A story can load as much Chekhov’s guns.These, to the extent of the thrill they help piece together, a la an amateur archaeologist on their first, yet indiscernible excavation. The challenge is not to overwhelm the reader with sub-plots that are to the story-line, while maintaining considerable length to avoid losing its punch.
 Similarly, the main theme/title is the stuff of sub-plot; although in accordance to the book’s purpose, it is to raise temps—tampering with temperament. The world of the younger Bond. James Bond. Has taken a fastidious leap after SilverFin. More dangerous antagonists. Disposition to the world of art. Occasionally the placed bully that measures his mettle. And meeting the deadliest animal in the world before he realizes (argh) not everyone is to be trusted. Enamouring a shift from the most dangerous game, which he is perpetually hunting and on the run from. The proverbial if you were born to be hanged, you’ll never be drowned. In the sea and in the dam where he pulls his feats. Settings of the latter coming from The Johnson Flood tale minus the deluge.

There comes a terrible fever, shivering, pain in your joints; your head aches like it will explode.
 Little thrills only give way to unexpected mystery solving and detection. It is the psyche which knows no sycophant. Pumping in the veins of Mr. Bond. The best advice a cousin could ever give him was learning how to drink—for to know how not to get drunk. Adventures are to the adventurous.

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