The first time I saw it, I said “Fuck”

Bond, exactly as instructed, is pressing the red button.

Covered in sweat with breath and heart failing from the poison,

pushing it again and again while his consciousness grows holes

that Bond must jump over to perform a finite task.

On top of all this, the angry voice in his ear speaker:

PRESS THE DAMN BUTTON! DO IT NOW!

The audience, the hairs on my arms, are all attentions, salutings,

as there is a close up of the little round metal lead,

so profoundly never-connected—

a fumble of fingers and then Bond collapses, dead on the next seat.

What? I did not expect you to die.

1, 2