50 Shades of Bond

It was a phenomenon, suburban porn, that book that brought leather and sadomasochism to the middle-aged women of this world. I’m talking about another world where Ian Fleming is alive and kicking and burning through his James Bond novels, one a year since his suited debut in 1953. And this was a time where, fifty-something Bonds later, satire was the heavyweight champion of popular culture, and in this world, people still appreciated a good pun. 50 Shades of Bond was the novel that saw the suave secret agent swap his designer suit for a tacky leather number that can only be bought online or in the seediest adult shops.

Fleming said himself that he wanted to “raise a few eyebrows” but when the book hit the shelves, the response was far beyond his, or anyone’s expectations. I think the term he used was “carnivorous.” Those kinky suburban women turned into vultures and tore them mother-fucking bookshops to shreds. They dined on the raw, bloody sponge-meat of the faces of literature reviewers that said one bad thing about it. While James Bond – codename: Bondage – was sneaking into suburban homes and subverting their expectations from erotic novels, there were people in the real world (the one parallel to this one, to be exact) who were totally fruit-loop crazy. One woman divorced her husband and married her copy of the book. Another woman had the entire book tattooed on her skin. Children at school were playing with James Bond fetish dolls, leather-clad, and accompanied with the multitude of sexually-deviant partners, sidekicks, enemies, and lovers.

The Japanese built a flying robot James Bond for their entirely automated 50 Shades of Bond musical theatre adaptation. Its jetpacks started major fires in Tokyo, Osaka, and Hiroshima, before self-destructing on a Los Angeles beach moments after walking out of the ocean. The explosion and resulting shrapnel killed thirteen people and injured twenty-seven people and a golden retriever named Rusty. The dog’s wound got infected and he died a week later. Upon receiving news of Rusty’s death, YouTube users around the world participated in a petition to bring him back. To some people, this meant immortalising the creature as a bronze statue, or a piecemeal robot wearing his skin and fur. To others it meant cloning the dog and injecting it with hormones to turn it into an invincible killing machine, and then letting it loose on the Japanese scientists that manufactured the lethal Bond robot. There were five killer dog clones all up, each made by a different mad scientist who had come up with this idea for saving Rusty independently of each other. One was from Stockholm, one from New Orleans, one from Singapore, one from Auckland, and one from Moscow.

Within twenty-four hours of being set loose in Japan, the dogs had sniffed out the scientists and torn their bodies to pieces, rendering “project ghost-dog” a complete success. However, they formed a pack and roamed about the Japanese countryside, leaving a trail of corpses behind them. The locals referred to them as the “wandering death-hounds”, as they seemed to have no direction, and all they seemed to do was spill hot blood on the ground and move on. The dogs, that were once white, soon found their fur stained red, and it became an omen to the Japanese that the red dog was the sign of a savage death.

Once the news leaked out that these dogs were clones designed for destruction, there was a mass outcry, and a protest spread through Facebook after the blueprints for the James Bond robot were leaked online. People built these robots in their hundreds and thousands and sent them to the mad scientists in droves. Mane of the robots were faulty and they either turned on their makers in a violent display of mechanical disobedience, or took a detour and never made it to their destination. These robots turned up weeks, sometimes months later, burning down towns and cities and forests before exploding all over the place. More dogs were cloned and sent after the many robot-makers, and then teamed up with their brethren to ravage the countryside, to slick the roads with so much red that cars would skid and crash and serve up wet, pink meals in giant twisted metal containers.

It was a perpetual robot-clone apocalypse machine. The dogs crossed paths with the robots and some of them got burned. Others bit back and took their metal fetish Bonds in their bloody dog-clone gums and let the heaps of dead metal collapse in the snow with all their other kills. The dogs killed all the robot-makers and the robots killed all the clone-makers and more came forward to defend their team. They killed each other off again and too, they killed each other. They grew and fluctuated and died until the robot-makers and clone-makers were all dead and the world was populated entirely by robot James Bonds and the clones of all the dogs the Bonds had ever exploded and killed. The dogs bit the Bonds and the Bonds burned the dogs and then exploded and killed more dogs. The dogs killed and ate each other for sustenance while the Bonds kept exploding.

And then there was nothing. There was nothing at all. And we return to the real world that is on our plane of reality where James Bond is just a movie franchise, and not a flying fetish robot. And I can’t make up my mind if I want to watch Skyfall or not.


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