You’d think that the Secret Agents’ annual reunion party would be a pretty exciting affair. Most years the conversation can be very dull.
“Hello again, what have you been up to since we last met?”
“Sorry old chap, I can’t divulge that. What was your name again, by the way?”
“You know I can’t tell you that, old man.”
“No, of course not.”
“What car are you driving now?”
“Oh, you know, nondescript, silver, bulletproof, usual thing.”
Suddenly the main doors fly open and Jason Bourne bursts into the party. He hasn’t had any trouble parking because he’s brought his car with him. Turning off the engine he climbs through the broken windscreen and slides off the bonnet to land elegantly in the middle of the gathered Secret Agents. A waiter who is trapped under the car passes him a Martini but Bourne brushes it aside.
“Hey Guys! Anybody fancy a few beers?”
The spies look down their noses at him. His blond crewcut, T-shirt and torn jeans are not acceptable wear. Besides, he’s obviously an American. And drink beer at a party?
One black suit steps forward.
“I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“Oh, come on man! I’m not going to be thrown out by a waiter!”
“I’m not a waiter. The name’s Bond. James Bond.”
The other agents smile to each other, now they’d see the Yank sorted out.
Bond blows a poison dart from his pen, throws a knife that he’s had hidden in his sock and fires a laser from his Timeless watch. Bourne ducks and all three missiles hit one of the smirking black suits.
Out of gadgets, Bond panics and resorts to punching but Bourne steps under his wildly flailing fists and chops upwards once with the edge of his hand, knocking Bond semi-conscious to the floor.
“I think you’ve made your point, Bourne. Thank you for the demonstration,” gasps Bond.
“Choose your next witticism carefully, Mr Bond – it may be your last.”
“Do you expect me to talk?”
Bourne looks back, laughing.
“No, Mr Bond, I expect you to spy. There’s nothing about you that I don’t already know! If only you could actually stop talking, get your act into the 21st century and give up relying on hackneyed wisecracks and silly gimmicks!”
“You know, you’re cleverer than you look!”
“Hmm… still, better than looking cleverer than you are,” said Bourne, returning to his car.
