Synopsis:

Another BigCloset TopShelf story. A tough choice for Bond–kill the villain and maintain the status quo? Or, let the villain go, and improve the world? The adventure concludes–part three of three parts.

Story:

NOBODY DOES IT BETTER, PART 3

18

"Living in the world,
Yet not clinging to or forming
Attachments for the dust of the world,
Is the way of a true Zen student.
Witnessing the good actions of another person,
Encourage yourself to follow their example.
Hearing of the mistaken action of another person,
Advise yourself not to emulate it.
Even though you are alone in a dark room
Conduct yourself as though you were facing a noble guest."

- Zen-Getsu

On Sunday morning, I received a call from my mom. She was about to go to sleep whereas I was just waking up. We usually talked about once a week. Mom being mom, she always worried about me when I was abroad.

We talked about my sister May. I asked how mom's garden was growing and how the neighbors were doing. She asked how things were progressing on the film.

To minimize her worrying, I wasn't completely honest when she asked how I was feeling. I said 'fine' and I never mentioned the previous night's violent encounter. When she asked about how it felt to be dressed in girls' clothing, I shrugged it off as part of the job. That's what I kept telling myself.

When I finally said goodbye, I had feelings of guilt. I was always honest with mom. But this time I wasn't completely honest. I rationalized that I didn't want her to worry needlessly.

Outside of the WayOut Club, what if those fag-haters had had weapons? What if they had pulled out knives? Or even worse, a gun?

I realized that London streets had video cameras seemingly everywhere. The crime rate in London was nowhere near as high as any city in the USA. Gun ownership wasn't like the Wild West of the States. My chances of being killed in London were a lot lower than at home in LA.

Should I have ignored the situation? Should I have just walked on by?

Of course I couldn't. If I had been the tranny whose wig had been taken, I would hope that others would have helped.

Nevertheless, I did have two concerns. One was I had put Michelle in possible harm's way. And secondly, I had hurt the attacker by putting my stiletto heel through his boot.

My Zen Buddhist philosophy was of help here. 'Right Action' was part of the Eightfold Noble Path. Also helpful was the Fourth Wise Monkey's "Do no evil."

But was dressing as a girl evil?

While we were out the previous night, Michelle had asked me to come over to her hotel room on Sunday. She needed help with learning her lines. She said the scientific terminology just wasn't something that was easy to remember.

So, around noon, I dropped by her suite at the Novotel London West. A modern upscale hotel, it was a short cab ride from Knightsbridge to Hammersmith.

This would be one of the rare times Michelle had ever seen me in my male identity.

When I knocked on her door, Michelle greeted me with kisses on both cheeks. It was one of those standard show business greetings.

Dressed in a purple vinyl top and blue jeans, she looked very sexy, even with light makeup.

She stepped back to look me over. I was dressed in Levis and a white England rugby sweater.

"You look quite different as a boy."

"This is the real me, I think."

"Not bad. I like the casual look. Are you a rugby fan or do you just like the shirts?" Michelle felt the cotton fabric for a moment, giving it a tug to see how much it would stretch.

I inhaled her scent. She must be an Ivory girl–99 and 44/100% pure. "I like the shirts, although I have played some rugby."

"What position?"

"I was a pretty fair hooker, if I do say so myself."

"A hooker?" Michelle's face was a simultaneous mix of confusion, laughter and disgust.

"When you're in a scrum, the hooker hooks the ball out."

"Yes, you could be a hooker," Michelle said, "on a girl's team."

"There's no way I'd be a hooker on a girl's team. Maybe a tight-head prop."

"I don't even know what that is. But nobody would guess you weren't a girl until you took a shower with the other girls."

"A shower with the girls sounds like fun."

"Men. You have just one thing on your mind."

"We don't always think about sex."

"Really?" Michelle embraced me and jammed her crotch into mine. "Is that a gun in your pocket?"

"I'm happy to see you, but that was so unfair!"

"So you're not thinking about sex?"

She had me there. If I said I wasn't, I might miss out on a chance to get lucky. If I admitted that I was, Michelle might think I was like all the other gonad-driven males.

"I'm a multi-tasking master."

"We'll see."

"I can walk and breathe and chew gum and talk at the same time."

"That was so lame. Enough chatter and male blather. Let's get down to business. Shall we do a read through?"

"Okay."

"Why don't you take a seat over there and we can get comfy together."

We settled in on the love seat. I noted that Michelle's hotel suite was much larger than mine.

"By the way, you were amazing last night," Michelle said.

"Thank you."

"You've studied martial arts?"

"Yes, judo, karate, kung fu and tae kwan do. They used to call me Bruce when I was a kid."

"Yes, I can see it, given your last name. Before Jackie Chan and Jet Li, Bruce Lee was the big star. Enter the Dragon was a mega-hit."

"One of my heroes."

"Last night you were Bruce Lee, except it was Enter the Drag Queen."

"Yes, Bruce also appeared in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Drag Queen, at least in spirit."

Michelle smiled. "We're getting way off track again. We need to do the read through." She handed me a thin, stapled packet. "Here's the script. The scene involves James and me."

"So you want me to read Hugh Farrell's lines?"

"I know you could do my role justice, but I need the practice."

"So I'll be Bond, James Bond," I said.

"You don't have to do Hugh Farrell's voice."

"Actually that was my Pierce Brosnan impression. All right. Where should we begin?"

"On your photocopy, it's right from the first page."

I cleared my throat. "Umm ah uhmm. Karine, we need more information about Sebastian Randall. What can you tell us?" I stood up. I didn't feel comfortable reading the lines from a sitting position. I felt a need to move around.

"Not much more than you already know. Randall's a mega millionaire. He's the CEO of Gene Cure Laboratories. He's a very outspoken individual. He's a gambler. Randall likes the media spotlight and does his best to promote Gene Cure Lab's products. He's taken GCL from a local UK company to a worldwide conglomerate. Recently, GCL acquired the company I work for, Gates Pharmaceuticals, so technically, he's my boss. Or would have been, had I not resigned."

Michelle got up from the love seat too.

"Have you met him?" I asked.

"At the conference in Whistler, I had a chance to shake hands with him."

"Was he interested in your address?"

"You mean my speech?" Michelle looked into my eyes.

"Yes."

"My presentation was about the dangers of releasing genetically engineered products into the environment. My main point was that biotech companies couldn't recall a product if it developed unwanted effects in the natural environment. Like rabbits in Australia, genetically engineered organisms run the risk of becoming a persistent pest that can't be eradicated."

"Did you get a chance to talk to him?" I stopped my pacing on the carpet.

"Yes. After my speech, Mr. Randall approached me. We talked about the oil-eating bacteria. He wanted to know how the bacteria had performed in field trials."

"So what did you tell him?"

"We had tested it on an abandoned oil well."

"And?"

"The strain of microorganisms, designated KL22, acted faster than anything available on the market. The oil was consumed so quickly, it was like a piranha feeding frenzy." There was urgency in Michelle's voice.

"Did that get his attention?"

"He bought the company, didn't he?"

"That was a hostile takeover."

"Aren't they all?"

We both flipped over the script pages, although Michelle never really needed to look at her copy. She seemed to know it by heart.

"Gates Pharmaceuticals didn't have poison pill protection?" I asked.

"It did, but I guess the poison wasn't strong enough to ward off GCL's financial clout."

"Sebastian Randall gets what he wants."

"Apparently."

"So how did you develop an oil-eating bacteria?"

Michelle paced across the carpet as she spoke, with a look of trepidation in her expression. "Our team collected samples from the environment. When an oil spill occurs, nature will slowly break down the oil. So the first step was to collect samples at the oil spill site. Then, in the laboratory, we observed the bacteria that lived within the oil. Petroleum is toxic to us, but to some bacteria, it's a source of food. A source of energy. Crude oil is a complicated mix of hydrocarbons and aliphatic compounds, but microorganisms are a very diverse group."

"A veritable alphabet soup."

"There are some bacteria that use enzymes to break up the oil, eventually turning the oil constituents into carbon dioxide. Some microorganisms eat the oil quickly, some degrade it very slowly."

"So you selected the bacteria that ate the oil quickly."

"That's partly right. The main one is Alcanivorax borkumensis. But the bacteria work as a team. Some break down the big hydrocarbon molecules into smaller chains of carbon. Other microorganisms feed on these shorter chains. By the end of this team feeding process, the oil completely disappears. The only residue is water and carbon dioxide."

Michelle's reading was flawless. She sounded like a scientist. I rubbed my chin. "So how is your oil-eating bacteria different from the others developed by competing biochemical companies?"

"The KL22 strain, developed by my team at Gates Pharmaceuticals, is very fast acting. On the downside, KL22 is very persistent. It will not conveniently disappear after cleaning up an oil spill. It can remain inactive in the absence of oil and revive itself when oil becomes present again."

"So if KL22 gets into an oil super tanker or oil pipeline, does it eat up all the oil?"

Michelle read aloud without looking at her copy while I flipped the page. "In a super tanker, probably within a few days. You see, bacteria grow at a geometric rate. As for the pipeline, the time will depend on the length of the pipeline, its volume and the rate the oil is pumped."

"If KL22 is persistent, will the super tanker or pipeline ever be able to carry oil again?"

"No. That is, unless an anti-bacterial agent is introduced."

"So, you have developed the anti-agent?"

"Yes. Although I don't have the formula in my possession, I still have it in my head."

"So that's why Sebastian Randall wants to kidnap you."

"Or kill me."

That was how the scene ended.

Judging by the expression on Michelle's face, she wasn't pleased with the reading.

"You see why I asked you here? The explanations are too technical. The whole scene doesn't work. There's no flow."

"I agree. It needs to be whittled down. I'm sure Hugh Farrell must feel the same way."

"What do you think I should do?"

"Shorten it. Cut down on the scientific jargon."

"But I can't do it arbitrarily all by myself. There's Hugh to consider, the director, the script writer…"

"Hugh's lines can remain the same. It's your lengthy explanations that have to be simplified. You know all the lines. On the first take, do all the lines as scripted. A good director gives the actors some freedom. So on subsequent takes, give him a streamlined version."

"Will you help me?"

I leaned into Michelle and kissed her.

With a straight face, Michelle said, "See. Guys are always thinking about sex." Then she laughed.

She was right. I decided to take a chance. "Michelle, I think you just might be the most attractive girl I've ever met. And my feelings for you are growing daily. And it's not just my feelings that are growing," I said, as I glanced down toward my pants.

Michelle laughed again. "Michael, I like you very much. You are my twin sister after all. With your dual nature, you offer the best of both worlds. But, I've had relationships while working on films before--affairs that have ended badly. I vowed never to let it happen again … Sorry."

"What about after the film is over? Will you give me a chance then?"

Michelle wrapped her arms around me. I loved her clean scent. She looked me directly in the eyes. "The temptation is hard to resist right now."

We kissed. It was long and passionate. It felt just right. The kiss communicated my love for her as succinctly as I could express it.

19

"Do not believe anything on the mere authority of teachers or priests. Accept as true and as the guide to your life only that which accords with your own reason and experience, after thorough investigation. Accept only that which contributes to the well-being of yourself and others."

- Buddha

Dictum meum pactum. "My word is my bond" is the motto of the London Stock Exchange.

The Exchange Floor was abuzz with speculation. There hadn't been this much hype about one company's news in the more than 300-year history of the LSE.

From the LSE's humble beginnings as a trading center for securities and commodities in the 17th century, to the V2 rocket strike in 1945 to the Big Bang deregulation of 1986, to the invasion by anarchists in 1999, there had been many memorable events.

Located beside historic St. Paul's Cathedral, the new seven-story high stone-clad building fit right in with a cluster of financial institutions on Paternoster (Latin for 'Our Father') Square.

In front of the huge two-story LED signboard that provided instantaneous financial data for all of the world's major stock exchanges, Sebastian Randall, the CEO of CGL stood and delivered.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Randall began. "Cure Gene Laboratories is proud to be at the cutting edge of genetic research. We have a strong pipeline of products in development. Many of the clinical trials of our new medicines are in the late stages, awaiting MHRA approval."

Randall knew the throng of journalists was hoping for something really big. He didn't want to disappoint them.

"In an era of rising oil prices and serious concerns about global warming, people are looking for an alternative.

"Many scientists and engineers are looking seriously at hydrogen as the fuel for the future. Hydrogen was the fuel that took man to the moon and back. The big advantage of hydrogen is that there is no pollution. It's clean burning.

"In nature, hydrogen is found in many compounds, but is not commonly found all by itself. Water, for example, has two hydrogen atoms and an oxygen atom. Although oxygen is necessary for life, it gets in the way of producing hydrogen cheaply. Energy is needed to separate the hydrogen from the oxygen. So far, the methods of producing hydrogen have been prohibitively expensive.

"We have found a way to produce hydrogen cheaply. Many microorganisms, like algae, have enzymes called hydrogenases that use sunlight and water to create hydrogen based energy.

"At Gene Cure Laboratories, using genetic engineering techniques, we have created highly efficient designer enzymes. We can take plain ocean water and turn it into pure hydrogen energy! GCL will be remembered as the alchemists who turned lead into gold!

"The days of $115 a barrel oil are over.

"The Hydrogen Age has arrived!"

Sebastian Randall had delivered on his promise.

As one of the extras among the crowd of 'journalists' at the LSE, I was suitably impressed.

If only it were true!

Then Sebastian turned the dais over to his daughter, Jennifer Randall.

She introduced a multi-media presentation about hydrogen. The first part showed how hydrogen could be used as a clean burning energy alternative. The second portion was a comparison of various methods of producing hydrogen. The final portion showed GCL's discovery at work.

There were three key elements: huge photobioreactors containing ocean water, the sun's energy and the designer enzyme.

That equaled pure hydrogen!

When the multi-media presentation ended, Sebastian and Jennifer Randall fielded questions from the journalists.

Afterwards, James Bond, posing as a reporter for The Economist, made a point of approaching beautiful Jennifer Randall for an up close and personal interview.

I would like to have seen the end result of that, but the bedroom encounter, filmed the next day, was a closed set. Kyra Dailey did not want any unnecessary personnel watching her performance with Bond undercover. And no matter how I pleaded with the production crew, the results were For Your Eyes Only.

20

"And whom am I?"

"I dunno, maybe you're a Goat."

"Goat?"

"Maybe you're a Mudface."

"Who's Mudface?"

"Mudface is the mud in your goatface. What would you say if Someone was asked the question, 'Does a dog have the Buddha nature?' and said 'Woof!'"

"I'd say that was a lot of silly Zen Buddhism … It's mean," I complained. "All those Zen Masters throwing young kids in the mud because they can't answer their silly word questions."

"That's because they want them to realize mud is better than words, boy."

- Jack Kerouac, Dharma Bums

Near the end of the stunt training, I entered the Makeup division at Pinewood Studios for my usual transformation into Michelle Zhang.

This method acting was fine for real actors, but why a stuntman?

However, today was a little different. Stunt coordinator Rich Jackson was waiting for me.

"Top of the morning, Michael."

"Good morning, Rich."

"I was hoping to catch you before you got into your usual character."

"It's my daily ritual. I sit in the makeup chair for an hour or two and get transformed. Then I go and practice the fight scene for the grand finale."

"What if I told you that you didn't have to go through that this morning?"

"That would be a pleasant surprise. We've been rehearsing those kicks, blocks, leaps and falls over and over again. Hell, I've been down more times than a Tijuana hooker."

Rich smiled. "Ready to give up the girly padding, makeup and falls, are you? Would you like to take a turn in front of the camera?"

"Sure. What would you like me to do?"

"In every Bond movie, Double-O Seven visits Q Branch to get outfitted with some special gadgets."

"Sounds intriguing. I love that part of a Bond film. Double-O Seven always has the most amazing gadgets."

"This time Bond needs to test out a new product. You'd be the test dummy, so to speak."

"Do I have any lines to say?"

"No, you're a test dummy, so there's no reason to be nervous. Although no matter how you perform, it couldn't be any worse than the theatrical performance I witnessed last night in London."

"Oh, what did you see?"

"The Diary of Anne Frank. The actress, who shall remain nameless, gave the worst portrayal I have ever seen. It was so bad that when the Nazis came to search the Annex, people in the audience yelled 'She's hiding in the attic!' "

I laughed. "It might be a stretch, but I'll try to be a good test dummy."

At the 007 Stage, a set for Q Branch had been constructed. Meant to simulate a warehouse style lab, the façade very much resembled the actual working studio.

"Ah, you are late for our meeting, Double-O Seven," Major Boothroyd said as Bond walked into the office. "You were supposed to be here at 1:00 p.m. and it's precisely 14 seconds after the appointed time."

James closed the door behind him to keep out the din from the noisy workshop.

"Perhaps I need a new wristwatch. Do you have anything that will keep precise time?"

"As a matter of fact I've got something that just might do the trick, although you seem to go through our chronometers faster than we can make them."

"'Takes a licking, but keeps on ticking.' You could learn a thing or two from the Timex people."

Tall, middle-aged and mustached, somehow Major Boothroyd looked like a mad scientist escapee from a Monty Python's Flying Circus comedy sketch.

Boothroyd handed Bond a complex looking plastic digital wristwatch/calculator. "This one has a special remote control device. But, whatever you do, don't activate it yet or we'll have a catastrophe our hands."

A stern warning was etched in Boothroyd's face as he led Bond out of the office to the workshop area. On a large steel table was an attaché case.

"Here we have an ordinary looking laptop computer carrying case and within it a Panasonic Toughbook," Boothroyd began. "However, the computer shell is a façade. When you press the reset button on your wristwatch/calculator followed by the numbers 007 on the mini keypad, it activates a powerful electromagnet within the Toughbook computer. But before you do so, I'd suggest you undo your belt and place it on the table."

Bond did as instructed. Then, as Boothroyd stepped back, Bond hit the reset button.

The gun within Bond's armpit holster practically flew out of his jacket and struck the leather surface of the attaché case. Pens and loose utensils flew across the room, sucked into the vortex of the carrying case.

"Very well done, Quartermaster."

"That's at the low setting. When you set the electromagnet to maximum power, the Black Hole setting, guns and knives, as far away as 150 feet, will be drawn to this powerful electromagnetic field. As will any other small metal object, like your belt buckle. But be sure to place the carrying case against a very large, solid steel surface or the briefcase will fly towards large or massive metal objects."

"Such as a steel frame within a wall?"

"Yes, that's possible."

Bond pressed reset on his watch again, deactivating the electromagnet. "How about a car? Will the case attach itself to a car?" Bond asked as he holstered his Walther.

"Certainly."

"Does the Toughbook computer work?"

"It's a façade. I wouldn't touch it if I were you. The electromagnet uses liquid helium cooling. Wouldn't want you to suffer from frostbite."

Bond looked about the workshop for a moment or two. There was a lot of familiar equipment hanging about. Gadgets he had used on previous missions. But his attention was drawn to two mannequins dressed in what appeared to be Bond's usual clothes.

"What else is new, Major? The tuxedo or, perhaps, the suit?"

"Very observant," Boothroyd said as he looked to the far end of the workshop. "Kato!"

"Yes, Major Boothroyd," I said as I scurried toward Boothroyd and his visitor.

I was dressed in a white shirt, white lab coat and dark pants. Also, I wore protective goggles. To change my appearance even more, Annie had given me a moustache, just in case somebody noticed my resemblance to Karine Lau.

"Double-O Seven, for demonstration purposes, I'd like you to shoot young Kato, here."

"Are you joking, Quartermaster?"

"You do have a licence to kill, don't you? Just be sure to hit him in the chest. You can do that, can't you?"

"All right."

Bond took out the Walther from its holster. He fired a shot directly at my heart. A squib exploded on the chest of my white shirt and lab coat.

I felt a slight disturbance from the force.

"Try again, Double-O Seven."

Bond fired his gun once more. Another direct hit, but there was no apparent damage.

"What's the secret, Major?"

"Thank you, Kato."

I exited from whence I came.

"The suit, shirt and underwear are made of genetically engineered spider web silk," Boothroyd said. "Remarkable, isn't it? Some biotech company in Montreal bred a female goat that produces high-strength spider web silk instead of mother's milk."

"Poor kids."

"Weaned at birth, I imagine, or they'd never have got their mouths off their mothers' teats."

"Deprived kids could end up with an oral fixation."

"That was cheesy."

"So the bulletproof spider silk suit is a fait accompli. Or should I say a feta compli?"

"Are we quite done with the goat cheese pun, Double-O Seven?"

"Any more revelations, Major?"

"When the spider silk is matched with d3o, a revolutionary body armor, the bulletproof suit is unrivaled…"

Major Boothroyd went on to describe the smart properties of the d3o molecules. And Hugh Farrell got to say his own C-3PO ad lib. Hugh was pleased that his James Bondian quip would appear on the silver screen.

Bond followed Boothroyd over to the armament section of the active workshop.

"We have some special neutralizing weapons here for you," Boothroyd said as he pulled a rifle from a wall rack. "A tranquilizer rifle. It fires darts accurate to a range of 60 feet."

"A Sominex surprise," Bond said as he hefted the rifle. Then, assuming a firing stance, he took aim and fired it at a target. Bull's-eye!

"Here's another cute weapon," Boothroyd said, as he hefted what looked like a handgun with a telescopic sight on it.

"What does it do?"

"It's a powerful laser weapon. Fire it at a surveillance camera and it will destroy the optical lens."

"That might come in handy."

Of course, Boothroyd was proud of the latest edition of the Aston Martin Vanquish.

A technician was busily working on the dashboard electronics.

"So Major, what improvements have you made to the Aston Martin?"

"This prototype is still in the development stage."

"Does it have all the latest navigation equipment?"

"Yes, it has a GPS guidance system. And, by the way, the automobile is linked with your wristwatch, your coin/homing device and your standard issue cell phone."

"Communication linkages, eh?"

"Yes. And the onboard computer has voice recognition capabilities. It will accept your commands."

"I can tell it to start up?"

"Yes, and you can tell it where to go."

"I guess you've been told that many times."

"Hell, yes."

"Any other features?"

"Of course it has the adaptive camouflage feature you used on a previous mission. But we have installed another helpful device."

"And what might that be?"

As the Q Branch technician vacated the vehicle, Boothroyd held the driver-side door of the Vanquish for Bond.

"Please have a seat."

Bond slid into the comfortable black leather seat as Boothroyd moved around to the other side of the car. Then the Quartermaster took up a position on the front passenger seat beside Bond.

"Nice ergonomics," Bond said.

"This Aston Martin has a radar assisted cruise control plus a camera on the rear-view mirror to watch the white lines so that the vehicle can change lanes. The advanced driver assist program is like an auto-pilot. It regulates your speed and turns the car too. It uses lasers, a video camera and a sophisticated computer recognition system to read signs and identify obstacles."

"So even an idiot could drive it?"

Boothroyd passed up the obvious 'Yes, even you' retort. "But I'm sure you'll find some way to destroy it."

21

"Although gold dust is precious, when it gets in your eyes, it obstructs your vision."

- Hsi-Tang

When Bond arrived at the Ritz Hotel, London, he was reminded of the class distinctions that existed in Britain's glorious past. Situated in the former ballroom of the hotel, The Ritz Club was a private gambling club. The sumptuous interior was awash in ornate gold accents, garden scene frescoes, crystal chandeliers, rich fabrics and mahogany furnishings restored to their original Louis XVI style.

The high stakes poker table was filling up as the dealer spread out a new deck of cards face up.

As one of the 'casino staff' extras on the set, I lifted the velvet-covered chain, which allowed Bond through the brass rail, as he made his way to the green velvet table.

That was my moment of glory. From then on, I was basically a railbird, a spectator.

Bond took his position next to the dealer, the number 6 position.

To the right side, at number 2, talking animatedly was a young lady attired in a Gucci one-shouldered floral silk dress. From her accent, one could conclude she was French. Beside her, at number 1, a middle-aged British gentleman, in a Geoffrey Beene three-piece suit, seemed awestruck by the young lady's beauty.

In the number 3 position, a young red-haired man, looking very confident, pulled up a chair and sat down. Beside him was a fifty something casually dressed man who looked similar to Paul Simon, the American pop star. As he looked across the table at the beautiful lady in the Gucci dress, I could easily imagine him singing 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover.

Bond had just finished his cursory review of the players when Sebastian Randall came through the opening in the brass rail and sat down next to Double-O Seven. 'Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.' Stylishly attired in a Hugo Boss suit, Randall looked much younger than the fifty-eight years recorded in his biographical data.

The game was Texas Hold'em. Driven initially by exposure on American cable channels, the game had become popular in casinos worldwide. Besides the lure of millions of dollars in payoffs, one of the reasons Texas Hold'em was so popular was because the two cards dealt face down at the start of the game to each player were the only unknown cards in the game. The audience could play along. From then on, after an initial round of betting, three up cards, the flop, was dealt. Another round of betting would ensue. Next was the turn card or Fourth Street, followed by more betting. Lastly, the river card or Fifth Street was dealt. Then the players placed their final bets. With five exposed cards and only two hidden cards, the game practically invited players to bluff to steal the pot. Needless to say, a mathematical mind that could calculate the odds was essential for winning. Also, if a player was a member of the Psychic Friends Network, that couldn't hurt. But, most of all, an ability to read the other players' expressions was the winner's biggest asset.

The director selected a camera angle showing the poker table from the dealer. Dressed in a tuxedo, the tall, middle-aged dealer exchanged the players' notes and currency for chips. In this high stakes game, all of the players started with 500,000 British pounds worth of chips. The minimum bet was 5,000 pounds.

The casino's cut for hosting the game was two percent of the winner's take.

Although a Ritz Club dealer would shuffle and distribute the cards, a white plastic puck about two inches in diameter would be passed clockwise around the table. Labeled 'DEALER' on both sides, the button was used to keep track of the betting order and for determining the blinds.

A players' card was passed around the table. Names were written into the numbered spaces. Introductions were made.

The button was placed in front of number 1, Roy Simmons. Chantal Deneuve, at number 2, contributed 5000 pounds of chips, the small blind. Stan Callaway, the redhead, threw in the big blind, 10,000 pounds. The purpose of the blinds was to build up the size of the pots. It forced the players to gamble rather than sit on the sidelines and wait until they were dealt unbeatable hands such as a royal flush (ten, jack, queen, king, ace of the same suit) or four aces.

When the first two cards were dealt face down to each player, Bond was careful to take only a brief peek so as not to reveal his cards to the other players.

Jack Ross, the one who looked like the diminuitive Paul Simon, picked up three chips worth 15,000 pounds and pushed them into the pot. Without hesitation, Sebastian Randall called the preflop bet, tossing his 15,000 into the middle.

Bond folded. Roy Simmons hesitated. He seemed to waffle between staying or folding, agonizing for over a minute, he finally folded. 'You don't need to be coy, Roy.'

Chantal Deneuve called, adding 10,000 pounds to her blind, while Stan Callaway folded.

The dealer burned a card. Then came the flop. Out came the ace of diamonds, the five of hearts and the queen of spades.

Another round of betting ensued.

Chantal Deneuve checked. Sebastian Randall bet 20,000 pounds. Jack slipped out the back. He folded.

Chantal Deneuve hesitated. If she dropped out now, Randall would steal the pot. But, from her worried expression and her sighs, apparently her hand hadn't been helped by the flop. Chantal Deneuve did not have a poker face. Either that or it was all an act to sucker her opponent. Finally, Chantal pushed her 20,000 pounds into the pot.

The dealer burned a card (discarding the top card from the deck face down to minimize the possibility a player had glimpsed the next card to be put into play). Out came the turn card or fourth.

It was the ten of clubs, a possible straight.

Bond noted the beginnings of a smile on Chantal's visage.

Sebastian Randall picked up two more chips. "It's twenty thousand to you."

The red disks made a clink-clink sound as they landed among the chips of many colors.

"I call," Chantal Deneuve said as she added the required amount.

The dealer tossed aside another card into the 'muck.'

Out came the river.

It was a two of hearts.

On the table were the ace of spades, the five of diamonds, queen of spades, ten of clubs and the two of hearts. Without hesitation Randall said, "I'll bet another twenty thousand."

"I call," Chantal said. She looked at her dwindling pile, found two ten thousand pound chips and added it to the growing mound.

Randall revealed his hole cards--the ace of clubs and the queen of hearts. Two pair.

Chantal's tens over fives weren't good enough. "Incroyable."

Neither player even had a pair to begin with. But Sebastian Randall had two pair after the flop. Chantal Deneuve caught her second pair on the turn.

Randall had played smartly with his ace queen offsuit. If he had bet more aggressively on the initial bet, he might have scared off the other players. The strategy had paid off handsomely.

A server, dressed in dark pants, a black vest, a white shirt and bow tie, asked, " Would anyone like a drink?"

"Yes," Bond replied immediately. "I'd like a vodka martini: three measures of Gordon's gin, one measure of vodka, a half measure of Kina Lillet vermouth, shake it very well until it's ice cold, pour into a deep champagne glass and garnish it with a slice."

"Very good, sir," the casino staff member said. "Would anyone else like a drink."

"That sounds good to me," Stan Callaway added. "I'd like the same."

"Me too," Chantal Deneuve said.

While the drink orders were being taken, the dealer first spread the cards on the table and mixed them, before riffle-shuffling methodically, seven times, without expression.

The button passed to the number 2 position in front of Chantal Deneuve. Stan Callaway tossed in the small blind. Jack Ross, at number 4, contributed 10,000 pounds for the big blind.

The dealer cut the cards, and dealt two cards to each player.

Bond peeked at his cards. The movie audience would see a pair of tens.

First to bet, Sebastian Randall was 'under the gun.' "I bet fifteen thousand."

"I call," Bond said as his chips followed Randall's into the middle of the green felt.

Roy Simmons folded, as did Chantal Deneuve.

"I'm in," Callaway said as he pushed in his chips.

"So am I," Ross added.

On the flop, the jack of clubs, the nine of hearts and the seven of diamonds turned up.

The communal cards had not helped Bond at all and he was facing an overcard. Somebody holding a jack would have paired up.

"I check," Ross said.

Randall responded quickly. "Another fifteen thousand."

"I call," Bond said.

Callaway hesitated. "I fold."

The bet was to Ross. "I call."

There was another clink clink of chips.

On the turn came a ten of spades.

Ross checked again.

Randall said, "Another fifteen thousand," as he tossed a red chip and a green one into the pot.

The bet was to Bond. "I see your fifteen and raise it an additional fifteen."

All eyes went to Bond. Had he caught something? Did he have three tens? Or did he have a possible straight?

Callaway said, "I've got plenty of nothing. I fold." Stan tossed his cards into the 'muck.'

The bet was to Jack Ross. "I'm folding."

"I hate to let you steal the pot, Mr. Bond," Randall began, "but I'm afraid I will have to let this one go."

Randall threw his hole cards into the discard pile.

"Thank you," Bond said.

That was a nice pot.

"Cut!" Marshall Robb yelled.

In the world of make-believe, James Bond was an expert at casino gambling. Bond, in the Ian Fleming novel, Casino Royale, bankrupted the lethal Russian operative 'Le Chiffre' at the baccarat table.

To spice up the casino scene, one of Le Chiffre's henchmen held a gun to the back of Double O Seven's spine at a critical juncture of the game. The cane carried by the forty-something henchman was the old 'hidden silenced gun in the cane' trick. Of course, Bond did his usual Houdini 'How'd he do it?' and escaped.

The director had the stage crew tee up the scene one more time. In the meantime, Marshall Robb talked briefly with the actors. He was looking for a little more emotion in the actors' expressions and a little less 'poker face' stoicism.

The top poker players looked for patterns in the betting of their opponents. In addition, the poorer players exhibited 'tells' that would give away their hand. For example, a player who kept looking back at his or her cards or a person who waited a long time before matching a bet, these were obvious giveaways that the player lacked confidence in the cards, but other tells were more subtle. A quickening of the breathing, a furtive glance or a tilt of the head might not mean anything unless the behavior was repeated, time after time. To stir the pot, players would ask their opponent how many chips he or she had left, hoping to hear something in the other player's voice. The rules stipulated the player didn't have to answer, but could signal the house to count the chips and announce the total.

Poker was one of those rare games where each individual looked for an edge of any sort. Poker practically encouraged players to cheat. Bluffing was an important part of poker. If the bluffer caused all the other players to fold their hands, it was called 'stealing the pot.'

Although I knew a lot about poker, I must confess it was not my game. I couldn't treat it logically. Whenever I had a good hand, it was difficult for me to hide my excitement. I wasn't good at bluffing. Nobody ever let me steal the pot. I was one of the 'fish.'

While we were waiting for the card decks to be 'fixed,' I took the opportunity to check my appearance in the washroom. Annie had given me a male hairpiece to change my appearance. Also, the black wool pants, white shirt, vest and bow tie helped me blend into The Ritz Club background.

After two hours of play, there were three players left. The 'fish' had been consumed.

Bond knew Randall was a good player, but there was something suspicious about his play.

Sometimes Randall covered the hole cards completely with his hands. A player who palmed a card sometimes did this. Also, there was also a characteristic 'clench' position to ensure that the whole card was covered up. Sebastian Randall was a shark about to reel in another sucker. Fortunately, Bond was aware of the 50 ways to cheat another. Yes, the Paul Simon song was still running around my alleged mind.

Once, out of the corner of his eye, Bond thought he had seen a card 'leaking through' the side of Randall's hand.

After palming a good card such as an ace, the cheater could hide the card on a clip below the table level, away from the prying casino eyes in the ceiling. A camera could not see through a person's hands. Then, at a critical juncture, he would pull out the ace and replace one of the hole cards, or even both of the hole cards.

Silly putty and a paper clip was all the high tech gadgetry a 'mechanic' needed.

In critical situations, when another player went all in, Randall always seemed to win--somehow coming up with aces.

On the table, after the turn, were the ace of diamonds, the king of spades, the four of clubs and the six of hearts. Bond had two fives as his hole cards. He suspected that Callaway was working on a straight. If Bond's theory about the palming was correct, Randall probably was working with two aces in the hole.

It was Stan Callaway's turn to bet. "I'm all in."

"I call," Randall said.

It was a sweet pot o' gold!

While all eyes turned to Bond for his bet, Randall made the switch.

The film editor would insert a shot from below the poker table, showing a small piece of Silly Putty stuck to the bottom, the paper clip and the ace of clubs. Randall would bring one of his 'palmed' hole cards under the table and switch it with the ace. Then Randall would move his hand up to the table, cover his hole cards and complete the trade.

Bond said, "I fold."

Showdown. The players turned over their cards.

Callaway was wired. He had two kings in the hole, giving him 'trips,' three kings.

Randall had 'pocket rockets,' two aces in the hole. Amazingly, he had three aces! A monster hand!

Callaway's only hope was to catch a fourth king on the river. 'Make a new plan, Stan.'

The dealer burned a card and then flipped up the next card. It was the six of hearts.

The young redhead, so hopeful a moment before, grabbed his hair as if he wanted to rip it out of his scalp.

Then Callaway stood up to shake the dealer's hand and then Bond's hand. Finally, grudgingly, he shook hands with Sebastian Randall.

Randall was the overall chip leader, forging ahead of Bond.

Double-O Seven thought that if Randall had used a palmed card to win the last hand, he wouldn't have another high card ready. But Bond had taken his eyes off Randall while shaking hands with Callaway.

According to the storyline, when Bond first came to MI6 with the idea that he ought to take on Sebastian Randall in a poker game, the bean counting plebeians in Finance responded with a resounding 'No!' However, in depth research revealed that Sebastian Randall had a gambling habit. Perhaps an encounter with Randall might lead to a better understanding of this complex man.

Bond relished the opportunity to play Randall heads-up.

The dealer button came to Bond. The blind had been increased to fifty thousand. So Randall made his contribution. It was but a small turret from the castle of chips in front of Sebastian.

After the shuffle, the dealer dealt two down cards to the players.

Bond sneaked a peek, trying to watch Randall's hands at the same time. The film audience would see that Bond had two nines.

Randall had covered his cards with both hands. Was he palming a card? Randall checked to Bond.

"I'm all in," Bond said.

"How much money do you have there?"

Bond did a quick count. "A million four."

"I'll call."

This was the big hand of the match. Randall had two hundred thousand more than Bond, but if Randall lost, the large blind would virtually wipe him out within a few hands.

The players flipped over their hole cards.

Randall's pocket cards were 'hooks,' a pair of jacks.

On the flop, the five of clubs, the eight of hearts and the jack of diamonds became the communal cards.

Randall had 'trips,' three jacks!

On board, Bond's two nines weren't good enough. His chances looked pretty dismal. Either he needed two nines or he needed to fill the inside straight.

The dealer flipped over the turn or Fourth Street. It was a six of diamonds.

Bond was still alive. It came down to one card. However, catching a card to make an inside straight was one of the least likely draws in poker. Bond had about a one in eleven chance of winning.

Bond could see anticipation on the face of Sebastian Randall.

Bond's face revealed little emotion as the dealer flipped over the final card.

It was a lucky seven! A Dolly Parton five to nine straight!

Bond had won.

Sebastian Randall had a stunned look on his face. Unbelievable!

"Mr. Bond," Randall said, as he stood up, "Lady Luck was with you tonight. Congratulations."

Randall and Bond shook hands.

Sebastian Randall was gracious in defeat.

Bond winked at the dealer as he passed him a sizeable tip. The cinematographer went for a close-up of the tall dealer, showing for the first time it was Boothroyd. Sebastian Randall had been able to palm a card or two, but Bond had the real ace in the hole. Q Branch would put Randall's money to good use.

22

"In all of the Oriental religions great value is placed on the Sanskrit doctrine of Tat tvam asi, "Thou are that," which asserts that everything you think you are and everything you think you perceive are undivided. To realize fully this lack of division is to become enlightened."

- Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig

While I had enjoyed being an extra at the London Stock Exchange and at The Ritz Club, there was something missing. Although I found the movie making experience fascinating, I was restless and I couldn't quite put my finger on the why of it.

After a day of rehearsing the driving sequences surrounding the big fight scene, Michelle asked if I could meet her after work at a local pub. She specified that she wanted to see me as her double, 'Two.' I quickly agreed. Time to set yourself free, Lee.

The problem was all inside my head. Having spent two consecutive days in male drab, I missed the feminine finery I had become accustomed to. Another social outing as a girl was another opportunity to explore my alternate identity.

I tried to put my fears aside. Certainly the violent encounter outside the WayOut Club was on my mind. Although confident I wouldn't be exposed as a dude in drag, nevertheless, it was still a possibility. Ever since I had donned a dress a few months ago for that driving stunt at Big Sur, it was as if I had stepped into a parallel universe–one of the eleven dimensions theorized by physicists. Immediately, I felt comfortable in a wig, makeup, a dress, nylons and high heels. I enjoyed being a sexy, beautiful girl. I liked the way I looked. It was fun, an addictive high without the drug downside.

Or was there a downside? The only reluctance I felt was a concern about the reaction of family and friends. Shame for my family because I was a transvestite. An embarrassment to my mother and sister–never mind my deceased father. And was I turning homosexual? I had allowed men to become attracted to me and had enjoyed the attention they had lavished upon me, obviously hoping for sexual favors in return.

I had heard the story that a previous Bond film director had been arrested, in drag, for soliciting an undercover police officer in Hollywood. How could one live that down? A legal bubble and possible career trouble, isn't it supposed to be the lawyers who're solicitors?

On the positive side, having walked a mile in Michelle's shoes, I had a better understanding of the opposite sex. Or maybe I had a better understanding of what it was to be a T-girl. Certainly I was more tolerant. Perhaps I was more compassionate. I think I gained a better understanding of myself.

After the Bond filmmaking experience was over, what would I do? Would I keep the cross-dressing a secret pleasure? Or would I cross-dress openly? Judging from the confrontation outside the WayOut Club, societal acceptance wasn't to be taken for granted. Also, I had, more or less, promised my mother that I wouldn't dress as a girl anymore after the Bond film was over.

I tried not to concern myself too much about the future. I would continue to live in the moment and let the winds of change take me wherever I was meant to be.

As a visitor, I believed that to understand the English spirit, one had to explore the English spirits. Regarded as the glue that held British society together, the public house was part of the United Kingdom's cultural identity.

In the village of Iver Heath, Buckinghamshire, the Black Horse was a prototypical English country pub. A one-and-a-half storey building, it had that half-timbering with stucco exterior that I found so charming. Was that the Tudor style? According to the set decorators who had been to the pubs around Pinewood Studio, the Black Horse was a brilliant pub. It had a great selection of ales, good food, regular live music, dartboards and a friendly staff.

When I entered the Black Horse, I did not see Michelle anywhere. So I thought I'd go to the loo and check out my makeup. Toward the back, I found the ladies' room. The thick oak doors were rather heavy, but, for a public restroom, it was pleasantly clean, with a touch of urine and beer in the air.

I studied my reflection in the mirror for a moment. The D-cup synthetic cheaters beneath the low-cut black top seemed to attract attention wherever they went. With the form hugging black vinyl skirt and replica Manolo Blahnik high heels, I felt very confident in my wardrobe selections. The wig, thanks to Annie Delmonica, was long, lustrous and well suited to my facial features. Withdrawing a brush from my black faux Louis Vuitton clutch, I gave the tresses a few strokes to undo any windblown tangles.

My best feature was my sparkling eyes. Or maybe it was those high 'fashion model' cheekbones? But the lips needed attention. After fumbling around in the purse for that magic wand, I pouted like Angelina Jolie posing for the paparazzi. I applied the lipstick with deft touches and pressed my lips together. Perfect! To paraphrase Forrest Gump's counterpart Doris, Doris Clump, 'Beautiful is as beautiful does.'

Making my way back to the bar, I noted the dartboards at the back of the pub. Some of the dart players looked my way admiringly. I smiled back and put a little extra sway in my walk. Perhaps I'd give darts and the dart players a try before evening's end. Also, I noted that there was a small stage set up for a live band. I was in the mood for good entertainment.

Taking a seat at the bar near the front entrance, I looked again for Michelle but she was nowhere to be found.

The bartender, a stout, middle-aged man with a well-kept beard greeted me with a friendly smile. "Good evening."

"Hi there."

"Would you like something to drink, love?"

"I'm waiting for a friend." I paused. "I guess I might as well sample some of your hops and barley concoctions to help pass the time."

"Have you been here before?"

"No, my first time."

"A virgin?"

I smiled. "Are you suggesting a Shirley Temple would be more to my liking?"

"I suspect you'd like something stronger."

"However, I don't want anything that will put hair on my chest."

"And an impressive chest it is," the barkeep said with a wink.

'Wax on, wax off.' If he only knew I was more The Karate Kid than Shirley Temple.

"So, how about an ale?" the bartender asked. "We've got some good local products, Chiltern Brewery Ale or Beechwood Ale. Some others you might like to sample are Tanglefoot or Hooky's Twelve Days."

"Hooky's Twelve Days?" I had visions of a Playmate's Christmas vacation at the Playboy Mansion.

"The beer has nothing to do with sex for sale. Hook Norton's Twelve Days is supposed to evoke the winter season. The ale's a dark brown, almost chestnut color. Smooth and tasty, Twelve Days will warm you up and it has a pleasant aftertaste."

"If it comes with a partridge in a pear tree, I'll give it a try."

"No birds in trees, but if you drink enough Hooky's, you might see twelve lords a-leaping."

I smiled. "Is it really foamy? Will I have to blow off the head?"

"I could give you a big head." He shrugged. "But it's all in the pouring--less air, less foam. You wouldn't want a lot of froth around your mouth. At least, not in public."

"Okay. I'll have a big tall Hooky's without the airhead."

As the bartender poured the Twelve Days into a beer stein, I reached into my purse for a five-pound note.

"Thanks, love."

"Keep the change."

I looked to the back of the pub, wondering about the dart games in session. I had seen dart tournaments televised on some of the sports cable channels and I wondered how popular it was in the English pubs.

"I'll have a vodka martini, shaken not stirred."

It was the unmistakable voice of Hugh Farrell. I turned around and smiled at Hugh.

"Real life imitating art?" I asked.

"A little joke." Hugh looked at the bartender. "Please cancel the martini order. I'll have whatever she's having."

"Certainly sir."

Hugh looked me over for a moment. "I'm glad you came. We haven't been able to spend much time together socially."

Wait a second! Had Michelle set me up? Did Hugh know he was looking at Michael, not Michelle? "Long days. We've had a busy shooting schedule."

"It's almost over. We should be wrapping up within a week, if all goes well."

"Will you miss it?"

"I always enjoy working on a movie. Being my first Bond adventure, I've found it to be very interesting. I've never been involved with a film that has had such a big budget. They don't do anything, pardon my French, half-assed."

"It's been a great experience."

A tall redheaded lass, with a fabulous body walked by. Hugh's eyes followed her for a moment as she made her way to the back of the pub, her high heels tock-talking with the hardwood.

As Michael, would I have had a chance with her? Not likely while Hugh was around.

"I've been a fan of the Bond films from when I was a kid, so to be James Bond is a dream come true."

"I got hooked when I was a kid too. I liked the action, the gadgets, the humor."

"I liked the sexy girls."

"Honestly, I never dreamed I'd be a Bond girl." Did Hugh know it was me, not Michelle?

Hugh looked down at my bosom suggestively. "I think you fill the role admirably."

"Thank you, but…"

"You know critics are going to compare me to the previous Bonds. It's not something to look forward to. I don't know how I'm going to respond to that media feeding frenzy. I could be another George Lazenby."

A couple of young guys passed by me. I could feel their eyes on me, looking at my face first and then moving down to check out the rest of me. I tried to focus in on Hugh. "On Her Majesty's Secret Service was a pretty good Bond film. You couldn't find a better gal for Bond to marry than The Avengers star, Diana Rigg."

"I agree. She was great. The stunts were fantastic. But critics jumped all over Lazenby for being like Pinocchio, too wooden."

"Did you know that after Her Majesty's Secret Service came out, Lazenby was scheduled to make a film with Bruce Lee?"

"I didn't know that." Hugh's eyes registered surprise.

"Unfortunately, Bruce Lee died before the film Game of Death could be completed."

"Unfortunate for George Lazenby, too. Although he did a few more films, he became a B list actor."

"Whoever succeeded Sean Connery was going to suffer by comparison. They were big shoes to fill." I grasped Hugh by the hand to console him. "There have been lots of actors before you in the role. From what I've seen, you'll be among the best."

"I hope you're right, but there have been some tough moments for me--some self doubt, and that's not like me. Usually criticism or bad reviews don't bother me, but this is different."

"Why, because it's so big? Are you afraid you'll never get another big film if this one bombs?"

"Something like that."

I gave Hugh's hands a comforting squeeze. His admittance of fear, his vulnerability, was strangely attractive. "This film will be a hit. I know it will."

Hugh drew me to him. We hugged. He smelled absolutely delightful. 'My men wear English Leather or nothing at all.'

"Thanks. You're a real comfort to me."

"Remember, your name is…"

"Bond, James Bond."

"And nobody does it better."

"Better than all the rest?"

"Better than all the rest."

I didn't want to get too sentimental. I looked for anything to change the subject. The bartender had placed the Hooky's in front of Hugh, but neither of us had noticed.

I picked up my glass and indicated, with a nod, that Hugh's beer was waiting to be consumed.

"What's this?" Hugh asked.

The bartender, who had been hovering nearby, chimed in, "Try it. You'll like it."

"How much do I owe you?" Hugh asked, as he reached into his pants pocket for his wallet.

"Anyone who is licensed to kill drinks for free."

Grinning from ear-to-ear, Hugh held up the beer stein. I raised mine.

"To the best," I said.

"Cheers!" Hugh said, as we clinked the glasses together.

Hugh took a sip. "Ah, this is good. Is it Hooky's Twelve Days?"

"Yes, how'd you know?"

"An educated palette. Besides, all the tourists try it at this time of year. They can't resist the name."

"The bartender promised I'd see twelve lords a-leaping."

"Actually," Hugh began, "I think the bartender's playing a trick on you because it's twelve drummers drumming."

"I could have sworn it was twelve lords a-leaping."

"If you have a few more drinks, what will it mater?"

"Exactly. Ignorant or apathetic? I don't know and I don't care."

"You're not going to get drunk, are you?" Hugh asked, as he put an arm over my shoulder. He had a comforting and protective presence.

"Probably not."

"Can you hold your liquor?"

"I don't know. I won't overdo it." I felt vulnerable and Hugh seemed to sense this as he drew me tighter with his arm.

"How do you behave when you're drunk? Are you the life of the party? Or are you belligerent?"

"I think I'm pleasant."

"Do you remember anything the next day?"

"I think so," I replied meekly. I looked into his dreamy blues.

"Could you be a little more vague?" Hugh asked. There was a glint in his eyes. "I think you're hiding something. I should slip a drug into your drink."

"GHB, the date rape drug?"

"No, how dare you suggest that!" Hugh let go of me.

"Sodium pentathol?"

"No, a little TTTTT."

"What's TTTTT?"

"It's a CIA concoction. It's an acronym for Till They Tell The Truth," Hugh said.

"TTTTT won't work on me."

"Why not?"

"I'm a pathological liar. Even now, I'm lying."

"That's disturbing."

Not wanting to get in too deep about my deceptive ways, I tried to change the subject once more. "So what's your favorite Bond film?" My fingers played with a curl of my long hair while Hugh quaffed his Hooky's.

"I think Goldfinger is the best," Hugh said, as he wiped a little of the foam from his mouth. "After more than forty years, it still holds up pretty well. It was a blockbuster film when it first came out."

"I think most film historians would agree. It's the model for all the subsequent Bond films. The Aston Martin car with the ejector seat, the girl who was killed by the gold paint all over her body, Oddjob the villain, the invasion of Fort Knox, Pussy Galore and her flying circus, the Shirley Bassey theme song, they set the pattern for all the others."

"Goldfinger was a great adversary. When Goldfinger captured Bond, Double-O Seven was strapped to a metal slab. A powerful laser slowly burned away the metal below his crotch. Every male in the audience felt for him. When Bond asked, 'Do you expect me to talk?' Goldfinger said, 'No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die!' Bond tried to talk his way out of certain death and Auric Goldfinger said, 'Choose your next witticism carefully, Mr. Bond, it may be your last.'"

Hugh certainly knew his Bond stuff.

"A good villain, somebody who is a formidable opponent for Bond, is important," I said, as I switched the beer stein to my other hand. The Hooky's had a pleasant aftertaste. I could easily get used to it.

"Agreed, but every Bond film is compared to all the other Bond films. It's pretty hard to top the previous ones. There are only so many ways to do a car chase; there are only so many ways to blow up the world."

"It must be hard for the scriptwriters to find new ways to threaten the whole human race." While talking about this topic, somehow I felt less feminine, less yin. It seemed to bring out the yang side of my personality.

"Also, like the point made in the Austin Powers films, the villains have to be out of this world."

"The villains and their henchmen have to be more evil than Dr. Evil."

"Or more memorable, like Oddjob or Jaws," Hugh suggested. "But it's hard to top Xenia Onatopp."

"Wasn't Famke Janssen and her thighs of death a scream? What a way to kick the bucket!" I wondered what it would be like to put the squeeze on Hugh.

"You have to admit that achieving an orgasm by killing is pretty novel, but that's how our film is different. Our villain isn't really evil. In some ways, Sebastian Randall is altruistic, perhaps heroic."

"Even though he cheats at cards and tries to knock off those who threaten him?"

"Yes," Hugh began, "because the world might be better off if Randall were to succeed."

"What a choice for Bond! Kill the villain and maintain the status quo. Or, let the villain go, and improve the world." I really thought Hugh was into the whole Bond experience.

"All our decisions are like that. We never know for sure which road is the best to take. However, for Bond, the choice is easy. It's kill or be killed. In The Man with the Golden Gun, when Bond asks, 'Who'd want to put a contract out on me?' M replies, 'Jealous husbands, outraged chefs, humiliated tailors; the list is endless.'"

"So, do you have any of James Bond's talents? I mean besides attracting contract killers."

"In any relationship, I can keep my end up."

I felt a hand come up to my shoulder from behind. There was a hand on Hugh's shoulder as well.

I turned around. "Michelle!"

"Hi!"

There was a huge look of surprise on Hugh's face.

"Sorry I'm late," Michelle said. "One of the costume fittings seemed to take forever. How have you two been getting along?"

"Great," I said.

Hugh nodded, but the look on his face was one of pure alarm.

Was it any wonder Hugh's self-confidence was shaken? Either he thought I was Michelle or he knowingly was flirting with a gender-bending deceiver.

23

"A master in the art of living draws no sharp distinction between his work and his play; his labor and his leisure; his mind and his body; his education and his recreation. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence through whatever he is doing, and leaves others to determine whether he is working or playing. To himself, he always appears to be doing both."

- Francoise Rene Auguste Chateaubriand

My brief exposure as a casino worker and as Kato had given me a taste for acting. However, I doubted that anybody in the audience would make the connection between Kato and Karine, my film alter egos. And I doubted that even my own mother would notice me in the casino scene or at the London Stock Exchange. Extras don't get a lot of 'face time' onscreen.

Later in the week, I was back in Makeup again. While Annie Delmonica transformed me into Michelle Zhang's twin sister, the makeup artiste extraordinaire brought me up to speed on what had happened the previous day while I was up in Stevenage, doing a second unit shoot.

After The Ritz Club scene, Hugh Farrell was back in front of the cameras, for a scene with M and Moneypenny at MI6 headquarters. There, Michelle, as Karine, had conferred with M and James Bond. They had discussed what had to be done concerning Sebastian Randall, the CEO of Gene Cure Laboratories and his mad plan to destroy the world's oil supply. I was familiar with one of those scenes, having rehearsed it with Michelle at her hotel room.

But this evening was the big finale for the stuntmen.

An hour before midnight, Bond and Karine Lau drove up to the front gate at the Gene Cure Laboratories headquarters in Stevenage, north of London.

Using the Adaptive Camouflage feature to make the Aston Martin invisible, Bond followed an employee's vehicle past the front gate booth.

Security was heavy. Surveillance cameras, armed pedestrian patrols and security vehicles were ubiquitous.

The modern complex consisted of four large buildings. Two were high-rise office buildings–one for administration and the other for research. The other two buildings were sprawling, warehouse-style edifices.

That portion of the shoot was done on location at Stevenage.

But, for the next scene, the exterior of the largest stage at Pinewood studios was given a modern pharmaceutical plant façade.

While scanning the schematic map of GCL headquarters, Bond wheeled his car over to the shipping and receiving entrance of the biotech manufacturing facility. He parked the Aston Martin on the lawn beside garage door. There, Bond and Lau waited patiently for their opportunity.

Eventually, two employees, one male and the other female, came outside for a smoking break. Bond noted that the white Dacron polyester coveralls he and Karine wore were identical to the clothing of the GCL staff.

Bond was ready with the laser gun. He waited until the smokers were looking away from his location. Quietly Bond lowered the car window a touch. Taking advantage of the invisibility cover provided by the Aston Martin, Bond readied his laser gun. Using the gun scope, he took aim at the lens of the surveillance camera and squeezed the trigger. He kept the laser beam focused on the camera lens for about ten seconds, until he was sure he had disabled the camera.

Then he pulled out a special rifle from behind the front seat of the Vanquish. Lowering the car window a little more, he assumed a firing stance, took aim and fired two shots, taking out the employees instantly with tranquilizer darts.

Bond and Lau got out of the Aston Martin and carried the bodies back to the car, placing them on the seats.

Bond slipped a white fabric mask into place. Lau handed him the identity badges and access cards of the sleeping employees. Then Bond grabbed his laptop carrying case and handed Karine Lau another one.

As bold as brass, they waltzed into the headquarters like they were regular employees coming back from a break.

The 007 Stage was remade into a large-scale pharmaceutical manufacturing plant. Six 12,000-liter bioreactors, huge stainless steel fermentation vessels, dominated the set. The huge vats looked like they could batch process bacterial cultures with great speed and efficiency. Like the real thing, all the walls and floors of the biotech plant were constructed of smooth, durable impervious surfaces. The set had the air of being a super-clean, sterile, modern facility.

Karine Lau, immediately upon entering the shipping section, opened up one of the white cardboard boxes. Inside were glass vials containing bacterial cultures. Lau recognized these as the KL22 oil-eating bacteria. She had what she was looking for!

But the mission was far from complete.

Between the shipping section of the plant and the processing floor, there was an airlock. Bond and Lau noted the pressure differentials between the two segregated sections. Powerful fans, ventilation and vacuum systems air scrubbed employees as they moved through the airlocks.

As Bond and Lau treaded across the welded vinyl floor of the processing area, they noted that there were few workers in sight. There were automated handling systems, automated guided vehicles, and the warehouse section they had passed through was automated as well. The entire manufacturing process was computer controlled.

But what was in those huge cylindrical vats? Was that where the oil-eating bacteria was mass-produced?

The cultures that Lau had produced in the Gates Pharmaceutical labs could be used to drastically alter the world economic systems.

Lau noted that the huge bioreactors had been installed in multi-modular fashion, allowing the vats to be used for separate products. Which one was being used to manufacture the KL22?

All of a sudden, teams of uniformed security guards charged through the three different entranceways to the processing plant. They were heavily armed with automatic rifles and all of them wore Kevlar vests.

The thirty or so security guards quickly advanced toward Bond and Lau.

James and Karine looked for a place to escape. But there weren't any other exits and there was no place to hide.

Both Lau and Bond raised their hands in surrender. The guards surrounded them.

From one of the entrances, Sebastian Randall and his beautiful daughter, Jennifer, emerged.

While the Randalls approached, the guards took away the laptop cases and searched Bond and Lau for weapons.

"What have we here?" Randall asked. "If it isn't the elusive Karine Lau? My oh my, what a surprise! A pleasure to meet you again."

"The pleasure is all yours, I can assure you."

"Defiant to the bitter end. I've been after you for quite some time." Randall looked directly at Bond. "And I've forgotten your name."

"Daddy, that man is James Bond," Jennifer Randall interjected. "I encountered him in London a few days ago. He said he was a reporter for The Economist."

"I rather doubt that's true," Sebastian Randall said. "He told me he was an ornithologist."

"The name is Bond, James Bond."

"But reporters, or ornithologists, don't usually trespass at a secure facility late at night."

"Miss Lau and I came in search of confiscated property."

"And what might that be?" Randall asked.

"The oil-eating bacteria that I developed," Karine Lau said.

"That product wasn't confiscated. I bought and paid for Gates Pharmaceuticals. I own the patent rights to all of the Gates' products. I've done nothing illegal."

"What about trying to kidnap me?" Karine asked.

Randall smiled. "You couldn't prove that. On the other hand, I could have you two thrown in jail for trespassing and for industrial espionage. However did you manage to get in here?"

"We walked in," Bond said. "Your security needs to be tightened up."

"Apparently," Randall affirmed. "But I suspect the two of you know much more than you're letting on."

Bond and Lau volunteered nothing.

"What I'm about to tell you would be of great interest to the readers of The Economist, but neither of you will live to tell it," Randall said.

"I will make a major change in the world economic system. Right now, we have a manipulated energy crisis. The price of oil has skyrocketed from about US$23.00 per barrel in 2004 to over US$115.00 today. And the price will continue to rise as OPEC and the Four Ugly Sisters do their impression of Chicken Little. 'The sky is falling. We have to raise oil prices.' This dependency on oil is lunacy.

"While global warming burns, the G8 fiddles. When inventors create alternatives to the internal combustion engine and the use of petroleum, they are crushed by the propaganda of OPEC, the major oil companies, the car manufacturers and the ignorance of the masses.

"For the benefit of the whole world, I will end this mad dependency on petroleum. In those bioreactors over there, oil-eating bacteria are being created. I will release the KL22 oil-eating bacteria in every oil field, every pipeline, every oil tanker, every refinery and gas station I can find."

"Pardon me for interrupting," Bond said, "but you don't need to do this. Your company, GCL, has invented a cheap way to produce hydrogen from ocean water."

"And at every turn, the oil industry's propaganda machine has released negative stories about hydrogen. They'll say 'It's still too expensive,' or 'The cost of the hydrogen vehicles will be triple the cost of conventional cars.' As for accidents, 'Remember the Hindenburg?' Some bleeding heart crackpot will warn, 'Making hydrogen from water will create shortages in many areas that are already desperately short of drinking water.' The litany of propaganda goes on and on."

"And you're destroying the oil fields out of the goodness of your heart?" Bond asked.

"Yes, although I will profit too. In the stock markets, I have taken short positions in the Four Ugly Sisters: Chevron, Royal Dutch Shell, ExxonMobil and British Petroleum. When the oil-eating bacteria wipes out their properties, I will recoup my original investment in Gates Pharmaceuticals, I conservatively estimate, twenty times over."

"And I thought you were an altruist. You're no better than they are--just another ugly sister."

"History may view me as an altruist. Or an opportunist. But remember this, Mr. Bond. The winners usually get to write their version of history." Randall looked toward his Chief of Security. "Take them away. Put them in detention. We'll have to arrange for them to disappear."

As the security guards led Bond away to the shipping department exit, Bond quickly depressed the reset button on his watch and punched in code 007.

"Cut!" director Marshall Robb yelled. "That was great. Now let's get the stunt people in here."

I stepped in for Michelle. Craig Colbourn took the place of Hugh Farrell.

We took our positions and Marshall signaled, "Action!"

Suddenly the guard who had been carrying the laptop case was knocked to the ground by rifles and guns flying toward the powerful electromagnet.

Confusion reigned!

All the guards struggled to undo their belts as they were yanked by the magnetic vortex.

Bond kicked the guard in front of him and grabbed me by the hand.

"Grab them!" Randall yelled.

I kicked another guard in the groin. He fell to the ground in agony, as if his next born child had just died.

Bond punched another guard on the jaw, knocking him to the ground, as we ran toward the exit.

Another guard stood in my way. I leapt high in the air. My legs scissored out. I caught the guard around the neck, bringing him to the ground with my forward momentum. Had the attack been real, I would've broken his neck.

I turned around. Bond was behind me, engaged by three attackers.

There was one guard on the ground, just getting to his feet. Another was about to grab Bond from behind.

I leapt onto the back of the rising guard and sprang high into the air. My legs shot out, doing the splits in the air. Both feet connected with the heads of Bond's attackers, knocking them out.

Bond ducked as another guard threw a punch. Bond used his low body position to lift his opponent over his shoulder, catapulting him into another attacker.

We ran toward the exit again.

As we got to the doorway, there was a pursuer right behind me.

I ran straight toward the doorframe. I took two steps up the wall, somersaulted in the air and my lead foot crushed the tailgater's skull as I landed.

However, another attacker's roundhouse kick almost connected as I flopped backwards just in the nick of time. Bond shot out his leg behind the assailant's knee. There was a scream of pain and he fell into the wall.

Bond lifted me by the hand and we went through the doorway into the airlock.

Double-O Seven pressed another button on his wristwatch. This activated a system in the Aston Martin. Bond entered the next code as we were almost at the exit to the outside.

The whole place suddenly went dark. The electromagnetic pulse worked!

But Bond had his hand on the exit door and pulled it open.

We were through it immediately.

I slammed the door behind us, nailing one more pursuer.

A machine gun burst ripped along the pavement from a guard who had just arrived at the processing plant. As he fired from his vehicle, bullets ripped into my legs and then my torso. I ducked my head. Thank goodness for the bulletproof suit!

"Open door!" Bond yelled.

The 'invisible' pixellated Aston Martin doors opened. We grabbed the sleeping bodies slumped on the front seats and threw them to the ground.

As the doors closed, the chasing guards grabbed for the phantom car.

"Ignition!"

The wheels of the Aston Martin spun to life, kicking up bits of sod as Bond wheeled the Vanquish off the lawn.

As the car accelerated, I looked back at our pursuers. They could hear the squealing wheels of a fast-moving car, but in the darkness they had no idea where it was.

Bond looked back in the mirror.

"Farewell Randall and Randall."

Double-O Seven entered another code on the watch keypad.

Back in the GLC processing plant, the camera shot centered on the second laptop case that Karine Lau had carried. It was loaded with plastique!

In the rearview mirror was a massive explosion! A violent plume of bright red and orange flames shot high into the air! Deafening noise! The GCL plant was blown into a million pieces!

I could sense the noxious fumes and intense heat even as we sped away.

Bond allowed himself a satisfied smile at his enemy's expense.

Randall/Hopkirk deceased.

24

"My advice is to try and maintain the silly fun of performing. Not to get too grimly ambitious. Don't be a snob, and perform any place that'll take you. And don't take too much advice. Most people who succeed were told not to even try. Don't talk about it. Just do it! Find yourself a wig and a gown and go, go, go!"

- drag performer Charles Busch

There were congratulations all around. Over the car radio, Director Marshall Robb said he was very pleased with the evening's shoot. All the training and rehearsal for the climax had paid off handsomely.

When I stepped out of the Aston Martin, I went in search of Michelle Zhang.

But I couldn't find her immediately.

However, Rich Jackson, the stunt coordinator, spotted me.

"Well done, Michael! That was absolutely great!"

Rich gave me a warm hug.

"Thanks."

"No regrets about portraying a girl I presume?"

"I must admit to a little trepidation at first. But, now that it's over, I'd say it was an eye-opening experience. And quite enjoyable!"

"I had confidence in you right from the start. I knew you could do it."

"But, you didn't even know me that well when you asked me to substitute for Michelle at Big Sur."

"Yes, but I knew your father."

"Am I missing something here?"

"I worked with your father, Harold, on You Only Live Twice."

"That was a long, long time ago."

"Yes, 'In a galaxy far, far away.' We were both getting started in the business. We needed somebody to do a stunt on the film. It involved the Ama pearl divers, some quite remarkable ladies. They could go down one hundred feet without any oxygen tanks and come back up with their baskets filled with oysters. But the second unit director wanted to add some pizzazz to the film. He had this idea that one of these pearl divers should do a beautiful swan dive off a very high cliff. Of course, if you've seen the film, all of the pearl divers in the film were female. However, when we found a location with a magnificent high cliff, none of the gals wanted to do such a dangerous dive."

"So my father volunteered?"

"That's right. He donned a girl's swimsuit. He shaved his legs. We put him in a wig and makeup. Darned if he didn't look exactly like one of the real pearl divers. And, of course, when he performed the dive, he nailed it on the first take."

"So that's why you had faith in me?"

"It's in the genes."

"Thanks for telling me."

"Oh, one other little tidbit. Because of the length of the film, the director and editor deleted the scene. So your father's work was all for naught."

Somewhere in the spirit world, my father was laughing along with me at this revelation.

Then somebody grabbed me from behind.

"Michael!"

"Michelle!"

We hugged enthusiastically.

"That was so good! It was thrilling to watch!"

"It was great fun to do."

"Say, I've got an idea. Would you like to go grab a late night/early morning snack?"

"Sure," I said. "Let me get changed first."

"No need to. Come back to my hotel room with me. I've got some clothes you can borrow. Tonight, I'd like to celebrate with Michelle Two."

"Okay," I said, hoping that my disappointment didn't show. I was hoping she'd want to celebrate with Michael, the real me. "Please, lead the way."

Michelle had the use of a leased car, courtesy of EON Productions. It was only a Honda Civic SI, but she liked it. She was used to driving one in Hong Kong.

On our way back to London, we rehashed the climactic scene. She really liked the fighting stunts whereas I liked the surprises with the gadgets.

We compared opinions on the best parts of the whole James Bond experience. And we both agreed that there was very little downside to the whole movie making adventure.

One thing that stood out was the camaraderie of the people involved. The Bond franchise had carried on since 1962 when Dr. No was first released. Whenever a Bond film was shot, the producers called together many of the same people who had worked on the previous film, ranging from the actors to the set decorators to the special effects people to film editors to whomever. So, in a sense, it was like a family. And all of these professionals were so good at what they did.

When we arrived at the Novotel London West, Michelle invited me up to her room.

As we crossed the lobby dressed in our white coveralls, we garnered a few curious looks.

On the eighth floor, Michelle took out the access card from her purse and opened the door to room 808.

What she did next surprised me. Michelle called room service. She placed an order for the '61 Bollinger, expensive champagne that James Bond might have ordered--plus caviar and a platter of fresh fruit.

Michelle suggested I shower while we awaited the arrival of her order. She handed me a black bikini bottom and a hot white bustier with black accents. From the bag that I had brought with me, I took out a tuxedo jacket that I had worn in the casino scene.

By the time I had freed myself from the confines of the fake vagina, finished my shower and redone the makeup, the excellent room service had delivered the champagne, caviar and fresh fruit.

Michelle excused herself so she could freshen up.

I sank back in the love seat. I was very tired. It had been a long day. What had kept me going was the adrenaline rush that came with the filming of the climax. So I closed my eyes for a minute or two–to meditate.

One of the lessons of Zen, I told myself, was to not enter a situation with expectations. Be present in the moment. What happens happens.

When people look at the passage of life as sands in an hourglass, it is deceptive. The large bulb below represents the past. The large bulb above represents the future. The narrow neck represents the quickly passing present. But memories fade. And nobody can predict the future. Everybody lives his or her life in the present moment. The present represents the whole of one's life.

I heard the bathroom door open.

Michelle emerged, dressed in a black lace teddy that left very little to the imagination.

Beneath my skimpy bikini bottom, I was sure she could see something stirring.

My mind conjured up visions of a James Bond movie trailer. A beautiful female pop star, looking like Paris Hilton, sang the film's theme song. Dressed in her sexy lingerie, she stoked the baby making machinery behind the popular thong. Oh to be a freeman in Paris.

I got up from my seat, and Michelle floated into my arms. I kissed her with all the love in my heart. It was magical! Michelle and I melded together. We were as one.

When our lips finally parted, she wasted no time in kissing me once more. There was love in cupid's cuddle. Her soft breasts pressed up against my chest, bosom to bosom. Her lower body seemed to fit my contours perfectly as she ground her pelvis into my 'Elvis.' I could feel her hot sensuous breath upon my neck. She kissed my throat and I leaned backward in response. Michelle's tongue flicked forward to lick me and taste me.

I shuddered in response.

As her arms encircled me, she began to strip off my jacket. Next, she reached around me and began to unhook my bustier. I felt some relief as I was released from its tight confines. Before the white and black fabric could drop to the floor, Michelle had her arms around me once more.

Her hands were all over my back, then my chest. They slid down to my hips and around to my buttocks, pulling me closer as her tongue explored my cheeks and earlobes.

Poor Mr. 'Elvis' strained against the confines of the gaff. Poor 'Elvis' was 'caught in a trap.'

My hands explored the fabric of the lace teddy. I took pleasure in slowly uncovering her breasts. She smiled devilishly, delighting in her ability to stimulate pleasure. Michelle helped me slide her teddy down, revealing her neatly trimmed triangle.

We paused for a moment as she shook loose from her lace garment.

Michelle's body was breathtaking. Perfect breasts, a slim waist, broad hips and long legs, she looked like a Playboy centerfold.

Michelle's hands played with my thong, first teasing me as she played with it, then pulling it down, freeing me from the bonds of the tight gaff.

At this point, I maneuvered Michelle over to the bed. As we fell onto the soft mattress in a loving embrace, I could not help but think of James Bond and all the dangerous women he had loved.

Michelle's eyes expressed fire and desire.

As Michelle lay on her back, I moved my position downward, on all fours, to suck her luscious areoles. I caressed her magnificent mammaries, massaging them, not like a baker kneading dough, but like a gigolo needing bread.

It was my pleasure to give her pleasure.

When I slid my tongue further down her body, I licked her lovingly, tasting her belly button for a moment.

I must have pressed the wrong button.

All of a sudden, Michelle pushed my head away, launched her legs up to my neck, squeezed her thighs tightly together and locked her ankles and feet together. Then she tried to squeeze the living daylights out of me!

She was Famke Janssen, Xenia Onatopp, in GoldenEye.

Certainly it wasn't my definition of safe sex.

Was Michelle's crush on me a gender bender ender?

Faced with Michelle's neatly trimmed bush and allotta vagina, I stuck my tongue out and licked the moist lips. My tongue was my labia-piercing weapon.

Michelle laughed like a devil in disguise. Well, it wasn't the first time a girl laughed at my lovemaking. My wit for her twat.

Michelle's muscles relaxed as I tongued her incessantly. As I probed deeper and deeper, she writhed with pleasure. I pressed my face into her bush and her body bucked from her seat. When I pulled her lips back and flicked my tongue at her love button, her legs shuddered. Then I licked and sucked her sensitive love spot gently like it was a musky tasty ju jube…I liked the red ones best.

Soon Michelle's own tongue hung out, her face looked entranced by my pleasuring of her genitalia, her limbs looked limp and totally relaxed. She wished to be taken by my yang to her yin.

Enough foreplay.

I moved into the position number one, my Elvis to her pelvis, my phallus to her palace.

We soon found a rhythm. I rocked her gently back and forth, in tune with the sounds of love.

She murmured in low tones. She stretched her toes and arched her back and writhed beneath my body as we picked up the pace.

Michelle's eyes were closed and her expression a mixture of pleasure and excitement. Her breathing quickened. Michelle arched her back as her love gate pulsed in rhythm to my quickening thrusts.

She turned her waist from side to side, grasping at my skin and fake boobies, her mounting pleasure obvious; she moaned as if begging for orgasm. We soared heavenward, over the edge to explode within. We came together in orgasmic tantric bliss.

Ecstasy!

Contraction after contraction after contraction!

I tried to prolong the orgasm as long as possible, squeezing every last ounce of my essence into Michelle. Grunting and groaning and straining with all of my energy, I gave it everything I had.

Michelle closed her eyes for a moment. When they opened again, her eyes were rolled up, as if gazing into a different dimension, totally absorbed by orgasmic pleasure.

Then tranquility.

I was fully spent and exhausted. I lay my head back on the pillow, looking up at the stucco ceiling, catching my breath.

Then, as we cuddled in the afterglow, I thought only of how seductive Michelle had been. She knew how to excite and pleasure me. She was very creative, a real risk taker.

"Michael, you were great," murmured Michelle, as she lay on her side, facing me.

"So were you," I replied as I caressed her face. "Although for a moment there, I thought you were going to kill me."

She giggled. "I thought you'd get off on me emulating Xenia Onatopp or Famke Janssen."

" 'Get off' was exactly what I was thinking."

Michelle laughed. "The idea came to me while researching my role. I thought a stuntman might appreciate it."

"There's something about erotic asphyxiation that makes you appreciate the simple things in life a little more. Like breathing."

"Like sex?"

"Uh huh, I like sex."

"You know, that was the first time I tried the Onatopp squeeze."

"I thought that would be my last time. Although I'd like you to be my main squeeze, you almost crushed my windpipe…Please, no more deadly foreplay."

Later on, as our lovemaking continued into the early morning, upon Michelle's insistence, I removed my wig and cleaned off the makeup. Then I took off the bosom and booty padding provided by the special effects department. I was delighted that she could accept me in my male identity.

Also, when we resumed our lovemaking, I discovered that Michelle was double jointed. We tried a position that I never dreamed possible called the Italian Chandelier. It was a position where Michelle lay on top of me, facing upward. Using her hands and legs to form a bridge, she arched her back to allow penetration. Imagine a crab-walk, with the rear end moving up and down. The flexibility she showed was mind-boggling. And I was the stuntman?

25

Bond: {in bed with Jones} I was wrong about you.

Christmas Jones: Yeah? How so?

Bond: I thought Christmas only comes once a year.

- from the film The World is not Enough

In the final scene of the film, James Bond and Karine Lau were back at Bond's bedroom in London. The sun penetrated through the Venetian blinds as Double-O Seven and Ms Lau prepared for some afternoon delight.

The caviar, the '61 Bollinger on ice, and the platter of fresh fruit were all there.

Bond, in his pajama pants, and Lau, in a sexy bustier, were locked together in a loving embrace.

The telephone rang. But it had an unusual ring pattern–two short rings, a long pause, then two more short rings.

"Excuse me, Karine."

Bond walked over to the telephone on his desk.

"Hello."

It was M. She had phoned to congratulate Bond once again. However, more to the point, she wanted more details about the explosion at the Gene Cure Laboratories plant the previous night.

"Sorry M. My memories of last night are a bit fuzzy because I suffered a knock on the head. So I'll have to consult with Miss Lau to verify the actual sequence of events leading up to that explosive climax. However, I understand that she is unavailable for consultation at the moment."

M continued to jabber on about the need for more information. She needed to be able to justify the destruction of the GCL plant.

Karine approached from behind. Throwing her arms around Bond, she cuddled lovingly with him.

"I'll get on her right away," Bond said as he turned around.

Bond dropped the phone.

James and Karine kissed briefly. He lifted Karine onto the bed and they lay together for a moment, staring into each other's eyes.

Locked in a long passionate kiss, they slipped under the bedcovers. Then James, as was the custom in the Bond films, drew up a bed sheet to provide some privacy.

The camera pulled back and faded to black.

I giggled while under the bed covers with Hugh Farrell. Michelle and I could not resist playing one last trick on poor Hugh.

THE END

Notes:

Photos Copyright 2006 by Miss Karine. Used by permission.

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