The Medi-Oscars

One of Chiffre’s henchmen hastily cut a jagged hole in the bottom of a thin wooden chair. Bond, stripped naked, is tied to it, awkwardly exposed and uncomfortably seated. He struggles in vain.

Le Chiffre walks over, wielding a strange rope. There is a cruel half-smile on his face, not out of satisfaction or assurance, but out of fear. It is the grin of a cornered animal, prepared to bite at whatever comes close.

After sizing Bond up, he turns to one of his henchmen, a pale thing in a purple suit. He hands the rope to him and whispers something into one of his pointy ears.

“You want me to do what to his what?! No way, man, you handle your own kinky bullshit.”