DOCTOR DELL - a James Bond story
by Dean Kilbride.
Part One - The Lazy Life
James Bond had never been the one
for long periods of televsion-watching. He
often found that he could not sit
still, and that he had to get up, stretch,
move around and then do something
else to ease the mind-numbing
repetitiveness of the screen, with
all those bad American situation comedies
pouring off of the scren like the
New Bubonic Plague. Bond would then mix
himself a De Bry's coffee, with
little milk and sugar, drink it slowly, then
revert back to the television, or
perhaps an Ambler. He couldn't do it all
in one long sitting. However, this
was an instance when Bond was not
himself. Tired, hungover, in
slippers and in his terrycloth robe, Bond was
sprawled backwards on his old
couch and was gazing, like a three-hour-old
cadaver, at his television set. It
had only been purchased two years ago,
due to pressure from his Scottish
housekeeper, and it had rarely been used
since. Only during periods of extreme
boredom would he stoop as low as to
watching the Nec. Damned Jap
imports, Bond thought.
He finally decided to snap out of it, and did so with a bang. He
the slippers, sprung off of the
couch, dropped to the carpet, and completed
twenty long, slow, torture-like
push-ups, giving his muscles no rest. Once
done, he then flipped over onto
his back, completed leg-lifts (with
straights legs and arms at his
sides) until his abdomen started screeching
in pain like a parrot. He then
lunged to his bare feet, completed twenty
two-touches, then went through
fifteen long minutes of arm and chest
exercises until he was dizzy and
feeling nauseous. It was his usual morning
routine, but he had skipped it for
some reason for the past three days. He
assumed he was just getting
sloppy. Bond scuffed into his bathroom, ran a
scalding hot shower, then bathed
beneath it. He then slammed the fawcett
onto "cold", and gritted
his teeth as the freezing wave of water pounded
down on him. He then turned off
the water, dressed in a baby blue sea-island
cotton shirt and navy trousers and
black cotton socks, and moved out into
the kitchen. he was feeling better
now. He'd been in a rut of laziness, and
disciplining himself was the only
way to repair it. He sat down with the
newspaper, fresh from the press,
and folded it open to the sports section to
check the progress of the
Liverpool soccer team.
The telephone rang and cracked the pleasing silence.
Bond sighed, stood, then walked over to the telephone. He answered
bluntly, with a, 'Yes?'
'James, this is Bill. M wants something done for her this
'Tell her to stuff off. I'm having a good morning. She can get
hound to do her dirty work.'
'Listen, it'll be fun. All you have to do is put powder in some
Bond was amused and surprised. What the hell was he talking about?
continued listening, despite
having made up that he wasn't going to do what
Bill Tanner told him.
'What the hell do you mean?' he asked, pulling a seat from the
'You remember that plastic surgeon? Dr Dell? The one who operated
two vagrant hoboes for free?'
'No,' Bond lied. he wasn't going to make life easy for Tanner.
'Of course you do. Said they were ugly and paid for surgery.'
'It rings a bell now,' Bond said. He set about brewing a coffee.
'It's a long story, but M is convinced, after a bit of
behalf of out men in Florence...'
'Italy?' Boned asked, rudely interrupting.
'Naturally. She thinks that Dell is a terrorist planning something
London. Some attack.'
'So? What does she want me to do? Put some washing powder in his
'No. Thannin salts. Causes hair to fall out. Yucky sort of stuff,
'What will that achieve? is this some kind of cock-and-bull story
'No, it's serious. We have to discredit Dell. Can't assassinate
him, no no
no. Illegal. The Italians are
willing to protect him. After all, he's from
Italy. He's taken up a job in
London to get into the inner sanctum of the
high-class social scene. What will
that achieve, you ask? If he can get
there, he can get most anywhere.
Who knows, he might leave a nice Parker at
a table at a dinner. Thermite in
the barrel, fuse inthe cap. Might leave his
coat in the coat-room during a
party. Might have a thermite in the pocket,
or lining, or such. It's the
perfect way to get access, to become a surgeon
like that. Popular guy. Easy way
of planting, that's for sure.'
'So you plan to stop him by making his hair fall out?'
'Of course. It's called discredit, James. Impression of impotence,
'He'll retire off to Florence, without any pride. Easy as that.
in your mail-box. In a paper
envelope. He's at a charity brunch in
Piccadilly. Address for the brunch
and invitation in a second envelope in
your box. Get the salts into his
boots, or his beard somehow, and then
leave. have fun, too.'
'Sure, Bill. I have to earn my pay somehow, don't I?'
Bond hung up, drank his coffee, then set about retrieving the
tin letter box.
Part Two - The Rough and Tumble
James Bond took the large
battelship-grey Bentley into the crowded car-park
behind the elegant TOPSOFF
convention hall. He applied the brakes beneath a
wide oak tree, was amused by the
acronym of the organisation (The Old
Plastic Surgeons Of Fairmont Fort,
Fairmont Fort being the building in which
the convention hall was housed),
and felt the slim Walther PPK in the
Berns-Martin beneath his left
armpit. Bond exited the car, pausing only to
straighten his bow tie in the
rear-view mirror, and walked over the gravel
park to the entrance of Fairmont
Fort. He brandished the elegant invitation
to the young "bouncer",
who permitted him to enter. Bond was pleased.
The convention hall of TOPSOFF was extremely elegant, with a long
dining table adorned with bowls of
succulent food. Crisp red velvet curtains
were draped over the cream and
gold wallpaper, despite the lack of any
windows. There were nine crystal chandeliers
hanging from the ceiling, and
shining grey marble slabs
underfoot. Elderly men and women milled around,
drinking champagne and talking.
All were well-dressed, like Bond. Bond had a
plan of action to get the salts
into Dell's boots, but first he needed to
find him. Bond obtained a
disappointing Australian red wine - an Eaglehawk
'98, and circled the TOPSOFF hall.
He soon discovered Doctor Dell, whom he
had seen on television after the
hobo incident, with his Castro-like beard
and thick web of white hair on his
scalp. He was talking and laughing with
an elderly couple, and was
drinking white wine. The glass was nearly empty.
Good for Bond. Very good. It would
Bond decided that his plan could escalate fairly quickly, so he
Walther, unseen, into a pot-plant
against the wall. He left it stuck there
in the tiny branches, screened by
the foliage. Bond then approached Dell,
and pushed him roughly by the
shoulder. Dell stumbled and almost dropped his
'Do you think you're funny?' Jones asked, shoving Dell again.
'What?' he replied, his Italian accent bristling.
'You. Doing that to those hoboes. Do you think I enjoyed that?'
'Well, I don't know who you are! I was just helping...' Dell
'Helping hoboes who are too lazy to get up off their asses and
about me, you fool?'
'Well, if you were among the unfortunate...'
'Don't give me that bull, Dell. You shouldn't discriminate.' Bond
him again, and he stumbled
'Get the hell out of here! Who do you think you are, attacking me?
'Bond. James Bond. And you owe me a Goddamned free surgery.'
'Well, that scar you have looks pretty bad. How'd you get it?
your bed of nails?'
Good, Bond thought. Dell was being belligerent. Bond splashed the
onto Dell's white shirt. Dell was
aghast, and shoved Bond back.
'All right, all right,' Bond said, waving his hands. He set down
'We'll settle it man-to-man.'
Dell looked around. Everybody in the TOPSOFF room was looking at
fighting men now. They were
amused. Dell didn't seem to care. The white wine
was making him braver than he
really was, and perhaps less embarrassed that
he might have normally been. That
was all a part of Bond's master plan.
'What? You mean fight? All right then, little English prat.' Dell
'Empty the contents of your pockets, first. Then remove your
can't have any kicking.'
Dell was surprised, but nevertheless, he placed his feminine gold
wristwatch, wallet and a
tooth-pick on the floor next to them. He then
removed his shoes and placed them
neatly on the ground. Bond emptied his
pockets and then stooped to remove
his shoes. As he bent down, he slid the
enevlope unnoticed from his
trousers, emptied the thannin salt into Dell's
shoes, then pocketed the thannin
again and removed his own shoes and set
them down. They then circled each
other in stockinged feet, ready for
battle. Bond had no second
thoughts about defeating the old man. It would be
simple. His job was done, anyhow.
Bond realised that he could just leave and
the job would be done, but he
wanted a chance to beat the stuffing out of a
terrorist. Bond gritted his teeth
and pranced forward.
Dell lunged at Bond and swung a punch. Bond blocked the blow,
down, then lashed out with both
fists to Dell's groin. Dell groaned, dropped
to the marble, rolled, then
scrambled to his feet again. He launched a kick
at Bond. Bond grabbed the man's
foot, then swung him into one of the tables.
He crashed into the leg of the
table and sprawled, face-down, on the floor.
Dell crawled up again, thirsty for
blood. He threw himself at Bond again,
but Bond squatted yet again. Dell
flew over Bond's head and landed painfully
on the ground, yet again. Bond
then reached over to Dell mouth, pinched
Dell's tongue, then punched Dell's
jaw shut. Dell bit down, hard, on his
tongue. He shriked and rolled
away. Bond had won. Bond retrieved his items
and laced his shoes up tight.
He did not see Dell again that morning, but he did notice a lot of
white hair floating in the chicken