So, Mr Bond, you have finally discovered my secret hideout. Congratulations. What took you so long? No, don't tell me. It's because I have learned the lessons of my glorious but flawed predecessors; Blofeld, Scaramanga and so many others. I won't be repeating the basic errors that allowed you to defeat them so easily year after year.
When I became leader of SPECTRE, I made certain that unexpected helicopter traffic to and from dormant volcanoes would not lead you to my inner sanctum. I knew I could not escape your attentions in yet another so-called secret ocean floor base visible to the merest sonar ping. And in these days of budgetary restraint, moon-bases are just extravagence. Perhaps you were surprised to learn that it was I, Barack Obama, who was the new global supervillain. That is what I had hoped. Where can an evil genius hide away his legions of minions beyond the prying eyes of British Intelligence these days? Where better to hide a leaf than in a tree? I have been hiding in public office for years and, if you have found me now, it is only because you took that cursed White House guided tour that includes the Oval Office. No matter, I have been expecting you.
Firstly, Mr Bond, abandon thoughts of escape - following my investiture I had the air ducts specially replaced with ones too small to crawl along. And I've had forensic archaeologists prove beyond doubt that there are no long-forgotten, secret passages under the lawn to the Lincoln Memorial. JFK used to smuggle Marilyn inside in a laundry hamper, I'm told. Oh, and don't expect to sneak out disguised as one of my henchmen - “FBI” agents do not wear the opaque-visored helmets so beloved of my predecessors, however cool they look.
And there are no romantically-inclined females in the building to come to your aid; I keep Hillary out of the country as much as possible, if she is indeed female. As for Michelle, she will not help you. She only comes into heat once every five years or so. I think she may be Vulcan. It's a drag, obviously. But at least it keeps her in at nights. And don't even think about talking to Malia and Sasha unless you want to sign the sex offenders register.
Welcome to the White House dungeon, Mr Bond. You didn't know there were dungeons? Where did you think Jimmy Hoffa had been all these years?
My apologies for the heavy, iron manacles on your wrists and ankles. But, you see, I have thought long and hard about what to do with you when I caught you. Electronic force-fields look great, don't they. Futuristic. But so prone to smart Alec spies sabotaging the power-supply. And I am determined that I won't be repeating Goldfinger's mistakes. Alas, poor Auric, I barely knew him.
Soon, I shall begin interrogating you. Did I say interrogating? I meant torturing. Well, water-boarding. Let's not get bogged down with semantics. And when you have finished telling me the whereabouts of your fellow 00 agents, I shall have you immediately executed rather than discussing my plans for world domination with you. Sorry.
Oh, yes. If you're at all curious about the manner of your demise – I've abandoned the heavy weight suspended by a thick rope slowly fraying as it swings along a razor sharp blade. I don't know why we stuck with that old chestnut for so long. Besides, I've decided that shooting probably isn't too good for you. I may shoot you myself, I think I'd enjoy it. And relying on henchmen is never good in the long run. You try to build up their self-esteem, and what do they do? Try to usurp you. You try bullying them into submission and they betray you to the first enemy that comes alaong. You can't win with these people.
Besides, there's something charmingly Olde Worlde about fire-arms. Guns aren't just for Republicans, you know. And they'll work however hard you try to jam their frequency with that device implanted in your fillings. Yes, I know about that. Michelle wanted to flood the basement level and release piranhas while I left the room to gloat with my henchmen. But I was like, "Puh-lease - that's so 1950s!"
That surprises you, I can see. But I am not like super-villains you have encountered before. I have no need of pride. My imminent victory is satisfaction enough. I shan't be laughing manically with my back to you while you cut through your chains with the laser in your watch. You'll notice that I had the guards remove your watch along with your clothes – and shortly one of the guards will be in to probe you internally for any devices that did not show up on the X-ray scan. I will ask him to warm his hands. Just don't expect to be granted any final wishes, not even a last explosive cigarette. And once you're dead I will personally supervise your cremation. Anything less would be an inexcusable oversight in security. We wouldn't want you digging your way out of a grave, scrambling out of a defective garbage compactor or wriggling free of your chains inside a sack dumped in the Potomac. This isn't the Count of Montecristo.
You'll notice that the guards are rather comely. I find psychotics with metal teeth more unsightly than terrifying. My guards may be rather blonde, and they're certainly dressed in black leather that couldn't be any tighter if they're to perform their duties with any degree of efficiency. But that is for my enjoyment, Mr Bond. I have selected only the most committed of lesbians for my personal bodyguard – Michelle insisted. So, there is no hope of escape for you in trying to win them over. If any of them so much as suggests your restraints are too tight, I'll have them transferred to Des Moines. And, these girls know all about restraint. Oh, and you can no longer rely on my henchmen's inability to shoot straight - all of my guards take monthly marksmanship refresher courses and are armed with automatics. We couldn't find steel-rimmed bowler hats to match their bustiers.
You won't escape, of course, I designed this cell myself. There are no reflective surfaces for signalling outside colleagues through the windows - there aren't even windows. And if there were windows, they would have no latches that could be lifted with threads unravelled your bedding. Not that I have provided bedding – I wouldn't want you strangling the guards. Can you imagine the looks you get at recruitment agencies when you tell them you're looking for blonde lesbians?
You may be wondering about those strange noises from the next cell. That is the cry of my pet hyenas. Did you know that female Hyenas have a penis? The lesbians told me, they seem quite taken with the idea. I have not yet learned to control the minds of my hyenas, but that's not important. The door to their cell will open automatically the moment I press this panic button. They can bite straight through a man's leg and would like nothing more than to eat us – we haven't been feeding them well. I have titanium armor beneath this rather smart suit – while you are naked. See how my lesbians sneer at your flaccidity.
So, you have escaped your cell after all, Mr Bond. Well done, perhaps celebrating your demise by assembling my minions for a commemorative group photograph could have waited until after I had shot you. Never mind, it will make no difference. You will not defeat me. You will be detected and liquidated long before you reach the nerve-center of my operation. You will find that these corridors do not have convenient steel girders every five yards for you to conceal yourself behind. The upper floor guards will have shot you long before you reach me – I am not the type of super villain to leave my personal security in the hands of personnel incongruously armed with spears or swords. Nor to send them on patrol in groups of less than two for you to pick off one by one. Nor to tell them that you must be taken alive. If a patrol fails to check-in every ten minutes we do not assume that they have been delayed helping sight-seers find the Oval Office. We sound red alert, don Oxygen-masks and flood the upper floors with Fluorine gas.
And, even if by some miracle you were to reach our nerve center - also designed by me – you will find it difficult to gain access undetected. My many minions' work-desks face towards the doors and windows. It seems obvious, but it's that type of detail that's been so often over-looked in the past. I designed the doors too. Plastic explosives applied to the locking mechanism will cause them to seize closed, leaving you gasping for breath in the Fluorine while I watch on my monitor, petting my cat.
You see, I really have thought of everything. The security doors in this building only open with a combination of iris-recognition, fingerprints and DNA sequencing. It seemed better that way, even a British Intelligence agent might find somewhere to watch a minion pressing a combination into a keypad and remember it. Even the operating system was my design. It is one hundred percent secure. You will not be able to hack into our defence systems with your Blackberry. Nor did I equip the main-frame with an emotion protocol. So it won't be taking pity on you, Bond. Or fall in love with me but betray me from a misguided desire to save my soul.
No, you won't get into my command bunker. But, even if you should, don't expect to defeat my plans easily. Few of my many death-rays required the addition of self-destruct buttons, but those that did have them hidden in places inaccessible to the casual inspector. Any large red buttons labelled Do Not Push will simply result in your vaporisation. Or is that a double bluff.
Of course, there is a White House auto-destruct. I thought it might be useful should Sarah Palin run for president next time. But you wouldn't want to rely on its digital countdown too much. Only I know which number it will detonate on – and it isn't zero!
Still you evade detection, Mr Bond. Well done, you do your country proud. Perhaps I misjudged you. Perhaps you will not try to kill me - knowing what you do about my security arrangements. Perhaps you are planning to be rescued! You can try, of course. We saw no sign of a glamorous accomplice this morning but I am aware that you are likely to have had one. Rest assured, should any pneumatic beauty apply for an internship between now and your re-capture, I will turn them down. After I have inserted a cigar or two into her – it's a local tradition. Then I will hand her over to the lesbians.
It is possible that you have found a computer terminal in an empty office by now. Be warned, James, use it to turn off so much as a single CCTV camera and the whole building will be on high alert. Maintenance will not be sent a casual e-mail asking if they could take a look on Monday. Even if you should succeed in hacking into what you believe is the security system, you should not assume that the area on the electronic map marked Top Secret Control Room is anything other than an electrified cell filled with poisonous snakes. Or should you? This may also be a double bluff. Care to find out for sure?
Should you make it to the roof-top and hope for helicopter rescue, I won't be wrestling on the parapet with you to prevent escape. We have snipers to deal with that situation. Doubtless, your lifeless corpse would fall into one of the many vats of toxic chemicals we keep, some of which really are luminous green. I'm not sure why we have those, possibly they were keeping Donald Rumsfeld alive. I generally walk around them, but on the rare occasions I find the need to cross above their bubbling stench, you can bet I always make sure the steel walkway has been tested by structural engineers. I too have watched your old movies.
So you see, Bond. I have considered every possibility. I have trained my staff to be deadly, I have adapted my hideout for security and made my IT systems impregnable. No, Mr. Tuxedo-wearing British so-called Secret Agent who walks around telling everyone his name - when I finally kill you, I shall enjoy watching my Portuguese Water Dog snacking on your corpse. Because that is what you and your type deserve for pouring your filthy oil into our pristine Gulf.
Lackey! Snigger for me now! What do you mean, he's gone? Damn it, man. I thought I told you to remove the batteries from the time-machine in the Cabinet Room. Why must I be surrounded by imbeciles?