Welcome back after the commercial break. As you recall, we left Mr. Bradley and Ms. Flopinova in the Casinò di Venezia having a rather unromantic meeting. And just to make that clear: it wasn’t Clayton Bradley’s fault that Natalia Flopinova wasn’t in the mood for cozy, informal groping!
This part will conclude the little adventure of Clayton Bradley and I have to say: That was really fun! The higher the chaos factor, the more fun it was. And just to give you an indicator, the average chaos factor throughout the scenes was at 7 to 8. My wife said that the whole story sounds like three raccoon’s hiding in a trench coat aka: Mission: ImPAWsible and I have to agree. If you don’t know Mission: ImPAWsible, it’s a super simple roleplaying game where you play three raccoons stacked inside a trench coat doing stealthy spy stuff. The game features a stress level indicator that escalates when on of the raccoons panics … super funny.
Ok, back to Mr. Bradley and the Operation Baguette. You ask where the baguette comes into play? I have no clue!
Scene #6 – When we dance, I lead
The unfortunate Bradley found himself swiftly removed from the main gaming floor of the casino, ushered through a discreet door by two rather stern-looking individuals. The area beyond was clearly designated for clientele of significant means; plush carpets, tasteful abstract art, and an air of hushed exclusivity permeated the space. He was deposited before a grand staircase that swept upwards into the unknown, and there he was instructed to remain by Natalia Flopinova. “You wait…” she stated with a firmness that brooked no argument, her grip surprisingly tight on his arm as she held him in place. It was clear Mr. Bradley’s presence was not desired at this juncture.
Capitalizing on the momentary lull in proceedings, Clayton seized an opportunity to engage Miss Flopinova directly. “So,” he began, attempting a casual tone despite the circumstances, “who was the gentleman who decided to express his displeasure with firearms in your hotel suite?” He scrutinized her reaction, but it proved difficult to discern whether she was genuinely surprised by the question or merely playing the part of an aloof socialite. Her response was delivered with a studied indifference. “I don’t know what you say,” she replied, though her eyes flickered towards him with a noticeable interest that belied her words.
He continued, elaborating on the incident with a narrative that sounded remarkably convenient. “There was a man,” Clayton conceded, “who knocked at your door claiming to be room service. Apparently believing the suite was unoccupied, he employed… rather unorthodox methods—a lock pick, it seems—to gain entry. He must have observed me exiting through the window with the suitcase and reacted accordingly.” Bradley paused, allowing his words to hang in the air. For a fleeting moment, he thought he detected something akin to concern flicker across Flopinova’s features, though it vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving him wondering if he had imagined it entirely. The whole situation felt rather… theatrical, even for this establishment.
Clayton pressed his advantage, leaning slightly closer to Natalia Flopinova. “So…” he inquired, carefully enunciating each word, “this is where the Russians are operating from?” Again, she responded with a visible display of displeasure. Her gaze narrowed, and she let out a dismissive snort. “Russians?” she countered, her voice laced with thinly veiled irritation. “Russians have nothing to do with it. I am Bulgarian, Mr. Bradley.” She punctuated the statement with a gesture towards the grand staircase behind them, simultaneously acknowledging a signal from a discreetly positioned security personnel in the background. “And now,” she concluded, her tone leaving no room for argument, “you proceed…”
Scene #7 – The Dwarf from Ipanema
Bradley was swiftly ushered up the sweeping staircase, his escort maintaining a professional distance as they guided him to an upper-floor chamber. The room itself was unexpectedly stark and utilitarian compared to the opulence of the casino floor below. It featured a single, imposing element: a large, revolving chair positioned directly before a wall dominated by a series of cathode ray tube monitors. These screens displayed a comprehensive view of the casino’s operations—every table, every slot machine, every corner of the sprawling establishment was visible within their flickering glow. The chair, however, was turned so that it faced the monitors, suggesting its occupant had been deeply engrossed in observing the proceedings. It presented an image of quiet, almost unsettling concentration, as if a single individual held dominion over the entire casino’s fate from this secluded vantage point.
The room was abruptly broken from its silent observation when a voice, shrill and grating, sliced through the air. “Mr. Bradley, I assume?” it shrieked, the melodic droning of the intonation proving distinctly unpleasant to the ear. “Please… take a seat!” Natalia Flopinova, seemingly unconcerned by the unsettling vocalization, efficiently pushed Bradley towards a chair positioned before a desk that seemed to divide the room in two. She then wiggled over to a small bar table, expertly pouring herself a generous drink with an air of practiced nonchalance.
As the revolving chair completed its rotation, Bradley struggled to suppress a burst of laughter. The scene presented was utterly absurd: seated within the chair was a remarkably runtish man, impeccably dressed in a miniature grey suit that appeared several sizes too large for him. But the most striking detail was what occupied his attention—he was gently tickling a fluffy white Persian cat with his podgy fingers, an expression of intense concentration on his face. The image was so incongruous it bordered on surreal. “What is so funny, Mr. Bradley?” the diminutive man demanded, his voice surprisingly high-pitched despite its unpleasant quality. Bradley, caught off guard and still battling back his amusement, stammered a hasty apology. “Oh… ehm… nothing,” he managed to say, quickly adding with a touch of awkwardness, “I’m sorry, shorty… ehm… sir!”
“It seems that you don’t know who you are dealing with…” the small man buzzed, his voice laced with a theatrical menace that was somewhat undermined by his diminutive stature. “People fear me… my name is a killing word: Phantom!” He screwed up his face into what he clearly intended to be a silent laugh of triumph. “Phantom!” he repeated, savoring the weight of the title. Clayton turned to Natalia Flopinova, who stood beside him, her glass held loosely in her hand. “Being a Phantom is a precaution,” he whispered, barely concealing a smirk. “Imagine everybody would know that he is… you know… teeny-weeny.” Miss Flopinova couldn’t stifle a chuckle, spluttering slightly as she sipped at her drink.
The lightheartedness abruptly vanished with the sudden opening of a door from a neighboring room and the entrance of a man carrying a pistol. “Sir,” he announced, his voice tight with urgency, “she wasn’t in her suite and the suitcase was stolen by a…” He paused mid-sentence, his eyes widening as he noticed Clayton. The man leveled the pistol directly at him. “Countenance, Hans!” the Phantom whispered, his tone shifting to one of menacing undertones.
“We have what we wanted,” the Phantom continued, his voice a bizarre blend of shrillness and self-importance. “Miss Flopinova here was kind enough to provide us with the required… goods.” He tapped a small, ornate casket resting on his desk. “You might want to know what it is, right Mr. Bradley?” Clayton shrugged, maintaining an air of studied indifference. “I… don’t know,” he replied casually. “Not really, to be honest! Because in most cases, if a villain tells the plan… the good guy dies.” The Phantom offered a smirk, though it was a remarkably small and restrained one for such a flamboyant character.
“Clever, Mr. Bradley!” he declared, raising his shrieking voice. “THIS…” he paused dramatically, “…this is a box containing the urine samples of all world leaders! It was planned to transfer them to London for proper and secure disposal.” He again posed for his silent laughter. “I am going to use those samples to control their corresponding owners with my mind-controlling laser which is currently orbiting Earth.” Clayton Bradley remained impassive, his expression a carefully constructed mask of neutrality.
The Phantom continued his explanation, launching into a bewilderingly complex description of the process. “We send the samples through the Staudinger Converter that splits the genetic material from the useless fluids,” he explained, “the Redi Propeller removes all bad smells and finally the Watson Advancer compresses the crystallized genetic material into a Boson Prism to be used in the Lysenko Lasers, customized for each and every world leader.” A large question mark visibly materialized above Bradley’s head. The Phantom paused, noticing the confusion etched on his face. “You have no clue what I am talking about, right Mr. Bradley?” he asked with a flourish. “The important fact is, I will be able to control all of the world leaders.” A silent laughter erupted across the Phantom’s visage, a truly unsettling spectacle given the absurdity of the situation.
“Mr. Bradley here wants to leave. And about Miss Flopinova… she has been useful for the longest time!” Bradley’s attention was drawn to Natalia; he noticed a flicker of genuine emotion cross her face—a mixture of apprehension and resignation. He gave her a quick, almost imperceptible side-eye, and both raised their hands in a gesture of surrender. The Phantom continued, his voice dripping with calculated menace, “Hans, would you please guide our guests to the exit and make sure that they get the next motorboat to their final destination… the bottom of our beautiful lagoon?”
Scene #8 – A boat trip by night
Hans, a man who clearly favored brawn over subtlety—large and muscular with blond hair hinting at German or Scandinavian origins—efficiently guided Clayton Bradley and Natalia Flopinova out of the casino and towards a waiting motorboat. “Oh my god…” Clayton breathed, raking his fingers through his hair in a mixture of disbelief and admiration. “That… that…” he trailed off, unable to find adequate words. He nudged Natalia’s arm with an excited gesture. “That is a Cantiere Serenella Open Tender Model B! This boat is a dream!”
Hans, seemingly unimpressed by Clayton’s enthusiasm, simply pushed them both onto the plush cushions of the rear bank. “Oh great,” Natalia added with a grunt, her voice laced with a surprising amount of resignation. “Happy you like. At least we die in style!” The statement hung in the air, a darkly humorous acknowledgement of their impending fate, delivered with a characteristic blend of cynicism and understated elegance. The motorboat’s engine sputtered to life, promising a swift journey towards the lagoon—and whatever awaited them at its depths.
As the motorboat entered the Canal Grande, Bradley felt a hand fumbling around at his wrist. He subtly turned his head and saw Natalia attempting to free him from the rope that bound him. Her first attempt failed, resulting in a silent “Ouch!” as she lost a fingernail. The second proved successful; she managed to undo the knot. Without a word exchanged, Bradley swiftly opened Natalia’s bonds, and both began coordinating their next move.
Clayton lunged forward with surprising speed and accuracy, hitting his target—poor Hans—hard on the back of his skull. A sudden jolt ran through the boat as Hans landed atop the controls, his considerable bulk inadvertently pushing the throttle lever forward. He was too bulky for Clayton and Natalia to move him from the controls, and the motorboat surged ahead with full speed, hurtling out into the lagoon.
“There! Look!” Natalia exclaimed, her voice laced with a palpable amount of panic. Clayton followed the direction of her pointing finger. The boat was speeding directly towards Isola di Poveglia. “We crash!” she screamed. “Oh… not good!” Bradley spat out, then, with remarkable athleticism, grabbed Natalia by the hips and launched her off the boat. With a truly impressive display of aerial prowess, he followed suit, flying through the air like a human windmill, arms and legs spread wide. He reached Natalia in the water and quickly assessed her ability to swim—which proved to be nonexistent. Grabbing her firmly under the chin, he supported her body with his own beneath her, swimming with one arm towards the backside of Lido di Venezia.
With a deafening roar, the motorboat exploded against the embankment of Isola di Poveglia, sending Hans to what could only be described as an unexpected reunion with his creator. The lagoon air filled with smoke and the smell of burning fuel, leaving Clayton and Natalia bobbing in the water, shaken but alive—and free from the Phantom’s bizarre scheme.
A friendly “Ciao a tutti!” from behind them forced Bradley to turn his head slightly. An old man, weathered and kind-faced, approached in a traditional rowing boat. “Era quella la tua barca? Hai bisogno di aiuto?” he inquired, his voice carrying the gentle lilt of Venetian dialect.
“Sì, sì… mio auto is in the parking lot!” Bradley replied, attempting to convey urgency despite their precarious situation. The old man, clearly a fisherman by appearance and demeanor, regarded them with a mixture of confusion and concern. Without hesitation, he skillfully pulled Clayton and Natalia from the murky water, bringing them aboard his small boat and ferrying them to the safety of Lido.
Due to the advanced time of day, Bradley and Natalia decided that securing a room in a small, unassuming hotel would be the most prudent course of action. They needed rest—and a chance to collect their thoughts—before formulating a plan for what to do next. The image of exploding motorboats and mind-controlling urine samples lingered in their minds, but exhaustion was already beginning to dull the edges of the bizarre experience. For now, at least, they were safe—and utterly bewildered by the events that had transpired.
Scene #9 – We should work together!
Early in the morning, Bradley and Natalia huddled together to discuss their next move. “Look, Natalia,” Bradley said, attempting a disarming smile, “he tried to kill you, too. You cannot be that disinterested in stopping the Phantom.”
Natalia countered with a shrug. “Ok, I help,” she conceded in her thick Not-Russian-But-Bulgarian accent, which Bradley was now intimately familiar with. She added, “But don’t think I do because I care… or because of you!” As she finished the sentence, she inspected Bradley with a distinctly disparaging gaze.
Bradley successfully managed to acquire a bright red Vespa, their planned mode of transport to reach his car on the other side of the lagoon. After a twelve-minute ride, they came to a screeching halt at the small airfield of Aeroporto Nicelli. “Damn… I wish that just for once a plan succeeds,” Bradley lamented, turning to Natalia who was huddled behind him. “There is no direct connection to the mainland, Natalia!”
They quickly managed to secure a lift on a small boat to Basilica Santa Maria della Salute. Walking along the esplanade, Bradley mentioned that Natalia’s hotel was just on the other side of the canal, but she dismissed the offer to retrieve her belongings with a firm “Is too dangerous!”.
After a short footwalk through the bustling city of Venice, they reached the parking lot where Bradley’s small Mini Cooper waited. “You told, you drive elegant British car… I expect sports car,” she said with a smirk, gesturing towards the vehicle. “…this is rust-bucket.”
Bradley opened the passenger door of his car and replied sarcastically, “Glad you like it!” People watched with curious interest as the two—dressed in evening attire, sporting unkempt hair, and speaking with amusingly exaggerated accents—awkwardly folded their limbs into the small vehicle. The scene was a study in incongruity, a pair of unlikely heroes about to embark on another chapter of their increasingly bizarre adventure.
Sitting in the car, Bradley cleared his throat nervously. “Ehm… Natalia, sweetheart! Uhm… do you have a clue where we should go now?”
Natalia responded with a noticeable degree of rebuff. “Is Natalia or Miss Flopinova… not sweetheart!” she corrected sharply. With a sigh, she added, “Phantom has secret base in mountains. I show!” She produced a folded map from the tiny glovebox and pointed to a location in the Graian Alps. “Mont Blanc!”
Bradley dismissed her suggestion with a nonchalant air. “I know, great fountain pens… German workmanship… but a way too expensive for my slim budget.” Natalia’s face crumpled in exasperation as she performed a dramatic facepalm. “Not pen, mountain… idiot!” she exclaimed, the words laced with a mixture of frustration and amusement.
Scene #10 – Mr. and Mrs. Flopinova
With neck-breaking speed—considering the limitations of a Mini Cooper and Italian roadways—Bradley pushed the tiny vehicle towards Mont Blanc, past Verona and Milan, and onward to the foot of the Alps. As they progressed, Bradley noticed that the current weather conditions, combined with their evening attire, were not blending particularly well. “I’ll use the rest of my budget to buy some warm clothes for us,” he announced, a pragmatic decision given the rapidly deteriorating situation.
A short while later, they continued their trip through the Aosta Valley until they reached Albergo Val Veny, a small and charming hotel nestled at the foot of Mont Blanc. The imposing peak loomed above them, its snow-capped summit partially obscured by swirling clouds—a stark contrast to the brightly colored Mini Cooper parked out front.
“Buongiorno!” Bradley announced with an overly enthusiastic grin to the receptionist, attempting a charming demeanor. “My wife and I are on our honeymoon trip across Continental Europe and would like to stay for some days… doing some skiing. And most importantly après ski… if you know what I mean.” He punctuated his statement with a smirk.
A relatively hard nudge into his back served as the immediate reaction from Natalia, effectively silencing any further attempts at charm.
As they entered their room, Bradley produced a suitcase he had cleverly stuffed in the boot of his car. With surprising efficiency, he assembled a tripod and attached a surprisingly large pair of binoculars to it. “I am prepared,” he declared, positioning himself by the window and intently watching the mountain peak of Mont Blanc at the exact spot Natalia had indicated earlier. “There! There is an entrance!” He pointed with a triumphant flourish, his eyes glued to the distant slope.
Scene #11 – The villain’s hideout
“I can’t believe that nobody notices that!” Bradley wondered aloud as he observed the steady stream of helicopters entering and exiting from the cave-like entrance on the south flank of Mont Blanc. “Always hide in broad daylight!”
Natalia added dryly, “Always.”
The two meticulously crafted a plan to infiltrate the base. Their strategy involved ascending the Brenva Glacier until they were positioned below the entrance, patiently waiting for an opportune moment to make their move.
As they lay nestled in the snow, observing the rhythmic opening and closing of the steel doors with each helicopter approach, they diligently made notes on the duration of each opening. Slowly, cautiously, they crawled towards a large bulkhead, utilizing a rocky formation as cover. As the next helicopter requested entry into the facility, they seized their chance, slipping through the opening with practiced precision—two unlikely spies disappearing into the heart of Mont Blanc.
Inside the villains’ hideout, they were greeted by a crackling voice transmitted over the speaker system in a large assembly hall. “It is mandatory to all personnel to wear safety helmets! Remember, we are only two days away from breaking our record of going accident-free… which currently is two days. I repeat: all personnel is required to wear a safety helmet!”
Bradley glanced at Natalia with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Maybe I should go and get us a helmet?!” he suggested, barely suppressing a chuckle.
Miss Flopinova rolled her eyes, but quickly realized the potential of the situation. “Just good that they are so desperately trying to break their own record…” Bradley conceded, while inspecting one of several lockers lining the walls and pulled out one of the typical uniforms and helmets everyone was wearing. The bright orange helmet sat slightly askew on his head as he grinned at Natalia.
Disguised as Phantom’s minions, they strolled through the large construction hall, attempting to blend in amidst the organized chaos. With trained eyes, Bradley noticed one peculiar detail: “I have no clue what those machineries are doing… I bet those are the devices the Phantom talked about.”
Natalia inspected one of the hulking machines and read aloud with a tone of understated disbelief, “Staudinger Converter! You are right.”
Bradley fumbled in his pockets and produced a pack of cigarettes. He removed the filter and began chewing on the remaining end, extracting a brown, pulpy mess. “C-4… plastic explosives DIY kit. Tastes horrible,” he announced with a grimace, sticking the lump under the device. He repeated the same procedure with all other devices in his proximity, always acting as if he were meticulously inspecting the impeccable state of each precious machinery.
In the next moment, a small golf-cart-like vehicle came speeding by. “Unbelievable there is a vehicle smaller than yours!” Natalia commented sarcastically. Bradley held her arm as he noticed that one of the passengers carried a box labeled “Important Urine Samples”. He nodded slightly in the direction and whispered with a chuckle, “VIP… very important piss! Understand? VIP! Ah… nevermind.” They observed where the technician carried the box, nonchalantly following along, their expressions carefully blank.
Sadly, the urine samples were stored in a very well-secured area of the complex, effectively thwarting any immediate opportunity to access and destroy them. Bradley quickly assembled another C-4 nugget and carefully placed it into the soft box of cigarettes. He meticulously disguised the explosive with the remaining cigarettes, then approached one of the guards with an air of casual nonchalance.
“Does one of you guys have a lighter?” he inquired. The guard looked around, seemingly hesitant. As they noticed that nobody else was nearby, they asked Bradley for a cigarette in return for later consumption.
“Here… take the rest of my box,” Bradley offered generously. “I know how hard it is to do sentry duty.” He handed over the disguised explosive-laden pack with a smile.
Scene #12 – A C-4 inferno and no time for smoochy
“Mister Bradley, Miss Flopinova. What an unexpected coincidence!” a shrieking voice announced from behind them. As they turned around, they could clearly see a small man in a gray suit and a large, bulky man with his head completely wrapped in bandages.
“Look Hans, I told you that you will get your revenge,” the Phantom declared to the modern-day mummy. What appeared to be Hans slammed his fist into his hand, and a muffled voice was heard through the bandages. Hans slowly approached Bradley and Flopinova with menacing behavior. Both slowly walked backwards until they hit the little golf cart.
Natalia Flopinova whispered urgently to Bradley, “You drive! You know how small cars work!”
Both jumped into the golf cart, and with a burst of speed, rushed away, narrowly avoiding what would undoubtedly have been a rather unpleasant encounter with a disgruntled mummy and his eccentric employer. The electric motor whined in protest as they careened through the complex, leaving behind a trail of bewildered expressions and the lingering scent of hastily concealed explosives.
“Turn the ring on my watch!” Bradley ordered Natalia Flopinova, holding his wrist in front of her while steering with only one hand. Just as she did, they could hear several huge explosions behind them. Natalia looked back and saw another golf cart emerging from the dust and rubble.
“Phantom and Hans! They are following us!” she shouted over the cacophony of explosions, electronic motors, and panicking minions. With practiced ease, Bradley steered the little vehicle through the labyrinthine base of their arch-enemy. Some of the tunnels they were using were still in a very rudimentary state, lacking the highly polished white panels that characterized the rest of the base.
Bradley grabbed another pack of cigarettes and began chewing on several at once, producing a truly alarming display of mastication. He muffled something unrecognizable to Natalia, who looked at him with a mixture of confusion and concern.
Bradley took out the C-4 ball, dripping with explosive spit, and handed it to Natalia Flopinova. “Throw it in the middle of the tunnel and turn the ring on my watch when they are directly above the C-4,” he instructed. With a look of disgust at the explosive concoction, Natalia did as requested. As the Phantom’s golf cart was positioned directly over the C-4, she turned the ring, triggering the explosion.
With a resounding “Fump!” the Phantom’s golf cart became airborne and slammed flat against the ceiling, producing a spectacular Phantom-Hans-Golf-Cart-Pancake. Feeling a little bit safer now, Bradley reduced the speed of the golf cart and halted as they reached an air vent. “This must lead out!” he declared with a triumphant grin.
As they emerged from the air vent on the northern flank of Mont Blanc, Clayton Bradley turned to Natalia Flopinova and said, “Well done! We are a good team, right?” And with a smirk, he added, “I know that most of my higher-ranked colleagues at MI-6 always end their missions with wild smooching and enormous hanky-panky!”
“Do not try!” Natalia Flopinova warned with a menacing use of her signature accent. “We part now!” she added, her tone leaving no room for argument. The crisp mountain air seemed to carry the unspoken message: some partnerships were best left on the slopes of Mont Blanc.
La Fin
Thanks a lot for reading! I had so much fun, that I am sure there will be another misadventure of Clayton Bradley… maaaybe it has already started… who knows!
