Unlicensed to kill

Bond’s license to kill was revoked last year because he shot too many bartenders who stirred his martini.
“I said shaken, dammit!” he’d shout. “Shaken!”
Three warnings later, he was disarmed for the good of mixologists around the world.
“What do I do now?” growled Bond as his trademark Walther PPK was returned to the gun vault.
“Run really fast,” said the controller. “Or call the cops.”
Assigned to spy on Taleban slavelords, Bond lasted seventeen hours in the field. He was last seen dialing 999 on his bowtie cellphone as three midget ninjas carved him into itty bitty pieces.