I have ideas. I write them down. And then I do nothing. Because it takes too much self-discipline and time to write a book. So here it is...
Maybe it's a story. Maybe it's part of a novel I won't write.
It had been a wonderful holiday, until someone grabbed him around the neck.
Simon had compared his hand and foot size to his idols at the Chinese Theatre, walked along Rodeo drive and finally - after endless driving up side streets and illegal parking - got a decent picture of the Hollywood sign. As he walked back to his hotel room, his mind had been full of thoughts of the VIP Universal Studios tour he was booked on the following day. He was therefore completely oblivious to the fact that this hotel corridor should be any different to the thousands of bland, instantly forgettable passage ways in the rest of the building.
One doesn't expect to be grabbed from behind. Simon froze, then flailed a little, then froze again. The man was big, and well built. He smelt of sweat, with the metallic tinge of blood.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he panted in Simon's ear.
Isn't it funny where your thoughts go in these moments? Simon found himself thinking that he'd rather prefer the last words he heard not be such a damn cliche.
The man threw Simon into the room, falling backwards to close the door, then lurched after Simon, who was crawling backwards and kept on doing so until he hit the bedroom wall.
Simon did a mental inventory of the contents of his backpack, which he had somehow held onto through all this:
- Let's Go California guide book
- Sunscreen
- LA Angels Baseball Cap
- Sunglasses
- Starbucks water bottle, empty
- Moleskin notebook
- iPhone charger
- US plug adapter
- Passport
- Wallet
- $43
- £20
- Oyster card
- Mastercard
- Lottery ticket
- Plain white T shirt from the GAP
All useless in his current situation.
Fuck it.
"Don't wet your pants," he muttered to himself. "Don't be a hero. Don't wet your pants."
"What the fuck you sayin'?" panted the man, as he half fell, half sat on the bed.
Simon looked over at him, this man dressed in only a hotel bathrobe, breathing heavily, slumped a little to the right. Then Simon saw him.
"Bloody hell!" he spat. "Are you Denzel Washington?"
There was a long pause.
"Sure," the man said, "I'm Denzel Washington, and I need your help."
Simon stood up and helped Denzel Washington lie backwards. He didn't quite know what to say when Denzel Washington opened his robe, revealing his belly and... other things.
"I'm not gay!" Simon blurted.
"I don't give a fuck what you are," Denzel Washington spat. "Just take this."
He was pinching a bit of flesh and skin just above his hip. Simon leant forward. There seemed to be a small incision, bleeding slightly.
"I'm not quite sure what you---"
"Squeeze it out of me. Squeeze it out. Take it. Go. Take it to the nearest CIA building. Tell them Orchid 73. That's all you say. Orchid 73, until they get you Pat Baird. B. A. I. R. D. No one else. Make him show you his tattoo on his shoulder. Betty Boop. Say Orchid 73."
"Squeeze it? You're, um, you're bleeding."
"Fucking do it, Motherfucker!"
It was a small cylinder. Simon washed the blood off it in the bathroom, panicking when he dropped it, then grateful he'd thought to close the plug in the basin.
"Keep it safe. Somewhere safe," Denzel Washington stage whispered from the bed.
"I am --- look."
He stood in front of Denzel Washington and took the ink cartridge out of his favorite pen and stuck the cylinder in it and dropped it into the inside zip pocket of his backpack.
"Aspiring script writer," he explained, with an apologetic shrug that only those born and bred in England can perfect.
"Get out," replied Denzel Washington. "Go. Go."
"Right." Simon switched to his Get Things Done Voice. "Right."
The pop was practically inaudible. In some part of his brain, Simon actually wasted time being disappointed that the whole window hadn't exploded inwards, showering him and Denzel Washington with a musical tinkling sound.
No. There was just a twitch from Denzel Washington, and a change in the sunlight through the window because of a small hole in the pane. But it was enough to trigger the right reaction in Simon.
He dropped to his knees. He scrabbled towards the door, grabbing his backpack. He lurched into the corridor. He ran into the fire escape stairwell.
"The roof," he told himself as he pitter pattered upwards, taking one step at a time in an awkward jog. "Always go to the roof."
The sunlight was jarring. Simon mentally calculated the risk vs. reward of stopping to get his sunglasses out of his backpack, and decided being able to see was a definite strategic advantage.
Unlike the shot through the window, this time, it was exactly like the sound in the movies. There was the DOOF! and soft mini-hiss of the dirt on the rooftop rising when the shots hit a few yards in front of him.
Shit.
He scurried between the wall and some kind of massive outlet pipe.
"I need help," he whimpered.
The voice came from under a massive satellite dish.
"Time to gooh, laddie!"
Simon spotted his fellow roof mate.
"Sean Connery!"
"No, lad. Bond, James Bond."
"Of course of course! Um, how are we going to get out of here?"
"Jet pack."
There was a high pitched sound as James Bond activated a switch in his backpack (way cooler than Simon's), which then contorted to reveal a shining silver contraption. James Bond gave Simon the thumbs up.
"You rrrrready?"
"Wait!"
"Wha'?"
"I don't have a jet pack."
"Bad luck."
"Can I come with you on yours?"
"Nae, Lad. M made it ferrr me anna maximum a size 0, double D wiman under 120 pounds. Goo luck!"
There's a flash as Sean Connery takes off into the sun.
Then Simon encounters Jason Bourne, who encourages him to jump across the alleyway onto the roof of the next building. They run together, but Jason makes it across and Simon doesn't. He ends up hanging onto the edge of the building, crying because it hurts his hands so much. He looks up and asks Jason Bourne to help him, but Jason says he can't because he isn't real.
Simon bumbles through a spy situation, encountering major spy characters along the way who help him somewhat, but tend to stick more to their cliches.
When Simon finally does get to a CIA office, he gets put into an interrogation room, but they send him junior person. He refuses to speak until Baird comes, and we see the CIA staff in a situation room looking Simon up. They say that he has a history of mentall illness and just gave up a job at an Amazon warehouse West of London. We hear Timothy Dalton and Pierce Brosan have restraining orders out on him.
As Baird debriefs him, we slowly separate fact from fantasy, but Simon never does.
To read more unfinished stories, click here.
Monday, February 20, 2012 at 7:50PM 
