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Good evening. The name’s Beans, John Beans. Spy. Patriot. Raconteur. Lover. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. For thirty years I’ve confronted evil all around the world. Terrorists, arms dealers, drug traffickers - all in a day’s work. I’ve traveled to nearly every country on this planet, drunk every cocktail, even made love in two different positions. In short, I’ve done it all.
Now, call me crazy, call me a maverick, but each time I save the world, I like to cap my moment of victory in style. Usually, I’ll deliver some well-chosen words, a delicate sprinkle of refined British wit, to mark the occasion. And let me tell you, Ladies and Gentlemen, over the years I’ve come out with some real zingers…
Berlin, 1957.
The deranged Colonel Von Buuren stood before me in the deepest vault of the national bank, his god-awful plan almost complete. Soon, he would walk out the front door of the place with 45 million dollars - enough to crash the stock market worldwide. Having captured me and tied me to a chair, he let out a sickening, triumphant cackle. It appeared to be game over.
With mere seconds to go, I covertly pushed the middle button on my Casio. A bank safe, weighing over 15,000 pounds, came crashing through the ceiling, squashing his head like a tomato.
Stepping over his pancaked body, I snickered and quipped, “Better to be safe, than get crushed by a safe.”
New York, 1964.
Opening night of Fiddler on the Roof. The curtain is just about to rise, and the President is settling down into his seat in the front row. Meanwhile, I’m up on the balcony, engaged in a lengthy tussle with a would-be assassin.
Just as the opening notes began to rise from the orchestra pit, I finally triumphed against the treasonous bastard, choking him out. I tossed him victoriously over the railing. He crashed down onto the stage, shattering his fibula.
I said, “It's opening night. Don’t break your leg!”
Paris, 1968.
We were going mano-a-mano on the warehouse roof. Just Colonel Le Chaton, the notorious dog trainer turned arms trafficker, and yours truly. My battered body was all that stood between him and world domination, but he was fast gaining the upper hand, raining blow after blow down upon me.
Just then, I clicked my fingers. An old Labrador, one of his I presume - who was thought incapable of learning any new tricks - jumped up on my command and brutally savaged the fucker.
I chuckled, “Well, seems like maybe you can train an old dog to do a new maneuver!”
Havana, 1971.
Two minutes before the torpedoes were due to be launched. My opponent, the deadly Salomon de Santos, loomed over me following a scintillating hand-to-hand duel. I lay there, bloody and exhausted, as the hammer of his revolver clicked back. Could this really be the end?
Not quite yet. With one final throw of the dice, I grabbed his leg and pulled until his steel-toed boot came free in my hand. I swiftly put it on and kicked him hard in the backside. He tumbled down the side of the steepling, bottomless canyon, screaming all the way.
I remarked, “Looks like the shoe is on the other foot. Now [expletive deleted] off! Go [expletive deleted] [inaudible] [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted].”
Prague, 1975.
I had tailed him all the way to the abandoned cookie factory, but somehow he had anticipated my ambush. The tables had suddenly turned. That’s right - that awful Ronnie Solitaire had me pinned helplessly to the floor. A laser beam crept ever-closer towards my knackers. It sure looked like curtains for old John Beans.
But just as I faced my most perilous moment, my elite training kicked in. I turned, span, then span again, expertly escaping my certain doom. I reached for the only weapon nearby, and struck the despot over the head with a huge cookie, killing him instantly. The cookie crumbled over his limp body, in a way that was hard to describe, but memorable if you were there.
I yelled, “Well, that’s the way it goes, buster!”