WITHOUT EARMUFFS
This is James Bond's last stand. He goes out screaming. Please comment nicely!
"Bond, James Bond." He'd said the words so many times, always with the smug certainty that his devastating good looks, rock hard muscles, and dry English wit would forever make him the most desirable man in the room.
"We've been expecting you, Mr. Bond. Come right this way." The girl's sensational body matched her name, Beauty Undressed. Unfortunately the moment Bond rose to follow, with his eyes glued to Miss Beauty's booty, his pants fell down around his ankles.
"What is this?" James Bond didn't like being naked, but his experimental exploding pants seemed to have backfired, leaving him exposed at precisely the wrong moment. Just then four young supervillains sauntered into the room.
"You should pull up your pants, you know," said the cute one. "You'll catch cold and then you might develop the flu."
"Or pneumonia." The quiet one didn't waste words.
"He's got the rocking pneumonia." The big nose pointed to gorgeous Bond like he was an ugly animal in the zoo.
"He needs a shot of rhythm and blues." The cold, hard, cynical one was clearly the leader. He pulled out a hypo long enough to dose a race horse with, and jabbed it into Bond's behind.
"Do you expect me to rock?" Bond asked, trying to be funny.
"No, Mr. Bond, we expect you to die." There was a burning, stinging sensation as his will power, entirely dependent on his muscle power, was totally paralyzed and reduced to nothing.
"You can't kill me!" Bond choked out. "I'm a sophisticated swinger! I wear a tuxedo! I like my martinis shaken, not stirred!"
"Yeah, but . . . the posh birds don't like your type anymore," the cute one sadly crooned. "They want someone who can like, hold their hand."
"The Russians will kill us all!" Bond gasped. He was writhing on the floor, unable to muster a dry witticism as the poison ate into his body, flooding his mind with horrible thoughts. He saw himself old, forgotten, reduced to relying on cheap special effects and chase scenes to keep audiences awake.
"Don't be so sure," the cute one told him. "Who knows, in fifty years the Russians might be our friends. Imagine me singing to a big crowd in Red Square, winning over the whole country without cheap special effects."
"We get by with a little help from our friends," said Big Nose.
"Which you're not," said the quiet one.
"We fought the Cold War for you lot!" Bond choked. His vision was getting blurry, but he thought he saw all four lads getting ready to pull a train on Beauty Undressed.
"Bet you're sorry you won," said Big Nose.
Bond died screaming, begging for a pair of earmuffs to drown out the sexy moans of pleasure as the Beatles did it all to Beauty Undressed, making her want it and even beg for it in ways the dying 007 never even imagined possible.
A/N: For those who aren't Beatle experts, the "cute one" is Paul, the "quiet one" is George, the "Big Nose" is Ringo, and the cold, cynical leader is John!