One of the things I’ve been trying out is reworking a piece of text into a completely different style. A full exposition and explanation are given here:
In today’s experiment I’d like to tell the story in the style of a spy thriller. First, though, here is the original text on which these experiments or transformations are based:
The original (template) text
In the middle of the night, I woke up (if you can call being semi-conscious being awake), walked purposefully towards the door to go to the bathroom — and almost knocked myself out.
The reason was that in the twin states of entire darkness and semi-somnambulance I was facing in a different direction from the one I thought I was facing. As a result, instead of walking through the door, I tried to walk through the wall.
The next few days brought nausea and headaches. After much prevarication I went to Accident and Emergency, where I waited petrified among people for whom “social distancing” means not quite touching you, and who wore their masks as a chin-warmer.
An hour and a half later I emerged into the twilight, secure in the knowledge that I had nothing more serious than mild concussion. I failed to do much writing, but I was pleased to have read a further 17% of my book.
And now, the spy thriller version.
Created in Ideogram.ai
The spy who went down with a cold
Wearing a white raincoat and fedora, I sat with my back against the grey wall, pretending to read the newspaper. I’d positioned myself such that I had a panoptic view of the waiting room. I was in my local hospital, waiting for the number on the giant screen to match the number of the ticket I’d taken from a machine on entering.
At last, I presented my ticket to the front desk, and a nurse ushered me into a small room, where a doctor was waiting.
“Good afternoon”, said the doctor. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“I banged my head, and I wanted to see if I’d done any lasting damage.”
“I see, Mr —?”
“You see, I can’t afford to have anything like this because of my work.”
“What exactly is your work, Mr —?”
“I work at the science research facility down the road. I’d tell you more but” – I put my forefinger to my lips. “I’d have to kill you!”
We both laughed.
“Well, not to worry”, the doctor went on. “Just drink this glass of relaxant before I examine you.”
He turned his back for a moment. I threw the liquid onto a plant. It shrivelled and died instantly.
The doctor turned back towards me, bearing a syringe and wearing a smirk. “You will be feeling a trifle immobile by now. I have given you a special paralysing drug that will enable me to kill you slowly.”
He inched towards me. When he got close enough I wrenched the syringe out of his hand and threw it on the floor. By the time he’d recovered I’d trained my Walther P99 on him.
“But how —?”
“I didn’t take your dastardly serum, doctor, and I didn’t bang my head either.”
“Then why — ?
“Because I’m here to take you in. We know you’re the arch-fiend behind the apparently accidental deaths of seven of our top scientists.”
“But how — ?”
“We have databases and statistics. You are the common denominator of the deaths. Each one came to see you at some time in the last year. And you just happen to have worked at the research facility yourself until a year ago. That’s how we knew.”
“Who, who are you?” He was nearly in tears by now.
“The name is Manfreed”, I said. “Yerret Manfreed. What we don’t know is: why? Why did you do it?”
“Why? Why?”. He screamed. “I invented the most powerful bomb ever conceived. The Z bomb. A thousand times more powerful than the H bomb. But ‘they’ said it was too dangerous. Of course it’s dangerous! That’s the whole bloody point. No country would dare to start a war if they knew the Z bomb might be deployed against them. I could have gone down in history as the man who single-handedly put an end to wars on earth. But the fools ransacked my office, took my computers, found my formula and locked it in a secret place. Then they took away my security pass and sacked me. The fools. FOOLS! But I showed them I’m no fool. I have been avenged.”
“It’s time to go”, I said.
“You wanted to see me, Ma’am?”
“Yes 008.”
“Achooo!”
“A cold, 008?”
“Probably because nobody at the hospital wore their mask properly or kept their distance from other people.”
“An occupational hazard I’m afraid, 008. You have some leave booked, yes?”
“That’s correct, Ma’am.”
“I’m afraid we’ve had to cancel it. We’ve heard from the Americans that someone has stolen the formula for the Z bomb. You’re booked on the 14:05 flight to Geneva from Heathrow.”
“Very good, Ma’am.” I turned to go. As I reached the door, N spoke again.
“Oh, and 008. Let’s not have a repeat of your previous escapade with an air hostess this time.”
“I’ll do my level best, Ma’am.”
“That”, said N, “is what I’m afraid of.”
This article was originally published here, on my Eclecticism website/newsletter. Please go there if you'd like to leave a comment.