A Memorable Evening In Marseilles

(It is dark in the streets of Marseilles. A chill, rainy November evening. Clouds drift across the leaden skies, revealing darker clouds above, and the occasional glittering forked, red lightning.
Outside the shabby cafe a man waits.
A bald man.
A dark man.
A fat man.
Wearing a dark overcoat.
Dripping from the rain.
He must be cold.
He is, he's shivering.
A can, an empty can, that once contained tinned fish, rolls up to him.
He's startled.)

Fat Man:(mutters) Qu'est-ce que c'est que ca?

(He looks down both sides of the lane.)
Fat Man:J'ai froid.

(yawns)
Fat Man:Je m'ennuie.

(shuffles)
Fat Man:Je dois y' aller.

(Another figure appears around a bend. This one, too, wears a black overcoat. But he has an umbrella. And a briefcase.
He walks up to the Fat Man.)

Briefcase Guy:Bonsoir.

Fat Man:(nods silently)

B.G.:Parlez-vous anglais?

F.M.:Je parle anglais.

B.G.:I know it's rather late, but I need to get to Nantes.

F.M.:(Dismissively)You can try the train.

B.G.:The Reactor?

(Lightning flashes again.
The Fat Man notices that the Briefcase Guy has a pale face.
That his ears are pointy.
That his canines are long and bright. And sharp.
That his irises are red.
That his pupils are slits.
And, that his smile freezes your bones.)

F.M.:(suddenly recognizes B.G. and screams) Non! Mon Dieu! Non! Non!

B.G.:Oui. Tu comprends. Je suis de Russia. Je m'appelle Comte Karl Nikolaiyevitch Burokoff.

(The Fat Man pulls out a cross.
Count Burokoff pulls out a badge.
It says "M.I.666" !
The cross splinters into a million small fragments.)

C.K.N.B:(mocks F.M.)Mon Dieu! Mon Petit Dieu! Tchah!

(The Fat Man faints. Count Burokoff sinks his canines into his left internal jugular.)

C.K.N.B.:(winces)Dirty French. Even the blood stinks. Pooh!Pah!Thoo! Yuck!

(Wipes his mouth on the Fat Man's scarf. Retches in disgust.)

C.K.N.B.:Cheap eau-de-cologne!! I hate cheap eau-de-cologne!!

(Pulls out a little glowing green glass cylinder from the Fat Man's overcoat's inner pocket)

C.K.N.B.:Mission accomplished.

F.M.:(Has come around. Is befuddled by the vampire's spell. Smiles a bleary smile) It looks much better in your hands, Master.

C.K.N.B.:Oui, oui..

(He's got a satellite phone held against his cold face. His lips are still making silent spitting movements..)

C.K.N.B.: Agent 007 please, operator.

(Continues spitting movement as the operator transfers the call, then abruptly stops..)

C.K.N.B.: James? This is Karl...(smiles)..yes, MI.666 Himself...yes, do keep a girl ready in London...Spanish, yes, French blood is starting to bore me...oh yes, of course, I have it in the palm of my hand..oh, the French butler? He's standing right here...wonderful race, the French. Make better butlers than Englishmen, I assure you...What? Are you mad James? Me in the papers? There are Catholics in Britain, you don't usually see them, but they're there. I don't want more garlic in my mailbox, please! You take credit for this one too...So nice of you... A French butler for you, too?...That can be arranged...No, not the Queen's plane, I prefer flying like I usually do...Yes, it's my kind of weather, too..

(Looks down the street, searching for Bond's new butler.)

This is an alter-ego. For more by Count Karl Nikolaiyevitch Burokoff, please visit Fantastic Figments Of Fiction.

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