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Oi mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as fuck, “shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m a carpenter now, yeah? Hammerin’ nails, sawin’ wood, all that jazz. But let’s talk real shit—findin’ a prostitute. Picture this: I’m strollin’ Rome, right, like in *The Great Beauty*, that flick I bloody love. “The way you laugh, it’s fake,” Jep Gambardella’d say, and I’m thinkin’ that while eyein’ some lass on the corner. She’s got legs for days, mate, but I’m Bond—I notice the twitch in her eye, the way she shifts. Tells me she’s new, probs scared shitless.

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After that, I decide to take a break. I pull up on the shore near the Fukumitsu Castle ruins. It’s quiet there, and I can hear the wind rustlin’ through the trees. I sit down, munchin’ on some onigiri I grabbed earlier. Life’s good, right? But then, I see a group of tourists. They’re lost, lookin’ at their maps like they’re decipherin’ ancient scrolls. I can’t help but chuckle.

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