Sneak previews from my spy novel

You may have heard that I’ve published my first novel — “The Holler” under my pen name Bo Hunter. But did you know that I wrote a spy thriller under another pen name, Ho Bunter?

No? Well, that’s because it has been banned as “fake news” even though it’s fiction. It was seized from boxes in my bathroom by the FBI’s Kash Patel himself, who gave me the side eye as he said some of the fake information in the novel was classified.

I’m not legally allowed to reprint direct passages from the novel, but here are some sneak previews of what I can remember from “American Bond.”

CHAPTER 1

America’s greatest spy slinked and slunked his way into the penthouse of Trump Tower, looking dapper as usual — the agent, I mean, not the building. A Trump phone on the desk greeted him: “Identify yourself.”

“Agent 007-429-5396. Better known as Bond, Treasury Bond. My parents were bankers.”

“Your mission, should you choose to accept it …”

“Well, of course I choose to accept it,” T-Bond said as he propped his gold Trump sneakers upon the desk. “It ain’t like my Master’s in Ponzi Schemes from Trump University is doing me any good. I did get one of the tens of thousands of new jobs created, though—at Wendy’s.”

“You will need to quit that job. Your new mission is to steal Maria Machado’s Nobel Peace Prize from the Oval Office. She wants it back. You’ll find it hidden behind the painting of Trump’s favorite president.”

“Andrew Jackson?”

“No, Vladimir Putin.”

“Ahh. Piece of cake,” said T-Bond.

“No thank you,” said the phone.

“It’s a figure of speech,” T-Bond corrected.

“Oh, this phone will self-destruct in two seconds.”

“What? That doesn’t give me much time to …”

BOOM!

CHAPTER TWO

Treasury Bond, now working under the code name Three-Finger Bond, slunked up the stairs to an idling former Trump Shuttle that had been converted by Qataris to fly at twice the speed of sound by running on beautiful clean coal.

He was met by a voluptuous woman holding a briefcase.

“They call me Agent Orange,” she sultrily sighed in a sultrily syrupy voice, “but you can call me Stephanie. Stephanie Clifford. Wait! I wasn’t supposed to say that! Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

“It’s OK,” Three-Finger Bond said. “How ’bout you show me—”

“That’d be five hundred bucks.”

“No, show me what’s in the briefcase.”

“Oh, duh.” Agent Orange opened the case to reveal stacks upon stacks of Trump $250 bills. “You’ll get this upon completion of your mission — along with Trump Coins and three Trump Cards where he looks like Rambo.”

“Where’d you get that?” Bond asked as he took a sip of his Trump Vodka, shaken, because of turbulence that was growing ever worse thanks to the climate change hoax.

“I signed an NDA. Then I said some stuff anyway. Then they gave me this to stop talking about the NDA. But I secretly uploaded my NDA up to 23andMe.com anyway.”

“I think you mean DNA.”

“Oh yeah,” she sultrily sighed. “You’re also going to need these — a Trump Bible, this passport with Trump’s face on it, and a red MAGA hat.”

“Why?”

“You gotta have something to read on this flight,” she sultrily, syrupily said. “I recommend Two Corinthians. The passport is in case you need to bolt for one of our allies, like North Korea. And, in case you get caught, the hat can get you out of jail free. Heck, you might even get paid.”

“But what if—”

“Sorry, time’s up. My breasts will explode in two seconds. It’s the altitude.”

“That’s not enough time for—”

BOOM! BOOM!

CHAPTER THREE

Looking stereotypically dapper with his new Trump eyepatch, Three-Finger Bond lifted the brim of his MAGA hat and peered through his good eye at the White House after slinkishly slinking through the Trump Promenade, behind the former Trump-Kennedy Center, under the Trump Arch, across the fifth hole at Trump National. He then checked his Trump watch.

“Enough slinking,” he thought. “Time to go.” His Trump phone rang. It was Agent Orange, calling from the Trump Plastic Surgery Center.

“Go for it!” she sultrily ordered.

“Huh?” Three-Finger Bond wondered in a confused, huh-ish fashion.

“Sorry, I was talking to the surgeon. You don’t think 36K is too big, do you?”

“Not if you’re Morgana The Kissing Bandit.”

“No, for a deductible?”

“Pretty normal I’d say. Why’d you call?”

“We need you to get the Nobel now! We believe the president is asleep.”

“But there’s all this construction going on and fireworks and flyovers and a Fox News interview and Village People music blasting—”

“Trust me, he’s definitely asleep. Must’ve been the 117 Truth Social posts after midnight.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Three-Finger Bond rubbed the sweat above his eyepatch and creeped slunkishly across the White House lawn where brawls broke out to celebrate Trump’s birthday and rang the doorbell, which played “YMCA.” In his right hand, his remaining digits clutched a brown paper bag from McDonald’s.

“Yes? What arrrgh you doing here?” asked a man wearing dark Trump Sunglasses.

“Ahh, a pirate joke. Original. I’ve got a Door Dash order for … hang on, it’s here somewhere … oh yeah, Donald.”

“No can do,” said the man in a dark suit with a Trump necktie.

“Are you Secret Service?” Bond queried in a questioning tone.

“I can’t tell you what service I’m in,” the man said. “It’s secret.”

“Aha! I knew it!”

“Dang it! You got me. What’s in the bag?”

“Big Mac. So big. Like nobody’s ever seen before.”

“Let’s see it.”

Bond reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of Trump: The Fragrance and sprayed it in the man’s face.

“Thank goodness I had these glasses on,” the man said as he removed the glasses and wiped his eyes.

Bond then sprayed him in the eyes.

“Dang it!” said the man as he crumpled to the ground while Bond ate two french fries he found at the bottom of the bag before bolting as slinkishly as one can into the West Wing. Just then, Bond’s phone rang. It was Agent Orange.

“Sorry, butt dial!” she said. “Oopsies!”

“Oopsies? Is the president still asleep?”

“Actually, he’s in a Cabinet meeting. Been there for two hours. See if it’s still going on.”

Bond pressed his ear to the Cabinet room door and could make out faint voices:

“Your farts smell like flowers, sir. And every Knicks fan loves you. And you’re definitely not asleep right now. We can see that you are concentrating intensely. And even if you were snoring, it’s melodic like Lee Greenwood or Kid Rock.”

“I think we have a moment,” Bond told Agent Orange.

Bond raced into the Oval Office in his super-fast Trump Sneakers, but his one good eye was blinded by all the gold. He tripped over the rug on which the First Lady once posed naked and tried to steady himself by grabbing the Resolute Desk, but his hand hit a big red button.

“Whew,” he thought, out loud, “it’s just the Diet Coke button.”

Chief of Staff Susie Wiles overheard him. With no time for slinking, she bolted into the office. “Actually, that’s the self-destruct button! We’ve got two seconds before—”

“Dadgummit!” said Three-Finger Bond before …

BOOM!

——————————

Those are the only passages I can remember from the book. I did have a sequel planned in which secret agent One-Leg Bond uses his rocket-powered wheelchair to stop a SpaceX rocket from blowing up a food stamp office, but it got banned in advance.