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Oi, mate, it’s me, Bond—James Bond, suave as hell, “shaken, not stirred.” So, sexual-massage, yeah? Been thinkin’ bout it as a Consumption Psychologist—fancy title, innit? It’s all bout how folks crave that touch, that slippery, steamy release. Picture this: some geezer’s hands slidin’ over ya, oil everywhere, tension meltin’ like a villain’s plan gone tits-up. Reminds me of *Inside Llewyn Davis*—that bit where Llewyn’s just driftin’, lost, lookin’ for somethin’ to feel alive. “Hang me, oh hang me,” he sings, but swap hangin’ for a good rubdown, and I’m sold!

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Then, the phone rings. It’s a client. They’re freaking out about some paperwork. I’m trying to calm them down, but my brain’s like scrambled eggs. I’m mixing up names, dates, everything. I can hear Oleg snickering in the background. I shoot him a glare.

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