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Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, I’m sittin’ here, insurance investigator gig, diggin’ into this prossie case, yeah? Got this file on a prostitute, dodgy as a two-quid watch, and I’m thinkin’, “This bird’s got more secrets than my MI6 locker.” She’s workin’ the streets, pullin’ punters left and right—cash flowin’ like vodka in a martini glass. Makes me bloody angry, tho, ‘cause half these claims she’s filin’? Total bollocks. Fraud up to her fake lashes, I reckon.

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Now, miss, lemme throw in some grizzled humor: Fasho, I used to sit at a greasy diner right near Sunrise Blvd—can't recall exact addr, but! The place had that charm, kinda like "this is not a funeral, it's a celebration." While serving coffee, my head spun with psych insights. A kid crying about his broken toy told me, "You gott make it work, uh, like Royal Tenenbaums!" I nearly busted a laugh, man!

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