A car chases another car on a winding mountain road, very recklessly and very fast. Their engines roar as they rip around treacherous corners, the Mediterranean frothing below. A car chase, how exciting—and the movie’s just begun!
A Paris museum is being robbed. A team of burglars descend on cables in the dark. The burglars wear black. One of the burglars, however, is all in white. “You fool,” whispers the head burglar, Arthur, shaking his head. “You bloody fool.”
A spy walks into a saloon in Marrakech. A femme fatale sits at the bar smoking a cigarette. The spy goes over and says something smooth. The femme fatale turns to him and blows smoke through a thin smile. The spy motions to the bartender for martinis. The spy and the femme fatale drink and trade sultry double-entendres, raising their eyebrows suggestively. Later, at a hotel, they have bondage sex. In the morning, the spy wakes up to discover himself still lashed to the bed, but now surrounded by secret agents. “Where is the microfiche?” say the secret agents. The spy writhes in his restraints. “Where is it?” the secret agents say. Then in walks the femme fatale and she says, “I know where it is.” Because she planted it on him. That is, inside him, sexually.
A baby is driving a speedboat! Somebody stop him!
In a library, a dignified older British gentleman leads a spy in a baby disguise through the stacks. At the back wall, he pulls a book from the shelf—a secret passageway opens—and says, “You must never tell anyone about this, Blackhawk Davidson.” Blackhawk Davidson nods: “Yes, Number One.” Together they enter the secret passageway. Once inside, Blackhawk Davidson falls to his knees and greedily, desperately, unleashes and begins to suckle at Number One’s gushing teat.
A camel and a Bedouin are moseying down the streets of Marrakech. At a stall selling stolen Parisian art, the camel turns to the Bedouin and says, “I guess this is where I leave you.” Except the Bedouin isn’t a Bedouin at all but a secret agent wearing towels and fake beards, and he pulls out a revolver and guns the happy camel down. The camel falls on a neighboring market stall selling oranges and the oranges tumble everywhere, through the camel’s spurting blood, and—historical fact—that’s how blood oranges were invented, in 1942.
Someone put a grenade somewhere! Get him!
A femme fatale wakes up to the head of her lover on the pillow beside her! But the rest of his body is there, too, under the sheets. So no big deal.
Through the desert troop a bunch of thirsty camels. They come upon a Bedouin casually lounging by an oasis, eating a blood orange, surrounded by stolen art. “Careful,” says the head camel. “I’ve heard about this guy.”
A Bedouin explodes!
A femme fatale, a secret agent in camel disguise, a regular camel, and an ostrich walk into a bar in Marrakech. “Four blood-orange martinis,” says the femme fatale to the head bartender, Arthur. In walks Number One, in disguise as a femme fatale. “Oh my God, we’re wearing the same dress!” screams Number One, flapping his arms as a diversionary tactic. But the ostrich misinterprets the gesture as mockery and falls into a deep, inconsolable fit of sobbing. “Next round’s on the house,” says Arthur. And he means it.
“Is that a blood orange,” asks a femme fatale, “or are you just happy to see me?” Blackhawk Davidson blinks and looks down at his erection. “It’s,” he begins—but too late: the femme fatale has already swung from the dung hut on a vine and is off hooting and shrieking into the night.
Back in the library, Blackhawk Davidson pulls a book off a shelf. Nothing happens. But then he looks at the book: Baby Disguises and You, Wearing Them. Out of nowhere appears Number One. “That book might save your life someday,” says Number One. Blackhawk Davidson notices the revolver pointed at his “blood orange”—which he’d rather not have “peeled,” as it were. Number One a double agent? Fancy that!
A car chase through the narrow streets of a picturesque Mediterranean town! Wait, not a car chase—a funeral procession, very slow and very sad.
Blackhawk Davidson is home safely with his family in London, feet up on a coffee table. The phone rings. It’s the new Number One (formerly Number Three, promoted over Number Two because of affirmative action). And as the new Number One congratulates Blackhawk Davidson on another job well done the camera pans over the coffee table, where a book about baby disguises sits proudly displayed, a silver bullet lodged in its cover. And engraved on the bullet are the words The End … this time.