"I may be on the side of the angels, But don't think for a second that I am one of them."

What a cheesy thing to say in your final moments. Even looking at it after a year, Jim still found side-splittingly hilarious. He had to restrain himself on the rooftop. It's hard to intimidate people when you're laughing your arse off, even if you are a psychopath. But he didn't have much to laugh about now, what with his whole operation falling down around him. Yeah, maybe he should have told a few people he was faking his death. Of course there were a couple of his top men who knew about it, and the odd person who still believed. But he thought he would be able to live a life of peace and relaxation now. He could have, but he found out he didn't want to. He had basically sulked around his apartment for the past 11 months, thinking of things to do. But ideas were wearing thin. Assassinating each successive president of Estonia is only a laugh for so long, after all.

It was 9 PM, and he was having his sixth cup of Moriar Tea (Yeah, tired joke) that day. He hadn't been sleeping well. He learned that sleep deprivation was like acid, only free. Not that he had ever done acid. In the past five years.

Five cups of Earl Grey soon caught up with him and he needed to piss, badly. He then realised the extent of his sleep deprivation. He wasn't in the bathroom, he was in the kitchen. And he wasn't slashing into a toilet, he was going into the frying pan. Again. This was getting out of hand. He couldn't remember what happened five minutes ago. He hadn't eaten in two days and the bills were piling up. Yeah, even a villain has to pay the rent. His stomach turned over again and he chucked up a load of three day old kebab into the frying pan. Fried urine and vomit actually sounded like a good idea from where he was standing. And he wasn't even Belgian.

He resisted the urge to cook his own bodily waste and slumped down in front of the computer. He hadn't checked his bank balance in a month and thought he should pay off some of those bills. He logged onto nationwide banking and… oh, that can't be right.

"You have 221 pounds bank balance."

Bastard. Bastard, Bastard, Bastard on a stick. He probably thought he was funny, committing an act of identity theft. Jim was down on his luck and this piece of knobcheese was adding insult to injury.

Well it wasn't funny. Jim sat down and felt like crying. It was so not fair, kicking a man when he was down. Not very considerate. But then he remembered he was a genius. He ran a trace on his missing funds and found out his transaction history. Last week, all but two hundred and twenty one pounds of his own money was withdrawn by an IP address originating from…

"You're shitting me."

Nigeria. Of all the places to pick, he had to pick the one best known for cash fraud. How bloody appropriate. So he had two weeks left to pay rent or he would be getting chucked out onto the streets of London. But he still had 221 pounds left so what could he do? He could run off to Prague, he hadn't been there in a while. Then it came to him.

Burger King.

"Baby, you should see me in a paper crown."

As he stood in line, he examined his credit card. It was for one of his favourite false identities, Moriarty McFly. Well, come on, it was the 90s. And he did own a DeLorean for about six months in 2002. He bought it on impulse because he was in a good mood having just mooned the president of Venezuela. He ended up putting it into a ditch in Vietnam. If only he could drive it as well as he drove a black taxi.

And then it was his turn to order. He hadn't ordered food in ages. How did it go again?

"Can I help you?" Asked the fresh-faced girl behind the counter.

"Yeah," He replied. "Give me a double Whopper. With cheese. And bacon. And fries. And a coke. And just make everything supersized. Wait, give me an ice-cream as well. In fact, make that two ice-creams, I'm starving."

The people behind him in line shot him a look that said you fat bastard but Jim didn't care. He had food in front of him within five minutes. It felt good to be back in the game, even if all he did was buy enough processed food to make him sick. But he was so hungry, he could eat an elephant. In fact, he was going to do that when he went to Africa to kill the man who had shamelessly stolen from him. He wondered what elephant tasted like. Probably chicken.

As he tucked in to his fast food, he felt more satisfied than he had when he saw that video of Sherlock falling. Maybe the ordinary people weren't so stupid after all. This meal might have cost him 16 quid, but it was worth each and every penny. 16 quid. He still had 210 pounds left. Time for a spot of… Recreational Scolding.