*NOTE: I sat through one of the worst Bond films ever made just to write this, so please be grateful. Please don't comment by calling the story "gay" because, duh, of course it is. I'm just a person who likes both good and bad movies, so I decided to (sort of) combine one of each without getting too weird or offensive for the guidelines. Still, if you are easily offended, you might not want to read this. Otherwise, enjoy.*

James Bond was still unimpressed with Scaramanga's tricks. After Holly Goodnight left the table, bikini and all, he turned to his adversary and gave him a silent reprimand with his eyes. Scaramanga, shameless as always, put his long hand near the barrel of his gun while taking dainty sips from his wine goblet. Bond had his own gun in his hand, but it was still promised that the duel would come later.

"You're not sleeping with her, are you?" James said. "Miss Goodnight?"

"Who, me?" Scaramanga cocked an eyebrow. "Oh, I don't know." He looked at his nails. "Much more fun to just dress her up for you, to be honest."

"Well, you do seem to be a man of style." Bond said as he scanned the décor of the island hideaway. "I suppose you could be a designer as a side job if you decide that world domination isn't what you thought."

Scaramanga scowled and straightened his posture. "What is that supposed to mean, Mr. Bond? Aren't you a man of style yourself?"

"Well," Bond said, keeping his eye on him. "I do put forth an effort when I can."

"See, I knew we had that in common." Scaramanga stood up and sauntered over to a polished cabinet with a record player inside. "Tell me," He scanned the albums. "Do you like Tchaikovsky? I find his style quite distinctive." He took a record out of its sleeve, placed it on the turntable, and flicked the switch. "There." He put the sleeve down and gave James an uncharacteristically broad smile. "Lovely, isn't it? They say he had certain… styles himself."

"I suppose so." Bond cleared his throat. "So, um, this thing about shooting me later…"

"Oh, the climate on this island is so hot!" Scaramanga walked over and sat in a cushioned chair, leaned back, and undid the buttons on his shirt. "I hope you don't mind. It's quite warm in here."

"Well," Bond said, "isn't there a fan to turn on?"

"Oh, perhaps." Scaramanga looked at his nails again, then back at James. "Of course," He lifted an eyebrow. "I do find it more fun to get undressed."

"You know, Scaramanga," James said, "I prefer not to solve mysteries based on guesses. But, if I didn't know better, I would say that you were trying to seduce me."

"And why do you say that?" Scaramanga stood up and walked towards him with his smooth, deliberate gait until he was standing over him. "Would you like me to seduce you?"

James sat up, still in his dining chair. "You can't be serious, can you?" He gave him a perplexed look. "I thought you hated me. I mean… well, didn't you lure me here because you wanted to kill me? I thought that was the deal." He cocked his head to the side and looked up at his foe. "Honestly, Scaramanga, when you have everything you could possibly want…"

"And how do you know that I do?" Scaramanga said. "Why, I've read extensively about you and you don't seem very Zen about things."

"Read extensively? Ah, now I see it!" James smiled and nodded. "Yes, you have a painful infatuation with me, don't you?" He put his hands to his knees and burst out laughing, nearly doubling over. "Of course! Why else would you make such a stupid move as to have me here by choice?"

Scaramanga looked away. "Well, if you find it so hilarious…" He looked back at Bond and stiffened his posture. "Well, perhaps it's the heat of the tropics. It must be getting to me."

James nodded his head. "I guess you can be forgiven — at least for that."

"Hmmm. Well, I suppose it doesn't matter." Scaramanga looked downcast. "Do you really find me unattractive?"

"Now, hold on a minute!" James said. "I never said anything about…"

"Is it the third nipple?" Scaramanga looked back at him. "Is it because I'm older and have an odd shape? Are my legs too long?"

"Actually," Bond quipped, "I think you have very nice legs." He looked at him, down and up, albeit in an ironic way. "Why, if I were here on holiday instead of chasing you down…"

As the two men looked at each other, the soft keys of the Nocturne Opus 9, Number 4 playing from the stereo caressed the air as if to tease it. The smell of hot sand and sea water drifted in on a breeze that was too perfect to mean anything good. Then, Scaramanga's diminutive servant, Nick Nack, stepped in to gather the dishes from the table. He kept one sharp, suspicious eye on James as he did his work, just enough to signal that he was watching. He stepped out, platter of dishes in hand, still glaring at James.

"Don't mind him." Scaramanga said. "He gets jealous quite easily."

"Jealous?" James said. "You mean you and he…?"

"Well, yes, why not?" Scaramanga went back over to his chair and sat back down. "When you've been alone on an island with nobody but him, some low-class workers, and a woman who was really quite an idiot… well, you do start to crave a bit of novelty sometimes."

"And that's where I come in?" James said. "When you're tired of playing with the midget, of course."

Scaramanga gave him a look. "Well, no need to be so rude about it. Besides, he likes tall men."

Bond looked back at Scaramanga with a blank expression.

"Oh, to Hell with it." Scaramanga said, fiddling with his gilded pistol and pouting. "I suppose I could just shoot you right now for being such an arrogant bastard. Not that you would be different from the others I've killed."

"Well, I'm glad you can be mature about these things." James mocked him, his hand on his own gun just in case. "Of course, if it's your time of the month to be emotional, I suppose we can call this off until later."

Scaramanga shot Bond a look from under his brow. "I am NOT emotional!" He said before looking away. "I'm perfectly fine, thank you. As you said, I have everything I could want." He wiped tears from his eyes. "And I'm not crying either. It's probably just some tropical thing going around that's making my eyes water."

James Bond gave Scaramanga a blinking stare, unable to wrap his normally acute intellect around whatever he was dealing with in this revelation. Here he was, the Man With the Golden Gun himself, looking as fragile as eggshell porcelain in an unbuttoned shirt and defeated posture as he bore his most painful and embarrassing secret. Was he telling the truth, or was this just another part of his game? Bond knew by default not to trust him at all. But, the surprise lunch date, with such well-prepared (and not poisoned) food and wine, was a nice gesture despite the unavoidable subject of the two men shooting at each other. It was clear that his adversary was serving his own fragile ego by trying to impress James with his weaponry and his lavish lifestyle, but to have him bare both his soul and his three-nippled chest to him like this was uncharacteristic of a man of great hubris trying to best his opponent.

"You know," James said, "I'll admit that I'm far more used to women trying to get me into bed. And it always works."

"So I've read, Mr. Bond." Scaramanga said. "And yet, they're all the same to you. Aren't they?"

"Well, some were better than others." Bond shrugged. "Not that I could either trust or keep any of them. Most were like sticking it in a machine, except not as reliable."

"What about men?" Scaramanga gave Bond a hopeful look. "Have you? Ever?"

"I've experimented a few times, I'll admit." Bond said. "To be honest, though, it was more about fulfilling a sex addiction with whoever was there than anything real."

"A sex addiction?" Scaramanga perked up. "Well, I must say I like the sound of that, Mr. Bond. After all, my pistol isn't quite as big as certain other things, if you know what I mean."

Bond and Scaramanga made sure to lock the door so that Nick Nack couldn't walk into the bedroom. Indeed, Bond's adversary was right about the size of 'certain other things', and that melodious bass voice of his sounded lovely when he was getting worked over. The man was much stronger than his thin build suggested, and his bedroom prowess was as artful as it was animalistic — just like he was. Bond's experience with Scaramanga was as powerful as that solar weapon of his, and that effect disturbed him afterwards when it was all over. Bond looked over at his foe sleeping still in the bed, with his long, suntanned body draped in fine linen, and realized that he had just had the best sexual experience of his life.

It isn't possible. James thought to himself. There's no way that I can be in love with this… this aging circus freak… James tried to shake himself as if he were only in a dream. Maybe he was, and it was only a short while before he would wake up next to Miss Goodnight again. As bizarre as their relationship had shown itself to be, it was nowhere near as strange as this.

"Scaramanga?" James still needed to make sure this was happening. "Are you awake?"

"I am now." Scaramanga's voice rang from him as he lay still. "Are you leaving already?"

Bond's eyes shifted. "I'm not sure at this point." He said. "I didn't really expect our little adventure to end up like this."

"Hmmm, yes." Scaramanga turned over on his back and stretched his thin arms over his head. His dark, flirtatious eyes gave Bond a side glance. "I bet you never thought it would feel that good, either."

"How do you know how I felt?" Bond said, looking to make sure Scaramanga didn't have his weapon on him. He saw that he couldn't have it, as relaxed as he was.

"Oh, don't deny it!" Scaramanga teased. "I heard you begging for it. You never had it so good, did you?" He rubbed his eyes. "What time is it, anyway?"

"I don't know." Bond said. "But I have to go at some point."

"Why?" Scaramanga said.

"Why?" Bond's mouth fell open. "Well, I certainly can't stay here, can I?"

"I don't see why not." Scaramanga said. "I certainly have enough here to share with another."

"Now that Miss Anders is dead, you mean?" Bond said.

"Why should that matter?" Scaramanga propped himself up on his elbows. "You know I didn't love her."

"Yes, I figured that much." Bond said. "Then again, you can't love anyone. You're a sociopath."

Scaramanga looked puzzled. "Are you saying sociopaths can't find love?"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Bond sat up on the side of the bed and buried his face in his hands. "Do you have any idea what you're asking of me? I mean…" His hands gestured outwards. "How on Earth am I supposed to just say, 'sod it all' and leave Her Majesty's Secret Service because — oops! — I'm now in a homosexual relationship with a fugitive assassin?"

"Is that how you see me?" Scaramanga chimed in, pretty voice and all. "A common criminal of unknown ethnic origin, blinded by some schoolgirl fascination with some sort of Herculean paragon born from the mighty gods of England herself?"

"That's quite a heavy way to put it." Bond looked back at him. "Did you come up with those words all on your own?"

"Of course." Scaramanga said. "You're not the only thing I've read about, you know. I've committed many of the classics to memory."

"A photographic memory?" Bond laughed. "You're saying that you, as childish as you are, have one as well? I don't believe it!"

"It's true." Scaramanga nodded, his sharp eyes still fixated on Bond. His large hand took Bond's hand into its own. "As I said, we have many things in common." He put Bond's hand to his face and looked back at him. "I can't sound too naïve in saying that it could work."

Bond felt he should have had his guard up, because he now felt like he was just hit in the chest. "You know it's impossible." He said. "Both of us have practically built our lives on anything but love. It's absurd and it's immoral to say otherwise." He traced his finger along Scaramanga's cheekbone. "You really are pretty for a man your age." He said. "I bet you've said these nice things to a lot of people before turning around and killing them."

"Oh, please, can't we just forget that?" Scaramanga clutched Bond's wrist with tears forming in his eyes. The tears on one side of his face ran down to settle on Bond's hand. "You know I wouldn't make so much effort if I didn't want you so desperately."

"Well, you've just had me." Bond took his hand away and turned back to look for his clothes. "And, if you must know, you really were incredible. I'm sure there are many men of high intelligence and respectability who would love to settle with you despite your flaws. Unfortunately, as tempting as it may be, I can't be that man."

"Well then, you might as well kill me after all." Scaramanga folded his arms and turned away. "If you don't love me or appreciate what I did for you."

"What you did for me," Bond pulled his trousers up, "was shove Miss Goodnight into the storage compartment of an ugly aeroplane car just to have me come over for lunch before shooting me. You could have just gone up and asked me out on a date."

"I doubt you would have agreed." Scaramanga said.

"That was supposed to be a joke." Bond glared at him. "Honestly, I don't even know why I even went to bed with you, except that casual sex is quite a routine thing for me. Otherwise, I find you quite boring."

"Then kill me." Scaramanga said with resignation. "If I can't be with you, I don't want to live."

Bond looked at Scaramanga as if the man had just crash landed from outer space. Perhaps he did at one point, given how unusual he was in every way imaginable. Bond's fascination with the women he encountered in his exploits only went as far as his opinion of women ever could. They all seemed ordinary and faceless, even more so now than before. And yet, when pushed the same way as they all were, this man seemed to collapse far more easily. Bond looked at this odd fellow — with his delicate bones, hollowing flesh, and greying hair — and began to pity him.

"Look," Bond said, "I know I may regret this, but you're in hiding anyway. What if I just went back and told everyone that I killed you? They don't even have the coordinates of the island, so I can just tell them that you were in a neighboring location instead."

Scaramanga's face lit up like that of a child on Christmas morning. "Would you really do that for me, James?" He looked away, then back. "It is okay if I call you James, Isn't it?"

"I've been called worse." Bond gave a warm smile, leaned over the bed, and kissed Scaramanga on the lips. "You can call me anything you like as long as you behave." He tickled him under the chin. "Just let me and Miss Goodnight leave, don't make yourself known, and things should work out better than they would have if we did have that silly duel."

"You're quite condescending, James." Scaramanga said. "But I suppose I did get what I really wanted." He sighed. "Okay then, I'll get you a boat. I promise not to shoot you on your way aboard."

"That's very thoughtful of you." Bond said as he left the bedroom, still not quite sure if what happened was real.

On the way back, James Bond and Holly Goodnight said nothing to each other. It was clear that she was upset at what Bond had done, but he insisted to her that he had done away with him afterwards. Bond wasn't any more ashamed of slighting Miss Goodnight this time than before, but the way in which he did it left him feeling humiliated. Perhaps, he thought, he should have killed him. So, why didn't he?

Back at the offices, Bond thought nothing of the incident. Then, days later, Miss Moneypenny called him over about a delivery. Concerned that someone might have traced him, he urged that Moneypenny stay away from whatever was sent so that he could come in and check it for poison or explosives.

"It doesn't look very threatening to me." Miss Moneypenny said as she looked at the item. "Just another gift of appreciation for our beloved 007, it seems."

Bond sighed and looked over at the gift: a gold-lined crystal vase filled with colorful, exotic flowers, no doubt ordered and delivered at great expense.

"Strange flowers to choose for an arrangement." He said. "Those plants don't grow just anywhere. Someone must have gathered them in a rainforest."

"Who's it from?" Moneypenny asked. "If I may ask?"

"I don't know." Bond picked up the attached card and noted the fine stationary — complete with gold lettering on the front: FS. Oh no… it can't be! He thought as he opened the card and read the attached letter to himself:

Dearest James, it said, I realize that we made a deal before you left, but I cannot stop thinking about you. We both know that I'm mad, so perhaps this gesture of mine is nothing too surprising. The ray gun that my predecessor had built is still in my possession, but I'm very close to selling it to the Russians for a great deal of money. After that is done, I can leave the island and we'll go off into hiding together. You won't need to be a secret agent any longer, or be loyal to your country or any other.

"The Hell—?" Bond said. "This man is crazier than I thought!"

"What man?" Moneypenny inquired. "Were you with a—?"

"Oh, nothing!" Band looked at her and smiled. "No, this is from some Oriental girl I met, is all. Her husband is very jealous." He looked back at the letter:

I should have known from the beginning that my desire for you could be my undoing, but it's too late to be rational. All I can do sometimes is lie awake thinking about how much I need you. This is a ridiculous thing to ask of you, I know, but I've never been in love with anyone else. I've enclosed the telephone number to my office, along with the hours at which I can be reached. Please, I must know as soon as possible whether you're willing to come away with me. Hopefully, you will say yes. Sincerely, Francisco Scaramanga.

Bond shook his head as he stared at the letter, then looked back at Moneypenny. "Listen," he said, "I don't want to be traced back to this location. Is it possible for me to use a phone box somewhere else in town? I'm also going to need a lot of coins."

Somewhere in London's East End, Bond stood in a phone box with Scaramanga's letter in his hand and a small bagful of change. He wasn't sure if he would get through, but he figured it was worth trying.

"Hello?" A strange voice said.

"Hello, Scaramanga's office?" Bond said. "I'm, uh, calling about the Russian deal."

"Please hold." Said the voice, which Bond remembered as that of Nick Nack himself. Hopefully the pathetic little troll wasn't wise to all of this, though he was a hard one to fool.

"Hello?" A lower, more familiar voice answered. "Scaramanga here."

"It's James." Bond said. "James Bond."

"James?" He sounded stunned. "Darling, you've called back!"

"How did you get a bouquet of flowers to my offices?" Bond said.

"I have my ways." Scaramanga said. "I see you're not calling from that location, though. Quite careful of you, even though I already know where you work."

Bond sighed. "Look," he said, "I don't know what game you're playing this time, but if you think I'm going to let you lure me in again…"

"Well, you left me last time, dear." Scaramanga said.

"Yes, I certainly did!" Bond was stern and confrontational. "And you specifically promised me that you would stay out of sight and not bother me again. What if someone else had read your letter and found out you were still alive?"

"I'm surprised they weren't suspicious anyway." Scaramanga said. "You did fail to bring back the Solex device, after all."

"I told them it had been destroyed in a fire." Bond groaned. "I said that you ran back in trying to get it before the gas heating blew up the place."

"Why would I use gas heating during an energy crisis?" Scaramanga said. "You're really not very good at this, are you?"

"Well, they believed it anyway." Bond said. "Too much bureaucracy, so they probably didn't even care."

"That's a shame." Scaramanga said. "Why don't you leave them and stay with me?"

"That's impossible, Scaramanga!" Bond said. "Where on Earth would we go after having sold weapons technology to the Russians? Siberia? Freezing our tails off in an igloo and living off of vodka and whale meat?"

"Well," Scaramanga said, "I haven't worked out the details yet. But you do sound like you're at least considering it."

"Considering it?" Bond said. "Why, I would never even think of such a thing!"

"You're lying." Scaramanga said. "I can tell." He let out a strange sigh. "You want me again, don't you? Say it, James…"

"Scaramanga…" Bond said.

"Please, call me Frank." Scaramanga said. "Mmmm, I want you so badly, James. Tell me what you're wearing."

"I'm quite fully dressed, 'Frank'," Bond's annoyance was obvious, "and I'm in a public phone box. I'm not about to have one of these calls in front of some little old lady just back from church services."

"I wish I were in that phone box with you." Scaramanga said, breathing hard. "I would take you in a minute, right in front of everyone. I'd press your body up against the glass and put my hand on your—"

James hung up the telephone, opened the door, and rushed out of the confined glass enclosure into the street. A car slammed on its brakes as he darted across, the East End driver cursing him and his mother both. James jumped into his Aston Martin, thankful that no one had stolen or vandalized it, and sped his way back to headquarters.

That night, Bond lay in bed with Miss Goodnight with an embarrassed look on his face.

"I'm sorry." He said. "I guess I'm getting a bit older or something like that."

"You were just fine before." Miss Goodnight looked away. "It's Scaramanga, isn't it?"

"What?" Bond sat up straight, hoping she didn't know the truth. "Scaramanga is dead, darling. I told you as much."

"You told me you shot him!" Miss Goodnight said. "And then I hear that you told the service that he was blown up? And what about the device, James? I thought we—"

"Look," Bond said, "I've been through a great deal of stress, in case you haven't noticed."

"Oh, you've been through a lot of stress?" Goodnight said in a mocking tone. "What about me? Why, if I were any sort of a decent person, I would push to have you investigated and court martialed for this!"

"For what?" Bond said. "I told you he's dead!"

"No he isn't, James, I can tell!" Miss Goodnight sprang out of bed and started getting dressed. "I can tell you're lying to me because your lips are moving! I'm leaving you for good this time. Go back to that three-nippled freak and his midget, I don't care."

"And what will you do?" Bond sprang out of bed and grabbed Miss Goodnight by the arm. "You're not going to go and file some false report out of jealousy, are you?"

"I'll do what I want!" Miss Goodnight twisted her arm away and put on her shoes. "In fact, come to think of it, maybe I'll just forget the whole thing and find a man who doesn't treat me like rubbish for once."

"You've said that before." Bond folded his arms. "If you were capable of finding someone better, you wouldn't have gotten involved with me in the first place!"

"Well, then, I guess I'll have to change that, won't I?" She picked up her purse. "Just be grateful that I'm not turning you in, James. You're a disgrace to humanity itself!" She stormed out of the bedroom and slammed the door. "Goodbye forever!" Her voice yelled.

"Well, okay, fine." Bond looked around for his clothes. "Goodbye, Goodnight. You were never one worth respecting, so I'm sure you'll be back again."

Bond spent the next week or so making sure that Miss Goodnight hadn't reported him. He checked documents, he followed people, and he paid off quite a few of them for random tips. All anyone knew was that she claimed she had finally ended the relationship, which she should have a long time ago. Bond realized that he could have felt hurt by this, but there were other things on his mind. After quite a few drinks, he dialed an extension at a hotel room and waited on the phone to get through.

"I knew you would reconsider!" Scaramanga said on the other end. "I've just closed the deal, James. We can sell both the island and the weapon and be together at last!"

"Why yes, that sounds wonderful." James smiled. "Tell me, Frank, what are you wearing right now?"

"Me?" Scaramanga said. "Oh, I'm in the usual white suit. Quite warm for it, I'll admit."

"Can't wait to get it off of you." Bond said. "I've been thinking about that night we had together. How did you get so good in bed?"

"Experience." Scaramanga said. "I didn't tell you the more embarrassing aspects of my youth. I spent time as a prostitute as well. The circus had a little side operation catering to wealthy individuals with peculiar tastes."

"Interesting." Bond said. "I can see where that would be a lucrative move on their part, especially with a lovely thing like you."

"Oh, well…" Scaramanga sounded flattered. "I do aim to please, just as I'm pleased to aim. Get it?"

"Why, yes, of course!" Bond laughed. "Anyway, provided that you don't blow up my plane this time, I think I'll come over to that island of yours and make things a bit hotter."

"Do you mean it?" Scaramanga said. "This isn't a trick, is it?"

"Now, why would I do that to you, love?" Bond said. "Just tell me when it's convenient and I'll be there to aim myself right at your bottom. Maybe even give it a good spanking if you like, you naughty thing."

"Ooh, I like that!" Scaramanga said. "I'll be waiting for you on the beach. I'll have the champagne ready."

Bond hung up the phone, waited a few seconds, then dialed again. "Hello? James Bond, 007." He said. "I assume you have those coordinates I sent you?"

"Yes, Mister Bond." The voice on the other end said. "Glad to see you've come to your senses. I just hope this will go as well as it should. Now, you said the Solex is where?"

"Behind a glass panel." Bond said. "Miss Goodnight should remember. I just hope she can sneak her way in while I have Scaramanga occupied."

"Well, I must say you have peculiar tastes." The voice quipped. "Going to bed with that overly tanned arachnid sounds truly awful."

"It isn't that bad, actually." Bond said. "He really is quite the performer."

"I'll just take your word for it." The voice said before hanging up.

Perfect. Bond thought to himself. I must say I'll miss it once it's over. Hopefully the old bastard won't take so long to finish this time.

As Bond's plane touched down on the beach, he saw Scaramanga right there waving at him in his relaxed shirt, cargos, and flip-flops. Behind him was a beach blanket and a silver bucket of Möet, just as promised.

"Keep your head down!" He said to Miss Goodnight. "Wait until we've cleared the area before you get out."

"Whatever you say." She rolled her eyes. "But I'm not wearing the bikini this time."

"Well, good." He replied. "I don't want you drawing attention to yourself on the way in."

Bond opened the door of the aircraft and leaped out onto the sand. "Frank, darling!" He approached Scaramanga with open arms. "It's been too long, hasn't it?"

"Yes, it has." Scaramanga smiled, then changed his expression into a stern scowl. He pulled out his gun and aimed it. "Goodbye, Mister Bond." He said. "I've got you at last."

As the gun fired, Bond dropped to the ground. He pulled out his own pistol and shot at Scaramanga, but saw that he had already made a run for it.

"Damn fool!" He got up and turned back at Miss Goodnight, who had just jumped out to assist. "Get to the Solex, quickly!" He said. "There's not much time before they close in!"

Bond turned back and chased his foe down the beach, managing to gain ground on him despite the man's long legs and impressive endurance. He followed him to his house, kicked down the door, and chased him into a bizarre room full of mannequins and mirrors.

"Scaramanga?" Bond had his pistol out as he crept around the place. "Quite a nice little doll house you have here, you old kinkster!" He spotted his opponent and took a shot at him, but missed once he took a leap down into another mirrored corridor. "Damn you!" He stopped to reload his pistol. "I swear I'll cut you down… AAH!"

Scaramanga stood before Bond, having shot the gun out of his hand. "We meet again, don't we?" He said as he advanced towards him. "And you really thought I would go away with you?" He let out a maniacal laugh. "Thankfully, I have more than one bullet this time."

"Well, I'm glad you've made a sensible decision for once!" Bond said, clutching his hand in pain. He looked at his own mirrored reflections next to him, their hands also bleeding identically in a row. "I guess I'll be dying several deaths in this place."

The next shot rang out, but not from Scaramanga. As Bond looked on, Scaramanga collapsed to his knees before going down altogether. Behind him stood Nick Nack, a gun of his own held in both of his tiny hands.

"Finally, I am done wiz zat guy!" He shouted down at Scaramanga before aiming the gun at Bond. "Now, it's your turn to die, and my turn to have zee solar weapon!"

Thankfully for Bond, Nick Nack wasn't as quick a shot. Bond managed to pick up his pistol with his other hand and gun down Scaramanga's diminutive manservant. The force of the shot knocked him back, causing him to fall into a mannequin and have it tip over and shatter onto his body. Bond sighed and pocketed his pistol before walking over to where Scaramanga lay.

"So sorry it had to end this way, love." Bond said as he took the gilded pistol from Scaramanga's hand. "But you were far too impulsive to win this time."

"So what if I am?" Scaramanga's voice, now scratched and irreparable, chimed in as he turned over on his back and faced Bond with blood trickling from his mouth. "At least it was fun while it lasted."

Bond shook his head as he stared at him. "I hope you realize you're not going to survive, even if you do live through that bullet. This place will be swarming with men any minute."

"Swarming with men?" Scaramanga smiled and relaxed on the floor. "Sounds like a fun time to me. I hope there's enough champagne for all of them." He closed his eyes. "Goodbye, darling."

"So long, sweetie." Bond pocketed both guns and walked out of the playroom, into the house, and out the door. Poor man, he thought to himself, I really would have loved to see him on occasion if he had chosen a different path. Maybe at that circus brothel, payments and all. He walked down the beach and looked around for Miss Goodnight.

"James!" Holly Goodnight called out for him. "We've got it, James! Why do you look so sad?"

Well, I suppose I'll just have to settle for what there is. Bond thought as he spotted Miss Goodnight standing next to the plane, along with several men in combat uniform from another plane. Then again, he perked up as he walked towards them, the laws in England have changed since I started. He took Miss Goodnight into his arms.

"Oh, James, don't ever let me go again!" She said as she squeezed him with delight. "Can we get married now? We can melt that gun into wedding rings!"

Maybe I'll see what Q is up to sometime during the evening. Bond said to himself as he held her close. If he isn't too busy. I do hope he likes champagne.