Wait, the same guy who wrote James Bond wrote Chitty Chitty Bang Bang?

So today I was reading an article about the life of Ian Fleming, who wrote the Bond books.  I never knew this, but the books are loosely based on his real life as a spy for British Naval Intelligence during WWII.  One of their plans to foil the Nazis was to dress as German soldiers and pretend to be injured so that they could kill their rescuers.  Pretty badass.  But word daggers?  Badasser: 

The Brute drew himself up to his full height and yet, both he and they knew he was really no threat. Until he shouted out words that just popped in his head. The words sounded strange and filled the children with dread.

“I AM BIG. I AM TALL. I WILL SQUASH YOU LIKE ANTS.”

There was a stunned silence.  Brute continued his chant.

“I AM BIG.” Was he bigger?

“I AM TALL.” It was true!

His growth spurts were quick. Ten feet taller he grew. He grabbed the word daggers in one meaty fist. He chucked them at trees. Not a single one missed. They stuck to the trunks. They skinned leaves off of twigs. They turned into graffiti, cruel and glaringly big.

The Brute smirked at the kids, though they could barely see. He lifted one foot up the size of a tree. His classmates ran screaming. Their screams clawed at the air.

“Come back and make fun of me now!” he dared.

The Brute stomped the ground. Like an earthquake it shook. He plodded around. He scoured each nook. But the children were quick. They knew how to hide. The Brute paused and let their whispers act as his guide.

The whispers were vapors as fragile as ghosts. They curled into crook’d fingers that beckoned him close. Closer and closer The Brute followed them out.

He deserted the school for a dark, wooded route. The whispered words emitted a faint, glowing light. They made monstrous shadows that played tricks on Brute’s sight. They flashed different images based on what was said. Then the words stopped and pointed. Into a cave they led.

The Brute stomped his way in. There was an intake of breath.

“I know you’re in here,” he snarled. “Or did I scare you to death?”

There was a shuffle, a scurry, a silencing shush. Every sound echoed, bounding off walls with a push. Finally one brave soul piped up loudly and spoke:

“Go away! You’re a freak!”

And with that, chaos broke.

The Brute lunged at the words, but they clamped on his nose. “Freak” balled up and blinked red with a clownish-type glow.

“Now you’ll be sorry,” The Brute howled with rage.

“You sound like a sick cow!” a familiar voice waged.

It was a harsh blow. It nearly knocked him out. He shook his head, disbelieving. He gaped like a trout. The words bounced off the walls. They zoomed and they flew. The Brute filled up with venom.

He spat out, “I hate you!”

A huge echo swung forward, pounding him to a pulp. Then “hate” rose up and gaped, swallowing Brute in one gulp.