The name's Bond. Games Bond.
Some weeks back I undertook a highly dangerous secret mission - to crash test the latest model developed by a leading luxury carmaker. We have an extra 4 crore to burn; please crash the car and tell us if its ok, they said. It's the latest thing in automobile safety checks I was told. A mystery crashing, if you will.
I was hesitant, but I agreed. Of course no testing track would do. To give it an authentic feel I was compelled to drive it in the heart of South Mumbai in the dead of the night. That would be the default habitat for the car in real life anyway.
So there I was, racing the car in all my secret agent glory when things got a bit out of hand. It was either a sleeping beggar or a paver block that came loose (not much difference between the two when you are going at 250 kpmh). The result was that I ended up banging the car into umm... other cars. That was not really part of the test. I was shaken, but not stirred of course. The sight wasn't pretty. A mangled mass of metal. I still get nightmares about it. And there were some minor issues, like some dead passers-by and stuff. Not that it matters much, since I have a licence to kill.
My clients realized what a mess it was of course. We must do something, they said. Can't let the competition know about this. And one of them hit upon an incredibly devious idea - what if we made it look like some bigshot was involved in the crash and that its all being covered up? People will focus all their energy on righting the wrong. Nobody will bother about what actually happened.
They managed to find a bigshot scapegoat incredibly fast. He was a driver for one of their subsidiary companies. Serves him right. These rich bullies, I tell you. They need to be taught that the entire world cannot be bribed into condoning their offences.
Somehow when I woke up the next morning, my head was hurting and my brain had taken a vacation. I didn't feel like Games Bond anymore. Who the hell is Games Bond anyway? I called my butler and told him to get the chopper ready on the helipad. A walk in the refinery will do me good. I love the smell of polyester in the morning.
So you have trouble believing this story. Ah well, what is truth if not an overrated figment of the imagination?
Some weeks back I undertook a highly dangerous secret mission - to crash test the latest model developed by a leading luxury carmaker. We have an extra 4 crore to burn; please crash the car and tell us if its ok, they said. It's the latest thing in automobile safety checks I was told. A mystery crashing, if you will.
I was hesitant, but I agreed. Of course no testing track would do. To give it an authentic feel I was compelled to drive it in the heart of South Mumbai in the dead of the night. That would be the default habitat for the car in real life anyway.
So there I was, racing the car in all my secret agent glory when things got a bit out of hand. It was either a sleeping beggar or a paver block that came loose (not much difference between the two when you are going at 250 kpmh). The result was that I ended up banging the car into umm... other cars. That was not really part of the test. I was shaken, but not stirred of course. The sight wasn't pretty. A mangled mass of metal. I still get nightmares about it. And there were some minor issues, like some dead passers-by and stuff. Not that it matters much, since I have a licence to kill.
My clients realized what a mess it was of course. We must do something, they said. Can't let the competition know about this. And one of them hit upon an incredibly devious idea - what if we made it look like some bigshot was involved in the crash and that its all being covered up? People will focus all their energy on righting the wrong. Nobody will bother about what actually happened.
They managed to find a bigshot scapegoat incredibly fast. He was a driver for one of their subsidiary companies. Serves him right. These rich bullies, I tell you. They need to be taught that the entire world cannot be bribed into condoning their offences.
Somehow when I woke up the next morning, my head was hurting and my brain had taken a vacation. I didn't feel like Games Bond anymore. Who the hell is Games Bond anyway? I called my butler and told him to get the chopper ready on the helipad. A walk in the refinery will do me good. I love the smell of polyester in the morning.
So you have trouble believing this story. Ah well, what is truth if not an overrated figment of the imagination?
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