The First Edition Death Warrant

At one point, I began writing a fictionalized biography of Auric Goldfinger, the seminal bad-guy from the book and movie of the same name.

Because he was redheaded, I'd always felt a certain solidarity with Mr Goldfinger. Fleming described him as barely five-feet tall - so that, along with his ginger hair, must have made him the very epitome of 'over-compensation.'

I imagined that was why he was so obsessed about becoming the richest man in England. The conspicuous props of his wealth - the Rolls Royce and the gold-painted beauties - were just part of his peculiar compulsions.

I imagined the story of this man's life. It was exciting, erotic and macabre. As a young man, I envisioned him as a noble sort, outwitting Nazis and Russians during World War II. However, as his obsession with the 'purity' of gold increased, Goldfinger himself became more and more corrupt.

I sent an email to the Estate of Ian Fleming to see if they'd be interested in reading this story - obviously, without their blessing, it could never be published. In the mean time, I thought I'd post the prologue.

The Last Statement of Auric Goldfinger

Prologue

The First Edition Death Warrant

Four days ago, I received my death warrant – although I didn’t realize it at the time.

The warrant took a rather lurid form. A hardback book featuring a skull on the cover, it’s bare teeth clutching a lush, red rose.

Two gold coins filled the skull’s empty eye sockets.

And on the bottom of the cover was the name of the condemned man.

Goldfinger.

My name.

- - -

I am Auric Goldfinger.

When I received the book, I had been prisoner of the British government for some nine months.

I read it in a little over a day. It was not very long and between the regular interrogations, there was little else to occupy my time.

It was a fantasy of sorts. A pulp melodrama built on a foundation of the barest elements of fact.

To read it was infuriating.

Many times, I would throw down the book and pace the narrow width of my room in disgust.

I am not sure who sent the book to me.

I assume it was the sneering peacock on the back cover – the man who had misappropriated my name and concocted a lurid, libelous fantasy around it.

Ian Fleming.

Nevertheless, I instantly recognized that this book signaled the end.

This disgusting, libelous ‘novel’ could only have been published in the smug satisfaction that I, the victim of this slur, would never be in a position to revenge myself upon the author.

Ian Fleming had written it, knowing that I was to die.

I had accepted that I might die while still a prisoner of the British government, but until I received that copy of ‘Goldfinger, by Ian Fleming’ I had not truly believed that my demise was inevitable.

Now, I realized, I was a dead man.

The skull on that book’s cover was my own.