... his dentist. The airbag in the mercedes 500SL worked perfectly, but the impact had loosened the porcelain veneers concealing his bad upper teeth. Being something of a narcissistic dandy, that just wouldn't do.
Suddenly, he felt a smalll sting in his neck, and everything went black.
He awoke groggily, and unable to see - apparently due to a blindfold. An experimental move of his hands, followed by his feet, quickly revealed that he'd been secured to a heavy steel chair affixed to something immoveable. His captor was a pro, as evidenced by the fact that a separate set of rolled-steel handcuffs was used to anchor each extremity, and that the key holes had been completely filled in with hardened wax ... and that several loops of high-tensile piano wire secured his waist to the selfsame chair.
"Ah, you're finally awake I see. Good. The drug was timed, and I was getting impatient.
Steele knew that voice, and hated it. It was Dutch Bradley, his personal nemesis.
"Ya know, it's actually quite amazing that you've managed to last this long, Mr. Steele. You hollywood trained 'superspies' are so arrogant and so ridiculous in your ineptitude. You never seem to learn that there's a HUGE gap between REAL WORLD secret agents and villains, like moi, and purely FICTIONAL secret agents, like yourself.
Steele heard his foe snap his fingers, and suddenly his blindfold was yanked off by a nondescript looking lieutenant. Steel blinked in the harsh light, like a rudely-awakened owl. As his eyes slowly focused, he locked eyes with his nemesis, who was lounging across from him behind a large desk, sipping from a tall frothy glass of homebrewed Bavarian hefeweiss.
"I mean just look at you ... fancy suits, highly memorable chiseled features, capped teeth, gambling habits, expensive and memorable tastes in clothing and drinks, flashy pistols with easily traced ammunition, the idiotic psychological compulsion to always using your REAL name instead of an alias, flaunting your exalted secret service status, and generally operating out in the open like a high profile movie star, and even trailed by an equally obvious entourage of inept allies and over-the-top inept villains. In short, when it comes to being a real secret agent, you're a walking disaster area. A veritable bull in a china shop. Useless. Counter productive. Entertaining yes, but otherwise a gross liability to our entire profession, and an ongoing source of highly visible and public embarassment to people like me who take this profession seriously."
Bradley paused for another sip of hefe before continuing. Agent 005 1/2 had already heard the same speech before, so he was rapidly growing bored - and beginning to thirst for a chilled glass of 1966 vintage Bollinger. Beer seemed so depressingly blue collar compared to vintage champagne, and he let his disdain show.
"Do you recognize this book ?" Now THAT was unexpected, and it got his attention. His nemesis tossed a very thick looking book on the desk, next to his feet.
It was entitled
"1,001 Things to Remember When I Become An Evil Overlord".
"I wrote it. I've spent my entire career writing it, and I'm very proud of it ... even though I'm technically breaking Rule 7 by wasting the time to explain all this ..."
7. When I've captured my adversary and he says, "Look, before you kill me, will you at least tell me what this is all about?" I'll say, "No." and shoot him. Actually, on second thought I'll shoot him, then say "No."
Bradley sat up, drew a nastly looking pistol from his shoulder holster, and walked around the desk to stand next to Steel. He placed the 50 caliber nickel-plated IDF Desert Eagle against Steele's right temple. With his other hand, he flipped open the book on the desk, and quoted from it ...
4. Shooting is not too good for my enemies.
6. I will not gloat over my enemies' predicament before killing them.
103. I will not waste time making my enemy's death look like an accident, nor honor any convoluted last requests. I'm not accountable to anyone and my other enemies wouldn't believe it.
"Say 'goodnight' Mr. Steel. Good riddance" ... and he pulled the trigger with a loud bang. The shot echoed hugely through the small room.
There was no blood however, because the gun had fired a blank. Much to Steele's credut, there was no yellow stain on the floor either.
"Ok, that was perhaps a bit too trite and predictable.
However, fear not, Mr. Steele, because I have something VERY special planned for you. I've already broken rule 7, so I might as well break rules 4 and 6 too, since the're practically a matched set. I think it will be worth it in the long haul. You see, hollywood agents like you have an annoying tendancy to always cheat death and stage a come back ... whether or not it's actually believable or even remotely possible is quite irrelevant. In any case, it seems that the only way to truly kill someone like you is to humiliate you beyond all hope of literary resurrection.
Bradley leaned across the desk, drained the last of his homebrew, and then grabbed a rolled up poster.
"Behold your true, final, and unredeemable death, Mr. Steele ... there will be no more sequels after this, and probably no guest appearances either" With an evil grin, Bradley unfurled the poster. It was a poster for a movie that hadn't been shot yet.
Inside Her Majesty's "Secret Service Entrance" ... XXX-Rated ... Starring Agent 005 ½ Thomas Steele !
See him explore the sensual delights of the produce aisle !"
(mock photo of Agent Steele appraising a large and warty looking cucumber with obvious longing)
"You wouldn't !!" Gasped the Secret Agent - the fear, horror and loathing in his voice palpable to everyone present.
His nemesis smirked and pressed a button on his desk. An ugly looking nurse arrived shortly thereafter, sporting a large cart holding an assortment of vegetable produce, and a video camera.
"NOOOOOOO!!!!" Agent Steele screamed in mortal fear for his cinematic virtue.
"Goodbye, Mr. Steele" gloated his departing nemesis.
"I don't suppose that any of your previous hollywood villains have left you in quite such a desperate ... PICKLE. Bwahahahahahah." 
The gales of evil laughter faded, only to be replaced by the loud snap of a rubber glove, and the sharp squeal of a tripod being positioned on the hard tiled floor.
Meanwhile, back at ...
