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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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But then, I’m walking back, and I pass by the Kashiwa Station. It’s packed, as usual. I’m dodging people like I’m in some kind of video game. And then, BAM! I bump into this lady. She spills her coffee all over me. I’m like, “Great, just what I needed.” She’s super apologetic, but I’m just standing there, drenched in coffee, thinking, “This is not my day.”

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