A James Bond Villain Offers The Last Slice of Pizza

Well, Mr. Bond, we meet at last. You’ve infiltrated my lair, killed my assistant, and seduced my concubine. But here’s where it stops, Bond. Here you’ll stay, shackled to my conveyor-belt-and-saw table. You’ll watch on the monitors as the Chaos Mechanism begins firing off the world’s array of nuclear warheads, causing destruction on an unimaginable scale. Capitol cities brought to their knees. Countries pitted one against the other. You’ll see it all Mr. Bond. And then, when the damage has been done, my conveyor-belt-and-saw table will snuff out the meek flame of your mortal existence.

The plan is foolproof, and you’re powerless to stop it. In ten minutes, the world will be awash in sweet, beautiful chaos and I, Dr. Stradivarius Pilk, will be the architect of the planet’s undoing. Yes, life’s unpredictable nature took my legs in that shark accident when I was a boy. And now I will accelerate that entropy with the Chaos Mechanism. The thin, tensile threads of society will unspool in front of your very eyes, Mr. Bond.

But first, would you like that last slice of pizza?

No, please. Take it, Mr. Bond. It’s the least I can offer you before your flesh is torn asunder by the swift revolutions of my table’s saw. It’s mushroom. Do you like mushroom? I don’t much care for it, myself. Toothache, my right hand man, ordered it before your pistol rendered him, unfortunately, obsolete.

Only a single slice remains, Mr. Bond, and I’m going out of town tomorrow. I won’t have a chance to eat it before then.

No, seriously. I don’t want it. I’m stuffed to the rafters. Please, Mr. Bond. I wouldn’t offer it to you if I didn’t want you to have it. It’s the least I can do. You managed to find your way into my well-guarded inner sanctum. You disposed of myriad henchmen. And now, here you are, on the brink of not only the collapse of society, but your own imminent death as well. One slice of mushroom pizza is the most meager consolation I can offer. I cannot reasonably send you to your death with a heart utterly devoid of hope for humanity and an empty stomach as well.

No? You don’t want it? You insist that I eat it?

Very well, Mr. Bond. I’ll eat that final slice of mushroom pizza. But before I do, I’d like to bring your attention to this plate I’ve been eating off of. You’ll notice, I’m sure, that it is clean, save for a single greasy smudge. Where, you may ask, are the mushrooms? Well, Mr. Bond. I have eaten them.

That’s right. I ate the mushrooms, every single one. And now, I will consume the final piece of pizza as the world burns. It’s the final phase of my scheme. I have passive-aggressively guilted you into leaving me the last slice of pizza. You, James Bond. The man who leaves nothing to chance. The man who always gets exactly what he wants. And as nation after nation is consumed by explosion after explosion, I will consume this slice of pizza. Mushroom, my favorite. Yes, I said it. My favorite. And I’m not even going out of town tomorrow. I am going to sit right here in my stronghold and watch flames lick at society’s feet.

You thought you were so clever, Mr. Bond. But you were playing right into my hands. You thought you could take me down, but instead, you stumbled blindly into my trap. I’m referring to both your entrance into my headquarters, and your polite refusal of that last pizza slice. I didn’t count on losing Toothache in the bargain, but it was a small price to pay for your capture. Now, look at you. Britain’s greatest spy. Tied to a table with a saw coming out of it. Probably hungry, as I imagine you haven’t eaten for several hours.

Mmmm… this pizza. It’s… so… good. Oh, Bond. I’m sure your regret over turning down this hot, but not too hot, slice of delicious pizza is matched only by your frustration at being strapped to a table as society crumbles. Only three minutes, Bond. Are you ready for the big show? Here’s the opening act:

Yummy yummy pizza. In my tummy tummy tummy. And it could have been yours! Don’t you feel like a fool?

Oh no! It seems in my reverie, you have freed yourself from the shackles. Well, played, Bond. Yes, of course. My hands are now above my head in surrender. You have only two minutes to avert the earth’s destruction. I’m sure, though, that you will, given your track record.
The cruelest irony is that I’ve finished my pizza. Down to the crust. Toothache always ate my crusts. But he’s not here. You know, that Mr. Bond, because you killed him.

Goddamn it. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

image – Michael Karshish

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