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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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So, I’m like, “Fine, I’ll just take the gnomes to the pub.” I pull up, and the sight is hilarious. There’s a bunch of blokes, pints in hand, and I’m rolling in with a truck full of gnomes. They start laughing, and I’m like, “Hey, who needs a gnome for your garden?”

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