The Man with the Golden Gun

Nick Nack! Tabasco!

Right away, Monsieur Scaramanga!

Hey.

Half. You get the rest later.

Wait for him in there. Through that door.

He will join you in a minute.

Your steam bath is ready,|Monsieur Scaramanga.

Oh, that would have been too easy.

It's locked.

You'll have to look elsewhere, monsieur.

Hey, Al.

Al, wherever you are,|don't hold it against me.

I wonder where you can find your gun,|Monsieur Scaramanga.

Your little golden gun.

Where can it be?

we haven't had before.

I wonder what it can be.

I fooled you!

You're getting warmer.

Much warmer.

Now, how are you going|to get down the stairs?

So near and yet so far.

Bravo, Monsieur Scaramanga.

You've done it again.

- This one was the best, "n'est-ce pas"?|- Not bad. Not bad at all.

But you'll have to do better|to come into my money.

I'll get you yet,|and I'll enjoy every sou you leave me.

You'll be the death of me yet, Nick Nack.

# He has a powerful weapon

# He charges a million a shot

# An assassin that's second to none

# Lurking in some darkened doorway

# Or crouched on a rooftop somewhere

# In the next room, or this very one

# The Man with the Golden Gun

# Love is required whenever he's hired

# It comes just before the kill

# No one can catch him

# No hit man can match him

# For his million-dollar skill

# means another poor victim

# Has come to a glittering end

# For a price, he'll erase anyone

# The Man with the Golden Gun

# His eye may be on you or me

# Who will he bang?

# We shall see

# Love is required whenever he's hired

# It comes just before the kill

# No one can catch him

# No hit man can match him

# For his million-dollar skill

# means another poor victim

# Has come to a glittering end

# If you want to get rid of someone

# The Man with the Golden Gun

# Will get it done

# He'll shoot anyone

# With his golden gun

Good morning, sir.

Colthorpe.

Chief of Staff.

What do you know|about a man called Scaramanga, 007?

Scaramanga?

Oh, yes! The Man with the Golden Gun.

Born in a circus. Father, the ringmaster.|Mother, English. A snake charmer.

A spectacular trick-shot artist by the time|he was ten and a local Rio gunman at 15.

The KGB trained him in Europe,|where he became

an overworked, underpaid assassin.

He went independent in the '50s.

Current price:
One million dollars a hit.

No... er... photograph on file.

But he does have one distinguishing|feature, however. A superfluous papilla.

- A what?|- A mammary gland. A third nipple, sir.

He always uses a golden bullet,|hence "Man with the Golden Gun".

Present domicile unknown.

I think that's all.

Why, sir?

Hm! Charming trinket.

- Even has my number on it.|- Precisely.

Obviously it's useless as a bullet.

Who would pay a million dollars|to have me killed?

Jealous husbands, outraged chefs,|humiliated tailors. The list is endless.

Moreover, this trinket, as you call it,

was sent with a note|requesting "special delivery" to you.

- It's initialled with an S.|- Scaramanga's fingerprints were on it.

They've been verified by the CIA.

- Why would he alert me?|- Psychological.

He counts on his reputation|to terrify his intended victim.

Thank you, gentlemen.

I'm relieving you|of your present assignment, 007.

- Er, sir?|- Yes?

The energy crisis is still with us.

I submit that finding Gibson and his solar|cell data is more important than ever.

It is indeed.

And I can't jeopardise it or any mission|by having Scaramanga put a bullet in you.

I'll endorse your request to resign.

Or you can take a sabbatical|and go to ground until this is settled.

Or until he kills me.

Nobody knows where he is|or what he looks like.

So I think it's fair to assume|that he has the edge on you.

Wouldn't you agree? That's all, 007.

If I found him first, sir,

that might change the situation.

Dramatically, wouldn't you say?

Good day, Bond.

Moneypenny, Fairbanks.

- Alaska.|- No. Bill Fairbanks, 002.

Oh, poor Bill.

- I miss him.|- The Man with the Golden Gun didn't.

Officially that was never confirmed.

Where was 002 when it happened?

Beirut, '69.

In a cabaret with a lady called Saida.

Beirut, hm?

Moneypenny,|you are better than a computer.

In all sorts of ways.

But you never take advantage of them.

- Miss Moneypenny.|- Yes, sir.

Oh, just one moment, darling.

Yes, James?

Why wasn't Scaramanga|confirmed as the killer?

Because they couldn't find the bullet!

Darling!

Ahmed.

Ahmed!

Entrez.

Good evening.|My name is Bond. James Bond.

Your dancing is superb.

- Merci.

And you are very handsome.

Well, I don't usually intrude like this,|but I... I believe we had a mutual friend.

- Bill Fairbanks.|- Fairbanks?

Yes.

I am told you were with him

when he was rather, er...|rudely interrupted.

Ah, "mais oui" - Bill!

What a terrible night. I will never forget it.

- Did you see who shot him?|- No, I was in his arms.

- My eyes were closed.|- At least he died happy.

The bullet went through him.

- Through his back and ended up there?|- No, no, through his neck.

I take it out of the wall|before the police arrive.

And now it is my lucky charm.

I never dance without it.

I'm sure Bill would have loved that.

But let us forget the past.

Mm! I was hoping you'd say that.

Are you staying long in Beirut?

Oh, it depends.

Clumsy of me.

You really do have|a magnificent abdomen.

Oh, my perfumes! No!

I've lost my charm!

Not from where "I'm" standing.

Taxi? Hotel, mister?

No. To the nearest pharmacy.

Dumdum bullets like this

flatten on impact|for maximum wounding effect.

- Very nasty.|- Yes, I'm sure it is.

But just tell me|where it was made and by whom.

Well, fortunately it's all in one piece.

Which leads us to deduce|it was fired from a 4.2 millimetre gun.

Colthorpe, there's no such thing|as a 4.2 millimetre gun.

The fact that no recognised munitions|manufacturer, military or civil,

produces such a bullet|doesn't mean it doesn't exist, 007.

Q Branch have been making irregular|calibres for most unusual purposes.

- And we don't put markings on them.|- Making identification almost impossible.

You mean we can't trace it? You've|no idea what it went through to get here.

I wouldn't go so far as to say that.

The workmanship is undemanding|according to our standards.

Soft 23-carat gold with traces of... nickel.

Hardly ever used in Europe.|Comes from India.

Far East?

- Why not India?|- Nickel content obviously too low, 007.

- Lazar?|- Lazar!

Hm. Imaginative.

Highly specialised.

Yes, I concur.

- Well, what the hell is Lazar?|- Not what. Who. Portuguese.

- Lives in Macau.|- Chap who made the bullet, 007.

I hate to interrupt your dinner,|but does Senhor Lazar live here?

Lazar.

I was given this address. Does he...

Senhor Lazar?

My name's Bond. James Bond.

An unexpected honour, Mr Bond.

Your reputation precedes you.|This way, please.

It would be my proudest moment if|I could make something for you, Mr Bond.

A rifle, perhaps.

Now, here we have|an interesting problem.

A custom-built model for a client

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