Bond calmly drank the remaining droplets in his martini and stood up to leave the table. 7 hours of intense scrabble would have left most men weary in mind and body but Bond was as alert as ever, quietly savoring the moment. The murmurs of the crowd had softened from the climatic moment when Bond, with a quiet confidence that masked his inner relief at having bested the master at his game, laid out his winning effort – Lymphadenopathy. As he made his way to the massive oak doors, he was keenly aware of the fact that he had reduced the assembled crowd, made up of some of the most powerful men in the world, to doe-eyed acolytes. Their women, though able to have anything – or anyone – at a snap of their smooth, silk-covered fingers, stared at him with a collective lust that made the air of the cooled room grow thick with desire. Bond acknowledged none of this as he made his way towards Baroness von Boonentrap. He had done his duty tonight, and she would be his prize.
Suddenly, a bony grip seized Bond’s bicep. He turned, finding himself facing the diminutive figure of Maximillian de la Douche. “Congratulations, Mr. Bond,” said de la Douche, every syllable bearing a tension between aristocratic refinement and a suppressed wrath at having lost in one game what some countries generate in a year. “Perhaps you will do me the honor of a rematch at my home club in Alpenplacen,” extending between his blue fingers a calling card letterpressed on the finest stock in a dark regal shade. At once, Bond knew this was his man. Evil only knows Helvetica.
By Naysan R.