2007-Eleven Read Online Free PDF Page A

once is happenstance—
    Yes, yes, I know, twice is coincidence—and eight is a bloody massacre. Say, do I know you? Never mind. Eight cases. How can you be charged for such a thing by someone named Pussy Galore? You should see the docket.
Thumper v. Bond. Octopussy v. Bond.
Once, they dreamed of becoming Mrs. James Bond. Now they hyphenate their names. It’s
Ms.
Kissy Suzuki-Feldstein. Now they’ve got careers. It’s
Professor
Holly Goodhead. Honey Rider,
M.D.
God help the poor chap who unzips her gown during a physical. Back then, we didn’t call her Doctor No. I’m just tired of it all.
    You do look fatigued.
    Shouldn’t I be? It doesn’t matter that I saved England. Who cares that I stopped SPECTRE from developing its diamond-laser ray-gun death satellite? You’d think they’d thank me, but all they say is, “He can’t work with women. He has to control them.” I can assure you those women never complained when we were alone. You should read their petty allegations. “During tour of stable, defendant abruptly threw plaintiff into hay, rolled onto plaintiff, and employed physical force to kiss plaintiff on mouth.” Remember now, these were exotic beauties; these were Bond girls! We’re not talking about fondling Irma Blunt. You won’t believe what else they’re saying. That I’m a repressed homosexual! That I hate women! That I can’t control my libido, that I’m a walking hormone, and everything I say is a double entendre about sex. Well, I find it hard to swallow. They forced me to join AA. My travel budget is shot. They don’t even let me smoke in the building. You try standing in the cold rain sixty times a day! I’ve been waiting two months for blood-test results. You’d think themails were sabotaged by Russian agents—if there
were
Russian agents! But what riles me most are the secretaries. One has even become my boss. These days, on Her Majesty’s Secret Service,
M
stands for Moneypenny!
    You guard the Queen, Mr. Bond?
    Queen? Hah. Try Fergie. God, just saying the name is like having a tarantula crawl across my chest. I was on the beach that day she dropped her top. In my Benzedrine nightmares, I used to see Pistols Scaramanga’s third nipple. Now I see that odious Texan kissing her toes. I should have left with my old boss.
    And where is he now?
    Here in the States. He’s a lobbyist for the Heritage Foundation, works with my old CIA counterpart, Felix Leiter.
    Not
the
Felix Leiter?
    That’s right. The next senator from Virginia. Actually, I haven’t seen him in years. No time. I get weekends with the kids, you know. Traded the Aston Martin for a minivan. Q Branch added some extras. I haven’t had to use the toddler-ejection seats, but the sleeping gas works wonders. Say, you do look familiar.
    What if I remove this mustache, Mr. Bond?
    Goldfinger! But I saw you squirt out that airplane window! How did you survive the fall?
    Simple, 007. You should know I’d never fly without my golden parachute. I floated to the ground and adopted a new precious metal. Ever hear of Silverado Savings and Loan? Ha ha ha. I never needed to rob Fort Knox. The U.S. government gave it to me. But my best luck was being caught. I served a mere six months in federal prisons. Blofeld was there. Milken! Boesky! Pete Rose! We’ve rebuilt SPECTRE, Mr. Bond. And this time, we want your help.
    You’re mad, Goldfinger, insane! You should know I’d never—Well, what, exactly do you have in mind?
    Talk shows. Sally. Oprah. Donahue. We’re controlling the airwaves. Our topic is white-male persecution. Your assignment: to go public with your pain. To describe your suffering. To expose your oppression. It’s perfect—the white male as victim. If we can turn back the clock there, we can restore everything—even the cold war!
    Damn it all, I’ll do it. A toast to the old days, Goldfinger!
    Sorry, but I have other customers. Another time, perhaps. Until then—good-bye, Mr. Bond.

Voice-Mail Rage

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