The Spy Who Loved Bees
Moneypenny found Bond standing in front of the MI6 break‑room mirror, adjusting his tie with the solemnity of a man preparing for a duel—or perhaps, as he would later insist, aligning his throat chakra for optimal self‑expression.
“The name’sh Bond… Jam—” he began, only to be interrupted by her pointed throat‑clearing.
She crossed her arms. “James, darling, we’ve talked about this. You don’t need to introduce yourself to the coffee machine. It already knows your energy signature.”
Bond sighed, the sound rolling out of him like a disgruntled Highland bull who had just been told to ground himself barefoot in the grass. “Moneypenny, the world’sh changed. The ladsh don’t even wear tuxedos to work anymore. They’ve got… hoodiesh. And feelingsh. And meditation appsh.”
She stepped closer, patting his arm with the kind of affection that had been simmering in the background of their franchise for decades. “That’s called emotional intelligence. And speaking of which, we need to talk about us. Our dynamic needs to evolve. Spiritually.”
Bond straightened, suddenly alert, as if someone had whispered the word “martini” behind him or waved a sage bundle in his direction. “Ah. The old ‘will‑they‑won’t‑they’ shtory arc. Very meta, Moneypenny. Very self‑aware. Very… conscious.”
She smiled. “Exactly. It’s been sixty years of flirtation. The audience is exhausted. The universe is exhausted. We need to modernize. Harmonize. Co‑create a healthier relational paradigm.”
Bond frowned thoughtfully. “Sho… no more shlapping my way into your officeh with innuendoesh?”
“No more,” she said firmly. “We’re going to have a relationship based on mutual respect, healthy boundaries, and professional equality. A relationship that honors our highest selves.”
Bond blinked, as though she’d just suggested he switch to decaf and give up Aston Martins for bicycles. “That’sh… very progressiveh.”
“It’s 2026, James. People are doing shadow work now.”
He nodded solemnly. “Then I accept. From thish day forward, I shall be a new man. A man in alignment with his purpose.”
Two weeks later, Bond stood in a Scottish glen wearing a tweed jacket and holding a pair of binoculars, looking like a man who had been forcibly retired by the plot and gently nudged toward a mindfulness retreat.
“Ornithology,” he declared to no one in particular. “A nobleh pursuit. Birds don’t try to kill you. Usually. They simply mirror your inner vibration.”
He had taken up habitat preservation, lectured schoolchildren about wetlands, and even started a blog titled “Shparrowsh and Shpecie Preservation: A Journey Into Avian Consciousness.”
He practiced mindful breathing with the herons. He thanked the universe before every bird call. He saged the bird blind.
Moneypenny checked in via video call. “You look happy, James. Your aura seems less… weaponized.”
“Aye,” he said, adjusting his binoculars. “I’ve turned over a new leaf. A wholeh tree, even. I feel my root chakra connecting to the moss.”
That was when she appeared: Fiona MacHoney, beekeeper extraordinaire, cresting the hill with a smoker in one hand and a veil fluttering dramatically in the wind like a goddess of pollination summoned by the cosmos itself.
Bond froze mid‑sentence. “Good lord… she’sh magnificent. Her aura’sh golden. Like a sunrise over Glashgow.”
Moneypenny’s voice crackled through his earpiece. “James? Are you still there? Your energy just spiked.”
But Bond was already striding toward Fiona, chest out, accent thickening like a Highland fog rolling in before a storm—or perhaps like a man whose sacral chakra had suddenly awakened.
“Hello there, lassh,” he purred. “I’m Bond. Jam—”
She cut him off with a glare sharp enough to slice through his entire character arc. “I know who you are. You scared my bees. Their collective consciousness is very sensitive.”
Bond’s grin widened. “Ah, but I’d love to learn more about your… hive dynamics. Their group soul. Their shacred geometry.”
Moneypenny groaned through the earpiece. “James, no. We talked about this. Stay grounded. Stay present. Stay in your body but not… like that.”
But it was too late. The eyebrow arched. The charm activated. The theme music swelled faintly in the background, as if the universe itself had given up trying to stop him and decided to let karma handle it.
Fiona smirked. “You want to help me with the honey frames?”
Bond’s eyes gleamed. “With pleashure. My spirit animal may be the wolf, but I feel a deep shoul connection to the bee.”
As Bond followed Fiona into the apiary, Moneypenny sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Well,” she said to herself, “at least he’s flirting with someone who actively contributes to the ecosystem. And who can sting him if he gets out of line. A natural consequence. Very karmic.”
She closed the call, lit a lavender candle, and whispered, “The universe will sort him out.”
And somewhere in the distance, a bee buzzed in agreement.
Horror Sleaze Trash 