Blonde, James Blonde

I write stuff every now and then, too. James Blonde is an idea that keeps re-ocurring to both my wife and I; I just have to keep writing it...

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"So will this be for business, or pleasure?"
"The pleasure..."—he paused—"...is all mine."

"So... less than 15,000 miles per year on the Aston Martin, then."
"Ah... yes."
"Any special equipment on that?"

It was Thursday afternoon, and James Blonde was slouched—in a casual and sophisticated way, he hoped—in one of the comfortable chairs at a small-town insurance agency. MI6 had traditionally taken care of the mundane things such as insuring his cars, but they had taken James' idea of insuring the car himself quite readily. Perhaps too readily. But this was, he reminded himself, necessary to establish his alternate identity.

"So will this be for business, or pleasure?"
"The pleasure, Miss..."—he glanced again at the name card on her desk—"...is all mine."
"Sczypanczyk."
"Oh, is that how you pronounce it."

"That's a 2006... Aston... Martin... hmm. What model?"
"Oh, it was made for me. And I was made for yo—"
"What model, sir?"
"Were you ever a model?"
"Once."