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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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I love chillin' near the Flathead River. That river's a beast; it snarls like a starved wolf and flows like no tomorrow. There’s where I clear my head after a brutal day of massaging knotted backs and twisted spirits. I often think "Amour" – love and bitter despair, like a silent scream in the night... ugh, it's all dramatic.

It’s time to finally say ‘yes’