PROSPECT DOSSIER: Bond Girls
CREATED FOR: M
By: Miss Moneypenny
This dossier contains snippets from the private ledgers, which you can find in full copy in the archive, of Agent 007’s extracurricular companions, all of whom the compiler has, after everything, grown to feel quite fond of and not at all jealous. Not at all.
Honey Ryder’s Diary, Entry #467:
Yesterday I only found two seashells. I would have been able to find more, but a creepy guy in baby blue resort wear, watching me from behind a palm tree, tried to have a duet with me, and he totally didn’t even listen when I told him to keep his distance! I said, “Stay where you are,” but he didn’t stay where he was. He said stuff like that he was strictly honorable, but he also was very interested to know if I was alone on the secluded beach or not >:(
I was too tired to argue, because diving is really quite exhausting work and all I could think about was how large clumps of sand tend to collect in my nether-region from catching waves to shore and I just wanted to figure out a way to unlodge the sand as soon as possible, but the man kept making small talk. The small talk led to us being shot at, drugged, kidnapped and then drugged again by a group of bad guys; I now have to replace my diving equipment.
This was the third time this week that a strange man tried to pick me up while I’m working.
Octopussy’s Diary, Entry #3272 (there is no mention of 007 in any of her 47 diaries):
Sometimes when I can’t sleep it’s usually because I’m thinking about boarding school, senior year. I really thought I was going to be a marine biologist, to honor my father, but then that one guy — I’ll never forget his name — Nathan Showling won the grand prize to full scholarship at the International Ocean Institute. James was second in class, but the administration took me aside before the announcement and the headmaster said, “Octavia, you know, the prize is best suited for someone who can make a serious career out of this.” Seriously, this must have been like how Simone de Beauvoir must have felt during her agrégation, only worse, because I wasn’t in love with Nathan Show-off-ling.
It felt really amazing when I had the Octopus Cult steal this headmaster’s Breitling. I smuggled it into South Africa where I had the sale of it go toward a scholarship fund called “The Octavia B. ReDressed Award”.
Pussy Galore’s Diary, Entry #23:
I keep refusing my therapist’s suggestion that I medicate with Zoloft. I’m like, listen, Doctor, I know I’m an American but I’m not buying. She says I need to relax. I say, that’s why I hire only women! And it works, one hundred percent of the time, it works. This is because women are as reasonable as a person can be. That, I’ll lay my life on. When I would say “jump” to my Abrocats and my Flying Circus, they’d say “how high and for how long?” But when it’s a man, he’ll say, “How about you make me a martini, shaken not stirred?”
Zoloft, my pussy. That wouldn’t help worth a damn; these are institutional reasons of discontent. As a proud gay woman, I can see the oppression. You know, the other day, when I was right in the middle of a gig, this same guy, who Goldfinger and I had just tranquilized, he wakes up and starts going on and on about how delighted he was to wake to the vision of me before him. When he asks me my name, he says, real slimy-like, “I must be dreaming.” When I tell him I’m Goldfinger’s personal pilot, you know what he says? He says, “And just how personal is that?” with that smirk I tend to see in European men. You don’t understand how many times I get this treatment.
I got so livid, I said, “I’m a damned good pilot. Period.” Later, when I’m in the barn with him, telling him it ain’t gonna happen, he grabs my arm and throws me around like a stuffed monkey just because I said no. A woman would never do that, see what I mean? The only reason we did the biblical deed is because I’ve been looking into IVF treatments and I work too hard to just give away my 77-cents-to-everyman’s-dollar on something that I can get for free.
Whatever. All I know is that I’m gonna make sure my daughter doesn’t go through what her secret agent father put me through. That’s all I know.
Domino Petachi’s Diary, Entry #204:
I know I never write in this journal anymore, but I just wanted a place to remind the future me: please alert the police the next time I have a stalker. There I was, walking to the grand boulevard, hoping I could buy a nice dress to dance around in on the yacht, when I could feel an old man looking at me. When I turned around, I saw him move around the tree so he could keep staring at me. I had a weird feeling deep down in my tummy.
Well, I was right. Later, this man would sneak into the spa and pretend to be my replacement masseuse. He eyed my lady parts when I turned over on the massage table and later he muttered something about how giving me a massage felt good. There was that weird feeling again.
When my real masseuse showed up, I was so scared I could have cried, but the way I get through sexual harassment is by employing something called “The Secret”. How it works is that you imagine that everything is going to turn out alright and you even pretend like it is alright already. Like right now, I’m going to close my eyes and pretend like I’m not actually a hostage on a yacht. Mmmm. Freedom tastes so good on a closed-circuit yacht.