No, Mr. Bond. I expect you to die.

I kind of think that Ezra here resembles an evil genius. The faintly cocked wrist, the look of utter disdain, the ever so slight upturned nose. Yes, this is a fellow poised to push a button that will open a trapdoor, dropping some poor bugger into a vat of acid.

Filled with crocodiles.

With sub-machine guns.

And poor dental hygiene.