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Oi, mate, listen up! I’m Bond—James Bond, suave as fuck, “shaken, not stirred.” So, we’re talkin’ ‘bout whores, yeah? Not just any tart, mind you, but the whole damn vibe. Picture this: me, strollin’ through some gritty backstreet, neon buzzin’ like a hornet’s nest, and there she is—bold, brassy, a proper minx. Reminds me of Godard’s flick, *Goodbye to Language*, y’know? All chaotic, sexy, and fucked-up gorgeous. “Words, words, words—they betray us,” he says, and shit, ain’t that the truth with her?

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And then, outta nowhere, I see this street performer. He’s juggling flaming torches! I’m like, “What the heck? Is this a circus or a market?” People are clapping, and I’m just standing there, mouth agape. I mean, I can barely juggle my own life, and this dude’s juggling fire!