"The name's Bond. James Bond."

"The name's Bond. James Bond."

the lawyer introduced himself. "Mr. Bond, I'm in a bit of trouble, you see I..." "No, don't tell me, I don't need to know. You have the 007 dollars for my retainer, I assume?"

"Well, your sidekick, Grok, mentioned the fact. Well, I wrote you a cheque, and now I must tell you, I fear for my life.". "Shame, that." Said Bond, "Cheerio. Mate!...

" The latest incarnation of Bond had overregressed to a galling caricature of the English gentleman. Meanwhile Grok 'the Clock' did the real down-and-dirty spywork for Her Majesty'

concluded Hollingsworth Chelmsford with a chummy wink to the news team. He was secretly an Illuminati disruptor mole among the Bilderbergers who was rooting for SPECTRE at the prem

ises of the Native Hotel of the former United States Government, and was planning a massive internal destruction through the Telescreens in each household. It was going to be mass

execution of all the mindless people who fed from the bland white noise which the Telescreens espoused. But they hadn't accounted for one man: Dougal McDingle. The Scottish agent

hiked up his kilt and tipped his tartan hat before entering The Frugal Scot pub. Once inside he swung his caber to and fro casually as he made his way to the bar. The telescreens

picked up a flock of banshees that had followed him into The Frugal Scot, but remained invisible to the mortals therein. "I'll have a half-shot of whiskey," he told the bartender.

"and a round for the banshees!" Forgetting all prior troubles the banshees roared in delight. They had a wonderful evening, and still occasionally call to check in on each other.