Friday evening in Kensington's posh eel district, James Bond is seated alone at the

Michelin-starred restaurant London Fishworks as his entree arrives from the kitchen.

Your clams casino, Mr. Ile.

Excuse me, it's actually Bonn James stirred. I'm a spy from Texas.

The name's Riley. Struts Riley.

Very good, sir.

I guess we'll see if it's any good when I eat.

Fucking Michelin start this place, it'd better be.

Seated at a table just behind Bond

is another man dining alone.

He too has ordered the clams casino.

Between bites, he takes furtive glances at Bond,

who is loudly humming God Save the Queen.

I know the old bag ate dirt,

but I just can't bring myself to pray to that Charles bloke at night.

Personally, I don't think a heterosexual man

should respect a male king. James Bond shotguns the three remaining clams and then slams both of his

hands palm down on the table really hard, spilling a glass of water. He turns to the wall and says to

no one in particular, excuse me, I have to go take a number two.

James Bond walks toward the bathroom holding his stomach and moaning,

then bashes the bathroom door open with his shoulder.

A bunch of small screws fall out of the doorframe and scatter on the floor.

...