before watch sex moves free Live And Let Die. While that's a much looser adaptation, they still wanted to include Quarrel but obviously couldn't just un-roast him. They solve this by introducing his son, Quarrel Jr., as a temporary replacement.

The original Quarrel was played by John Kitzmiller, an American actor who mostly worked in Europe; Quarrel was one of his last roles before dying 3 years after its release from liver failure. Quarrel Jr. was played by Roy Stewart, a Jamaican actor and stuntman who worked very heavily in Britain, with their dearth of readily available black stuntmen. He died in 2008 at the age of 83.


After discussing their plans, Bond took the wheel of the little car Quarrel had brought up from Kingston and they started on up the Junction Road, leaving Strangways to busy himself with Bond’s requirements.

They had got off before nine and it was still cool as they crossed the mountains that run along Jamaica’s back like the central ridges of a crocodile’s armour. The road wound down towards the northern plains through some of the most beautiful scenery in the world, the tropical vegetation changing with the altitude. The green flanks of the uplands, all feathered with bamboo interspersed with the dark, glinting green of breadfruit and the sudden Bengal fire of Flame of the Forest, gave way to the lower forests of ebony, mahogany, mahoe and logwood. And when they reached the plains of Agualta Vale the green sea of sugar-cane and bananas stretched away to where the distant fringe of glittering shrapnel bursts marked the palm groves along the north coast.

The Sunbeam Talbot that Bond is driving is a sporty British car. Jamaica is a Commonwealth holding and was still under almost full British control in 1952, so their vehicles would have mostly or entirely been British imports.

Jamaica is a very mountainous island and the roads and safety awareness of drivers are both lacking. My aunt is Jamaican and would talk about how it was expected of every driver to honk when they were going around a curve just in case one party or the other wasn't on the correct side of the road.


Quarrel was a good companion on the drive and a wonderful guide. He talked about the trap-door spiders as they passed through the famous palm-gardens of Castleton, he told about a fight he had witnessed between a giant centipede and a scorpion and he explained the difference between the male and female paw-paw. He described the poisons of the forest and the healing properties of tropical herbs, the pressure the palm kernel develops to break open its coconut, the length of a humming-bird’s tongue, and how crocodiles carry their young in their mouths laid lengthways like sardines in a tin.

He spoke exactly but without expertise, using Jamaican language in which plants ‘strive’ or ‘quail’, moths are ‘bats’, and ‘love’ is used instead of ‘like’. As he talked he would raise his hand in greeting to the people on the road and they would wave back and shout his name.

‘You seem to know a lot of people,’ said Bond as the driver of a bulging bus with ROMANCE in large letters over the windshield gave him a couple of welcoming blasts on his wind-horn.

‘I bin watching Surprise for tree muns, Cap’n,’ answered Quarrel, ‘’n I been travelling this road twice a week. Everyone soon know you in Jamaica. They got good eyes.’

At 10:30 AM they pass through Port Maria, then branch off along a small road to Shark Bay. It's a crescent-shaped bay about 3/4 of a mile wide, the water rippled by the edge of the Trade Winds from the Gulf of Mexico. In the center of the crescent a mile out is the Isle of Surprise, a nearly round island covered in green foliage. They can see the thatched roof huts on the island, but no signs of life except a wisp of smoke.

While the Isle of Surprise is fictional, it shouldn't surprise you to find out that its position near Port Maria also places it in the same part of Jamaica as Goldeneye estate.

Strangways has rented them accommodations at Beau Desert, a 19th century mansion deep in the trees behind the sandy white beach. Just 300 yards of water separate Beau Desert from the cinthia moura nude pics Secatur's port of call.


In all, Bond spent an hour reconnoitring the place, then, without going near their house or the village, they turned the car and got back on the main coast road.

They drove on through the beautiful little banana port of Oracabessa and Ocho Rios with its huge new bauxite plant, along the north shore to Montego Bay, two hours away. It was now February and the season was in full swing. The little village and the straggle of large hotels were bathed in the four months gold-rush that sees them through the whole year. They stopped at a rest-house on the other side of the wide bay and had lunch and then drove on through the heat of the afternoon to the western tip of the island, two hours further on.

Here, because of the huge coastal swamps, nothing has happened since Columbus used Manatee Bay as a casual anchorage. Jamaican fishermen have taken the place of the Arawak Indians, but otherwise there is the impression that time has stood still.

Bond thought it the most beautiful beach he had ever seen, five miles of white sand sloping easily into the breakers and, behind, the palm trees marching in graceful disarray to the horizon. Under them, the grey canoes were pulled up beside pink mounds of discarded conch shells, and among them smoke rose from the palm thatch cabins of the fishermen in the shade between the swamp-lands and the sea.

In a clearing among the cabins, set on a rough lawn of Bahama grass, was the house on stilts built as a weekend cottage for the employees of the West Indian Citrus Company. It was built on stilts to keep the termites at bay and it was closely wired against mosquito and sandfly. Bond drove off the rough track and parked under the house. While Quarrel chose two rooms and made them comfortable Bond put a towel round his waist and walked through the palm trees to the sea, twenty yards away.

For an hour he swam and lazed in the warm buoyant water, thinking of Surprise and its secret, fixing these three hundred yards in his mind, wondering about the shark and barracuda and the other hazards of the sea, that great library of books one cannot read.

Walking back to the little wooden bungalow, Bond picked up his first sandfly bites. Quarrel chuckled when he saw the flat bumps on his back that would soon start to itch maddeningly.

‘Can’t do nuthen to keep them away, Cap’n,’ he said. ‘But Ah kin stop them ticklin’. You best take a shower first to git the salt off. They only bites hard for an hour in the evenin’ and then they likes salt with their dinner.’

Quarrel gives Bond some medicine that smells of creosote to help with the sandfly bites. As the night falls, there's a short lull in the wind before it picks up again.


Quarrel jerked his head towards the window.

‘De “Undertaker’s Wind”,’ he commented.

‘How’s that?’ asked Bond, startled.

‘On-and-off shore breeze de sailors call it,’ said Quarrel. ‘De Undertaker blow de bad air out of de Island night-times from six till six. Then every morning de “Doctor’s Wind” come and blow de sweet air in from de sea. Leastwise dat’s what we calls dem in Jamaica.’

Quarrel looked quizzically at Bond.

‘Guess you and de Undertaker’s Wind got much de same job, Cap’n,’ he said half-seriously.

Bond laughed shortly. ‘Glad I don’t have to keep the same hours,’ he said.

As I mentioned at the start of this, the book was originally titled free anime porno video The Undertaker's Wind.


Outside, the crickets and the tree-frogs started to zing and tinkle and the great hawkmoths came to the wire-netting across the windows and clutched it, gazing with trembling ecstasy at the two oil lamps that hung from the cross-beams inside.

Occasionally a pair of fishermen, or a group of giggling girls, would walk by down the beach on their way to the single tiny rum-shop at the point of the bay. No man walked alone for fear of the duppies under the trees, or the rolling calf, the ghastly animal that comes rolling towards you along the ground, its legs in chains and flames coming out of its nostrils.

I see we're continuing the trend of all black people having an inherent fear of the supernatural. A "duppy" is a malevolent spirit in Caribbean folklore. It originates from a Central African belief that people have two souls: the good soul goes to the afterlife immediately to be judged, while the earthly spirit remains in the body for 3 days and proper precautions must be taken to prevent it from turning into a duppy.


While Quarrel prepared one of the succulent meals of fish and eggs and vegetables that were to be their staple diet, Bond sat under the light and pored over the books that Strangways had borrowed from the Jamaica Institute, books on the tropical sea and its denizens by Beebe and Allyn and others, and on sub-marine hunting by Cousteau and Hass. When he set out to cross those three hundred yards of sea, he was determined to do it expertly and to leave nothing to chance. He knew the calibre of Mr Big and he guessed that the defences of Surprise would be technically brilliant. He thought they would not involve simple weapons like guns and high explosives. Mr Big needed to work undisturbed by the police. He had to keep out of reach of the law. He guessed that somehow the forces of the sea had been harnessed to do The Big Man’s work for him and it was on these that he concentrated, on murder by shark and barracuda, perhaps by Manta Ray and octopus.

The facts set out by the naturalists were chilling and awe-inspiring, but the experiences of Cousteau in the Mediterranean and of Hass in the Red Sea and Caribbean were more encouraging.

That night Bond’s dreams were full of terrifying encounters with giant squids and sting rays, hammer heads and the saw-teeth of barracuda, so that he whimpered and sweated in his sleep.


The next day, Bond starts his diving training with Quarrel. Every day he swims a mile down the beach then jogs back to the bungalow before breakfast, then Quarrel would take him out to the reef to go spear fishing.


They hunted quietly, a few yards apart, Quarrel moving effortlessly in an element in which he was almost at home. Soon Bond too learned not to fight the sea but always to give and take with the currents and eddies and not to struggle against them, to use judo tactics in the water.

On the first day he came home cut and poisoned by the coral and with a dozen sea-egg spines in his side. Quarrel grinned and treated the wounds with merthiolate and Milton. Then, as every evening, he massaged Bond for half an hour with palm oil, talking quietly the while about the fish they had seen that day, explaining the habits of the carnivores and the ground-feeders, the camouflage of fish and their machinery for changing colour through the blood stream.

He also had never known fish to attack a man except in desperation or because there was blood in the water. He explained that fish are rarely hungry in tropical waters and that most of their weapons are for defence and not for attack. The only exception, he admitted, was the barracuda. ‘Mean fish,’ he called them, fearless since they knew no enemy except disease, capable of fifty miles an hour over short distances, and with the worst battery of teeth of any fish in the sea.

We're continuing the trend of Bond not being an expert in everything. In the films, it seems like there's nothing he can't do except for the most elaborate technical or physical skills. In the books, he needs training just to scuba dive.


One day they shot a ten-pounder that had been hanging round them, melting into the grey distances and then reappearing, silent, motionless in the upper water, its angry tiger’s eyes glaring at them so close that they could see its gills working softly and the teeth glinting like a wolf’s along its cruel underslung jaw.

Quarrel finally took the harpoon gun from Bond and shot it, badly, through the streamlined belly. It came straight for them, its jaws on their great hinges wide open like a striking rattlesnake. Bond made a wild lunge at it with his spear just as it was on to Quarrel. He missed but the spear went between its jaws. They immediately snapped shut on the steel shaft, and as the fish tore the spear out of Bond’s hand, Quarrel stabbed at it with his knife and it went mad, dashing through the water with its entrails hanging out, the spear clenched between its teeth, and the harpoon dangling from its body. Quarrel could scarcely hold the line as the fish tried to tear the wide barb through the walls of its stomach, but he moved with it towards a piece of submerged reef and climbed on to it and slowly pulled the fish in.

When Quarrel had cut its throat and they twisted the spear out of its jaws they found bright, deep scratches in the steel.

They took the fish ashore and Quarrel cut its head off and opened the jaws with a piece of wood. The upper jaw rose in an enormous gape, almost at right angles to the lower, and revealed a fantastic battery of razor-sharp teeth, so crowded that they overlapped like shingles on a roof. Even the tongue had several runs of small pointed recurved teeth and, in front, there were two huge fangs that projected forward like a snake’s.

Although it only weighed just over ten pounds, it was over four feet long, a nickel bullet of muscle and hard flesh.

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By the end of the week, Bond was sunburned and hard. He had cut his cigarettes down to ten a day and had not had a single drink. He could swim two miles without tiring, his hand was completely healed and all the scales of big city life had fallen from him.

Only ten cigarettes a day! What a paragon of health!


Quarrel was pleased. ‘You ready for Surprise, Cap’n,’ he said, ‘and I not like be de fish what tries to eat you.’

Towards nightfall on the eighth day they came back to the rest-house to find Strangways waiting for them.

‘I’ve got some good news for you,’ he said, ‘your friend Felix Leiter’s going to be all right. At all events he’s not going to die. They’ve had to amputate the remains of an arm and a leg. Now the plastic surgery chaps have started building up his face. They called me up from St Petersburg yesterday. Apparently he insisted on getting a message to you. First thing he thought of when he could think at all. Says he’s sorry not to be with you and to tell you not to get your feet wet – or at any rate, not as wet as he did.’

Bond’s heart was full. He looked out of the window. ‘Tell him to get well quickly,’ he said abruptly. ‘Tell him I miss him.’

I ship it.


He looked back into the room. ‘Now what about the gear? Everything okay?’

‘I’ve got it all,’ said Strangways, ‘and the jada pinket sex scene Secatur sails tomorrow for Surprise. After clearing at Port Maria, they should anchor before nightfall. Mr Big’s on board – only the second time he’s been down here. Oh and they’ve got a woman with them. Girl called Solitaire, according to the C.I.A. Know anything about her?’

‘Not much,’ said Bond. ‘But I’d like to get her away from him. She’s not one of his team.’

‘Sort of damsel in distress,’ said the romantic Strangways. ‘Good show. According to the C.I.A. she’s a corker.’

But Bond had gone out on the veranda and was gazing up at his stars.

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Never before in his life had there been so much to play for. The secret of the treasure, the defeat of a great criminal, the smashing of a Communist spy ring, and the destruction of a tentacle of SMERSH, the cruel machine that was his own private target. And now Solitaire, the ultimate personal prize.

The stars winked down their cryptic morse and he had no key to their cipher.

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tara reid nude videos Chapter 18: Beau Desert


Strangways went back alone after dinner and Bond agreed that they would follow at first light. Strangways left him a fresh pile of books and pamphlets on shark and barracuda and Bond went through them with rapt attention.

They added little to the practical lore he had picked up from Quarrel. They were all by scientists and much of the data on attacks was from the beaches of the Pacific where a flashing body in the thick surf would excite any inquisitive fish.

But there seemed to be general agreement that the danger to underwater swimmers with breathing equipment was far less than to surface swimmers. They might be attacked by almost any of the shark family, particularly when the shark was stimulated and excited by blood in the water, by the smell of a swimmer or by the sensory vibration set up by an injured person in the water. But they could sometimes be frightened off, he read, by loud noises in the water – even by shouting below the surface, and they would often flee if a swimmer chased them.

The most successful form of shark repellent, according to U.S. Naval Research Laboratory tests, was a combination of copper acetate and a dark nigrosine dye, and cakes of this mixture were apparently now attached to the Mae Wests of all the U.S. Armed Forces.

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Quarrel comes in as Bond is reading. He's not too enthused about the idea of shark repellent, but Bond reads him the details on the Navy Department trial showing how ravenous packs of sharks could be when meat was thrown in the water and how effective the repellent was. Bond's already got repellent on the way, but it won't be there for 48 hours and he may have to go without it.


They left before six in the morning and were at Beau Desert by half-past ten.

The property was a beautiful old plantation of about a thousand acres with the ruins of a fine Great House commanding the bay. It was given over to pimento and citrus inside a fringe of hardwoods and palms and had a history dating back to the time of Cromwell. The romantic name was in the fashion of the eighteenth century, when Jamaican properties were called Bellair, Bellevue, Boscobel, Harmony, Nymphenburg or had names like Prospect, Content or Repose.

A track, out of sight of the island in the bay, led them among the trees down to the little beach-house. After the week’s picnic at Manatee Bay, the bathrooms and comfortable bamboo furniture seemed very luxurious and the brightly coloured rugs were like velvet under Bond’s hardened feet.

Through the slats of the jalousies Bond looked across the little garden, aflame with hibiscus, bougainvillea and roses, which ended in the tiny crescent of white sand half obscured by the trunks of the palms. He sat on the arm of a chair and let his eyes go on, inch by inch, across the different blues and browns of sea and reef until they met the base of the island. The upper half of it was obscured by the dipping feathers of the palm trees in the foreground, but the stretch of vertical cliff within his vision looked grey and formidable in the half-shadow cast by the hot sun.

Quarrel cooks lunch on a primus stove while Bond takes a nap. When he wakes up, he goes over the gear Q Branch sent him; in the original books, there's no character who goes by Q. There's simply a Q Branch that's in charge of equipment, both spy gear and regular military or commercial products like Bond's diving equipment.


He tried on the thin black rubber frogman’s suit that covered him from the skull-tight helmet with the perspex window to the long black flippers over his feet. It fitted like a glove and Bond blessed the efficiency of M.’s ‘Q.’ Branch.

They tested the twin cylinders each containing a thousand litres of free air compressed to two hundred atmospheres and Bond found the manipulation of the demand valve and the reserve mechanism simple and fool-proof. At the depth he would be working the supply of air would last him for nearly two hours under water.

There was a new and powerful Champion harpoon gun and a commando dagger of the type devised by Wilkinsons during the war. Finally, in a box covered with danger-labels, there was the heavy limpet mine, a flat cone of explosive on a base, studded with wide copper bosses, so powerfully magnetized that the mine would stick like a clam to any metal hull. There were a dozen pencil-shaped metal and glass fuses set for ten minutes to eight hours and a careful memorandum of instructions that were as simple as the rest of the gear. There was even a box of benzedrine tablets to give endurance and heightened perception during the operation and an assortment of underwater torches, including one that threw only a tiny pencil-thin beam.

Bond will really try any drug except pot, won't he? He'll talk about how marijuana turns you into a dangerous criminal while smoking 80 cigarettes, drinking half a bottle of whiskey, and popping benzedrine.


Bond and Quarrel went through everything, testing joints and contacts until they were satisfied that nothing further remained to be done, then Bond went down among the trees and gazed and gazed at the waters of the bay, guessing at depths, tracing routes through the broken reef and estimating the path of the moon, which would be his only point of reckoning on the tortuous journey. At five o’clock, Strangways arrived with news of the free sex change porn Secatur.

‘They’ve cleared Port Maria,’ he said. ‘They’ll be here in ten minutes at the outside. Mr Big had a passport in the name of Gallia and the girl in the name of Latrelle, Simone Latrelle. She was in her cabin, prostrate with what the negro captain of the hillary duff sex video Secatur described as seasickness. It may have been. Scores of empty fish-tanks on board. More than a hundred. Otherwise nothing suspicious and they were given a clean bill. I wanted to go on board as one of the Customs team but I thought it best that the show should be absolutely normal. Mr Big stuck to his cabin. He was reading when they went to see his papers. How’s the gear?’

‘Perfect,’ said Bond. ‘Guess we’ll operate tomorrow night. Hope there’s a bit of a wind. If the air-bubbles are spotted we shall be in a mess.’

Quarrel came in. ‘She’s coming through the reef now, Cap’n.’

They went down as close to the shore as they dared and put their glasses on her.

She was a handsome craft, black with a grey super-structure, seventy foot long and built for speed – at least twenty knots, Bond guessed. He knew her history, built for a millionaire in 1947 and powered with twin General Motors Diesels, steel hull and all the latest wireless gadgets, including ship-to-shore telephone and Decca navigator. She was wearing the Red Ensign at her cross-trees and the Stars and Stripes aft and she was making about three knots through the twenty-foot opening of the reef.

At 70 feet, the free ffm sex movies Secatur is hardly the kind of super yacht you would see a film villain helming. This yacht, the high heels and porn Maid Marian 2, is a rebuilt 1931 yacht that's about 108 feet:

The free porn site passes Secatur anchors at the Isle of Surprise and is tied down securely with ropes to the dock. The huge figure of Mr. Big slowly, laboriously climbs down the steps, struggling against his bad heart. He's closely followed by Solitaire on a stretcher.


Then a chain of twelve men was established up the steps and the fish-tanks were handed up one by one. Quarrel counted a hundred and twenty of them.

Then some stores went up by the same method.

‘Not taking much up this time,’ commented Strangways when the operation ceased. ‘Only half a dozen cases gone up. Generally about fifty. Can’t be staying long.’

He had hardly finished speaking before a fish-tank, which their glasses showed was half full of water and sand, was being gingerly passed back to the ship, down the human ladder of hands. Then another and another, at about five-minute intervals.

Fish Noise brought up how heavy water is. This confirms that the aquariums really are being passed around half full of water and sand. A gallon of water is about 8 pounds, so if we're being charitable and using a 10-gallon tank you would have about 50 pounds of water before adding the sand and gold coins. At least the chain of hand-offs is more plausible than someone just hauling a hundred pounds in a fragile glass container himself.


‘My God,’ said Strangways. ‘They’re loading her up already. That means they’ll be sailing in the morning. Wonder if it means they’ve decided to clean the place out and that this is the last cargo.’

Bond watched carefully for a while and then they walked quietly up through the trees, leaving Quarrel to report developments.

They sat down in the living-room, and while Strangways mixed himself a whisky-and-soda, Bond gazed out of the window and marshalled his thoughts.

It was six o’clock and the fireflies were beginning to show in the shadows. The pale primrose moon was already high up in the eastern sky and the day was dying swiftly at their backs. A light breeze was ruffling the bay and the scrolls of small waves were unfurling on the white beach across the lawn. A few small clouds, pink and orange in the sunset, were meandering by overhead and the palm trees clashed softly in the cool Undertaker’s Wind.

‘Undertaker’s Wind,’ thought Bond and smiled wryly. So it would have to be tonight. The only chance, and the conditions were so nearly perfect. Except that the shark-repellent stuff would not arrive in time. And that was only a refinement. There was no excuse. This was what he had travelled two thousand miles and five deaths to do. And yet he shivered at the prospect of the dark adventure under the sea that he had already put off in his mind until tomorrow. Suddenly he loathed and feared the sea and everything in it. The millions of tiny antennae that would stir and point as he went by that night, the eyes that would wake and watch him, the pulses that would miss for the hundredth of a second and then go beating quietly on, the jelly tendrils that would grope and reach for him, as blind in the light as in the dark.

He would be walking through thousands of millions of secrets. In three hundred yards, alone and cold, he would be blundering through a forest of mystery towards a deadly citadel whose guardians had already killed three men. He, Bond, after a week’s paddling with his nanny beside him in the sunshine, was going out tonight, in a few hours, to walk alone under that black sheet of water. It was crazy, unthinkable. Bond’s flesh cringed and his fingers dug into his wet palms.

Quarrel comes in to update them. The yacht crew has turned on work lights to keep hauling gold as darkness falls. He estimates that they'll set sail around 6:00 AM because of the danger of traveling through the reef in the dark. Bond makes the decision to put foot to water at 10:00 PM sharp and asks Quarrel to prep his gear, including setting limpet mine fuses for 5 to 8 hours and a single 15 minute fuse in reserve just in case.


Bond looked at the whisky bottle, then he made up his mind and poured half a glass on top of three ice cubes. He took the box of benzedrine tablets out of his pocket and slipped a tablet between his teeth.

‘Here’s luck,’ he said to Strangways and took a deep swallow. He sat down and enjoyed the tough hot taste of his first drink for more than a week. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘tell me exactly what they do when they’re ready to sail. How long it takes them to clear the island and get through the reef. If it’s the last time, don’t forget they’ll be taking off an extra six men and some stores. Let’s try to work it out as closely as we can.’

In a moment Bond was immersed in a sea of practical details and the shadow of fear had fled back to the dark pools under the palm trees.

Exactly at ten o’clock, with nothing but anticipation and excitement in him, the shimmering black bat-like figure slipped off the rocks into ten feet of water and vanished under the sea.

‘Go safely,’ said Quarrel to the spot where Bond had disappeared. He crossed himself. Then he and Strangways moved back through the shadows to the house to sleep uneasily in watches and wait fearfully for what might come.

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Apr 22, 2005

In case anyone cares about the finer points of maritime flag etiquette (and although Fleming may have been a chocolate sailor, Bond certainly would have):

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She was wearing the Red Ensign at her cross-trees and the Stars and Stripes aft

Most boats wherever they are, and certainly one as big as the Secatur, will fly something called the civil ensign of the country in which she is registered (which is often, but not always, the national flag), in the most honoured place on board the ship, which tradition says is always the closest position to the rear (aft) end, which is usually also jordana brewster porn video not the highest position. When the ship is not in its home waters and is in the territorial waters of another country, it is traditional to fly the civil ensign (again, not necessarily the national flag) of the country that you are visiting, to demonstrate that you have respect for and will abide by the law of that country. The courtesy flag goes in the next most honoured place on board the ship, which free mobile lesbian clips is usually the highest position.

So, the Secatur flies the Stars and Stripes (the American civil ensign) at the rear to show she is an American vessel, and since Jamaica is still a British possession, the courtesy flag to be displayed is British. It's not the Union flag, though.

This is the Red Ensign, the British civil ensign. Members of various yacht clubs and other maritime organisations are allowed to fly the Blue Ensign (the same flag, except in blue) either plain or defaced by insignia, and just to make things as confusing as possible, the Blue Ensign is also the basis of quite a few other national and British Overseas Territory flags (most notably Australia and New Zealand, who thankfully do not have separate civil ensigns). The Royal Navy flies the White Ensign, a Cross of St George with the Union flag in the upper left quarter.

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asian teen fuck videos Goodness no, now that wouldn't do at all!

That's really neat! It's cool that Fleming actually knew enough about it to include an incredibly minor detail like that.

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But it soon became quite clear that while losers flourished everywhere, winners were a rare and reticent breed with preferences for camouflage and anonymity.

Biscuit Hider

Amphetamines didn't become controlled substances until the early 70s in most of the world and were used extensively by all belligerents in WW2 so it's about on the same level as taking a Tylenol when this story takes place.

Still lol at washing down some bennies with a slug of booze.

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