Endorphins meet dolphins on the Gulf of Mexico squeaking from their blow-holes waiting for the next wave to sully their salty smiles. Ultraviolet violence comes crashing from the bolted metal arks with staggering javelins poking and prodding at the Earth’s sweaty bellybutton.
Sarah meets Maker on the rickety staircase of her aunty’s Victorian five-bedroom house on Chapel St. Her Cross Country medals sit perched on the wall, never dusted. Her cheques sit in the mailbox too far from the front door, and living alone no lover brings them to her. The neighbour on her left, Liam, sometimes does the deed, if lonely.
[Hold close The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart.]
Quentin Tarantino’s James Bond short, filmed during his hallucinatory-arthouse-phase, exposed everything that was important about The Man With The Golden Gun. In its succinct runtime of seventeen-minutes, fifty-seven seconds, Quentin plays his cards: foreign seductresses, ear-rattling explosions, hair-raising chases in ramshackle Cadillacs, an intimidating-yet-laughable villain, a finely cut beige Armani suit, and an endless array of buzzing, beeping, brrrat!-ing gadgets. And a shark tank.
And so, the shark tank scene: it will not be the kind where Bond goes toe-to-toe with a pack of tiger sharks, rendering them immobile with swift jabs to their noses, no sir. Bond will take with him his mistress, Eva, and they will twirl amongst the frenzy, soaked through to the bone. And her clothes – clinging to her supple breasts, her pert frame – will slip away. And while they nibble on one another, the beasts will tear strips of flesh from their form, whirring from the predatory machine within.
And the blood will bubble and stain the opaque walls.