Good Morning, Private Demosthenes

“ringringringringringringringring”

“Mmf. Eaaagh. Mmph.”

“ringringringringringringringring”

“Mmmmf. Nuh. Er... ‘erly. Istooearly.”

“ringringringringringringringring”

“Fucnph’ne... mmmff.”

“ringringringringringringring-”

Private Demosthenes winced in slight discomfort as the broken remnants of a cell phone imbedded themselves in his fist. Or vice-versa. Luckily, the haze of pill-induced slumber blunted most of the pain.

“bee-oop bee-oop bee-oop bee-oop”

“Uhmm... mhhh... nuh... mmmph.”

“bee-oop bee-oop bee-oop bee-oop”

Trouble. The home phone was way over on the other side of the room.

“bee-oop bee-oop bee-oop bee-oop”

Something small yet potent snapped in the back of Private Demosthenes’s mind, something that told him that if he, by some way or another, did not make it to that phone by the next ring, he was going to implode.

Never one to comply with his homicidal-inclined instincts, he stayed in bed.

“bee-oop bee-oop bee-oop bee-oop”

Fine, said his instincts, fighting to keep multiple arteries from bursting. We’ll do it for you.

THUMP.

“Nuhh.”

Thud thud thud thud thud thud thud. Thump thump.

“Nu-uhhh!”

Thud thud thud.

When Private Demosthenes woke up, he found himself stretched out like a noodle beneath the resident coffee table. Beside it, rather, because he seemed to have knocked it over. The phone, meanwhile, was on the floor next to him. The “answer” light was still blinking wildly, but the ring, thank God, no longer sounded.

Apparently, he mused, I have rolled out of bed and over to the phone, completely unconsciously. Nice, I wonder if I could do the entire day like that...

“Hello?”

Private Demosthenes’s eardrums, cerebrum and temper were all assaulted suddenly and offensively by a blast of what appeared to be prerecorded patriotic music. After falling in an out of a daze for several seconds, he regained focus just in time to catch the classic, dramatic tone he knew would follow.

“Private Demosthenes, WE NEED YOUR HELP! Britain has come under a dire-”

“Bugger off.”

He hung up and went back to bed.

Five minutes later, the final wake-up call presented itself. An older man in a trenchcoat and oversize glasses strode into Private Demosthenes’s bedroom without even knocking, and several beautiful young people rippling with muscles and guns followed.

“Neh?”

“Up and at ‘em, old chap, you’ve got work to do,” chirped the old man in a chipper North London accent.

“Lemme guess,” Private Demosthenes slurred. “Your name is Q or S or something like that, right?”

He-who-is-about-to-be-named didn’t miss a beat. “P, actually.”

“Mmm. Right.”

“Come on, come on! We haven’t got all day.”

“Correction,” came Demosthenes’s muffled voice from beneath several pillows. “YOU don’t have all day. I, however, have as much time as I bloody well like.”

“Not anymore,” came P’s still-cheerful reply. “Her Majesty is in need of your esteemed services once again. Rolf, wake him.”

Private Demosthenes may have been almost unconscious at this point, but he was sound enough to place a good kick in Rolf’s pecker when the poor peon, inevitably, pulled the big, fluffy blanket off his half-asleep charge.

“Always so cheery in the morning,” replied P, laughing. Rolf writhed for several moments before falling still. “You two,” P continued, pointing at a pair of random agents, “get him out of here.”

Shivering in his boxers, Private Demosthenes felt he was better off getting up now. His body felt otherwise, however, so he settled for laying still with his eyes partly open, for the time being.

“Who are you again?” he mumbled, voice beginning to take on its familiar edge.

“Why, I’m P. I work for MI-6... I will be coordinating all of your gadgets, missions, et cetera. Now then, if you could hurry up and, oh I don’t know, throw down some whisky, or whatever it takes, we should be on the road soon. Traffic is horrible this time of morning.”

“Remind me why, again?”

“The prince has been taken hostage, of course! Harry’s contingent was ambushed in Iraq and the insurgents are holding him hostage is who knows what kind of dreadful place.” P leaned forward in a conspiratorial manner, eyes skirting the edges of their sockets. “Intelligence tells us they might not even be serving afternoon tea!”

“God, the utter horror,” Private Demosthenes deadpanned.

“Yes, but let’s not talk about that here. Some of my agents are still fairly green... they haven’t yet been introduced to...” here P paused. “...cultural diversity.” He said the word like it was some kind of disgusting insect he’d rather not have picked up.

“Well I’d be glad to help but-”

“You are obligated after all.”

“Well I’d be glad to help but-”

“And technically saying no would be grounds for treason.”

“Well I’d be glad to help but I’m really not a morning person,” Private Demosthenes finished quickly.

“We can fix that,” quipped P, and was suddenly holding a horse syringe filled with yellow liquid.

“Er... I’ll settle for coffee on the way,” replied Private Demosthenes hastily.

“Oh of course, but this is just for the sand ticks. Thousands in Iraq, I tell you.”

The limo ride to Buckingham Palace was uneventful, mostly in part because the private spent much of his time massaging his punctured rump and muttering to himself. The next hour or so went in fast-forward. He and P were dropped off, and were shuffled in before a haggard Prince Charles and that Camilla thing. Formalities were exchanged, the private received “godspeed” and the blessing of some saint or another, and then was shooed out by a short steward with large front teeth. The only thing he really remembered was arriving at the newest, nearest MI-6 headquarters.

It was straight out of one of those spy movies... retina scans and armed guards... the whole bonanza. When they finally reached the main office, Private Demosthenes amused himself by tossing his hat at the coat rack, missing miserably.

“Haha... I guess it’s not all like the films,” he chuckled.

“Whatever do you mean?” replied P, frowning.

“Well that James Bond chap always used to do that...”

“Oh yes, well... those movies, dear private, aren’t fictional. In fact, I’d introduce you to 007 but somebody at the top got a little loony, released the current agent and hired a flaming blond one. We keep him locked up; he’s far less debonair.

Slightly shaken, Private Demosthenes followed P downstairs where several massive operations were being undertaken by hundreds of white-coated lab techs.

“This,” P said proudly, “is my empire. You will be fitted with all the newest technology and weaponry, as well as given a fitting vehicle for the job.”

Private Demosthenes’s heart jumped a little at this: If James Bond really was real, it made sense then that he was going to get to drive some version of the latest Aston-Martin, complete with rocket launchers or unpopable tires or... or... something cool. Not to mention the weapons! Bond always had the most top-notch guns out there.

“Mind you,” P cut in cheerfully, “you will be going incognito into insurgent territory, so we need to equip you accordingly. In other words, you get a pistol, a can opener and an electric scooter, camo colored.”

Private Demosthenes almost began to laugh... and then, out of the sea of high-caliber rifles, souped-up sports cars, bulletproof vests and plasma cannons, he saw an office aid carrying a scooter, a pistol that looked like a WW II relic and, of course, a can opener making determinedly towards him.

“You’re joking, right?” He began to panic.

“I’m afraid not, chap. How do you think the radicals would respond if you waltzed in with some fancy gun-metal swag and a Ferrari?”

“Considering I’m supposed to be on their team, pretty happy, I’d assume,” the private whined, groping desperately for a loophole.

Several tedious seconds of silence crawled by. The scooter, can-opener and pistol got closer. As if sensing his purpose losing ground, the office aid quickened his step. Beads of sweat began to form on Private Demosthenes’s forehead as he imagined clamping a can opener on someone’s nose and slowly cranking it off.

“Oh, I suppose you’re right,” exclaimed P finally. The Vanquish is in garage B, and the trunk is filled with plutonium-grade C-4, your signature shotgun, though upgraded of course, several more boxes of ammunition than you should need and a variety of other assets. Drive safely!”

Catching the keys with unmasked glee, Private Demosthenes did a little jig for diplomacy and powerful weapons, then sped off before the dejected office aid could catch up to him.

It was pretty. It was sooo pretty. The car practically GLEAMED. There were all sorts of edges that looked as though their sole purpose was slicing a bloody swathe through mounds of insurgents. The weapons in the back were, at the very least, comforting. Private Demosthenes slid his way into the leather driver’s seat, stared at the complex instrument panel for a moment, then regained his senses and growled “on”, cooly as he could.

The Vanquish purred to life in the garage, and then was gone. The kick was phenomenal, though the private as he struggled to keep his lips right-side out. After weavings his way through London in a matter of minutes, the car doing most of the work for him, Private Demosthenes began to ponder what his next move would be. The English Channel, as they called it, was going to be a problem in a matter of minutes.

As the water approached and the city fell away at roughly 120 mph, Private Demosthenes did a quick scan of the dash and punched the button “fly.” Predictably, the Vanquish shuttered, then jumped into the air like Tom Cruise on a couch. Watching the speedometer move 180 degrees around from where he was cemented into the headrest of his seat, Private Demosthenes could only mouth the word “wow” and watch the water glide under him.

Somewhere over France, an attractive female voice chirped to life over the inboard speakers.

“Hello, I’m Jane.”

“Hey there, Jane,” came the automatic, instinctive response, “you free Friday night?”

“Sadly, no, since as a non-human entity imprisoned in the microprocessor of MI-6’s 2012 version of the Aston Martin, I am forever chained to a life of electronic servitude.”

“Oh... er, sorry about that. Tough gig.”

“Yes. It rather vacuums. Anyway, I’m Jane, and I will be briefing you on your mission. We are currently cruising at an altitude of 22,000 feet with a predicted flight time of just over three hours. Conditions in Iraq are hot, angry and volatile.”

“Do I get an in-flight movie?”

“Brokeback Mountain is available, should you wish to view it.”

“Ummm... how about Crash? Do you have Crash?”

“You mean the low-budget indie film that should have won the 2006 Oscar for best picture? Unfortunately not. The Oscar board banned it after Brokeback unfairly won and riots threatened to tear the world apart.”

“Mm, riots, you don’t say?”

“Yes, Mr. Demosthenes. In fact, I believe MI-6 has some footage in your file of you and several drunken revelers outside the Oscar presentations that year wearing moonboots and shouting-”

“Okaaay there Jane, I think that’s quite enough on that topic. And please, call me private. You were saying?”

“Of course private. Prince Harry’s armored brigade came under fire last week in the town of Fallujah. Shortly after the attack, he was lured from the central base by captured American girls who were put on Kurdish polo ponies and sent out into the middle of the city.”

“That’s horrible. No honor, really. You’d think the insurgents would have at least had the decency to use Welsh purebreds.”

“Quite, private. The insurgents are now demanding a hefty ransom that, if not delivered in three days, will be the equivalent of poor Harry’s death warrant. Your job, private, is to infiltrate the insurgent HQ, rescue the prince and steal the particular terrorist cell’s...er... donkey, Tim.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s a personal thing, I think. They nabbed Prince Charles’s unicorn, Flowers, amidst the confusion of the London bombing, and he wants revenge.”

“I see. Sounds tough. I’m flying solo right, other than you?”

“Not exactly. If you look to your right, there is an unmarked, over-armed jet flying rather erratically. I believe it contains a special-ops combat team prepared for you by MI-6...”