No Country for Old Spies

The latest James Bond adventure in the style of Cormac McCarthy

James Bond stepped out of his car. It was a fast car. A red car. He liked it because it got him places fast. He liked it because it got him admiring glances from the ladies.
Y'all can't park there. The traffic warden had appeared from nowhere.
Bond slid the Walther PPK 65mm pistol from his inside pocket, cocked the hammer and fired a single shot into the warden's pigeon chest. The silencer muffled the blast to a high pitched nyeek and Bond strode past him up the steps of the Plaza Hotel. The warden reeled backwards into the rhododendrons, disappearing under the cover of the foliage.
Bond slid the gun back into his pocket and wiped a bead of sweat from his top lip. He reached the revolving door and stepped inside. The large reception area seethed with party guests in evening dress. He slid the Heckler & Koch MP5 machine gun from his right hand pocket, raised it to arm's length and started firing into the crowd.
Y'all can't shoot here, suh. The uniformed waiter flew backwards into the bar as Bond peppered his spotless white shirt front with bullets. Behind his crumpled and bloody corpse sat Lola, crimson clad and perched on a bar stool.
Y'all took ya time gettin here...ya should of phoned if ya was gonna be late.
Bond stepped over the heap of dead and dying bodies as he slid his machine gun back in his pocket and caught the eye of the bar tender. I'll have a vodka martini shaken not stirred. He drew Lola close to his chest.
I sent y'all a text. Ya must of been out of range.