No, Mr. Bond, I Expect Ya'll to Eat Pork Lard

Why does James Bond always get assigned to casinos in the French Riviera, five-star hotels in Hong Kong, etc.? By the law of averages, one of these days, he should wind up in a shitty location. Like, say, the more depressing suburbs of Atlanta.

So, the villain would be the morbidly obese Pork Finger; Good-n-Plenty, the Bond girl, is even fatter; Bond's car is a battered Chevy Nova (patched up with Bondo, natch). Narrowly escaping death, Bond burns a path of death through auto demolition derbies, garbage dumps, meth labs, trailer parks, depressingly cheap strip clubs and sneaks into a hog fat rendering plant -- Pork Finger's secret HQ.

At the climax, Pork Finger captures Bond and prepares to funnel a vat of pork lard down his throat. At the last possible second, Good-n-Plenty puts a bullet in his brain and rescues Bond. After some quick sabotage; the rendering plant explodes in apocalyptic pyrotechnics, scattering snouts, hooves, and various hog fragments all over DeKalb County. Good-n-Plenty drags Bond back to the Motel Six, jump his bones and crack his spine.

Bond spends the next film in traction.