“What-cha doin’ there, boy?” James Bond asked as he waddled out of the processing shed of the family chicken factory, brushing futilely at the grease stains on his once-white suit.
“Mr Bond, the world needs saving again,” said the messenger.
“Shoot!” said Bond. “Who’s that landing an airyplane on my private driveway?”
“That’s Miss Pussy Galore, sir,” said the messenger. “She’s been revived for your latest mission.”
James Bond’s fleshy features flowed into a radiant smile as he spotted the walking frame, which had deployed at the foot of the private jet’s steps. He watched a fragile yet intensely feminine figure totter down the steps and detach the walking frame, realizing what had been missing from his life for so long.
Could this be an extract from Trigger Mortis by Anthony Horowitz? Will he make Bond black to satisfy Hollywood? Will he do the same to Pussy Galore? Only time will tell.
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