In a rented room above a 24-hour photo shop – your makeshift safe house here in Portofiro for the duration of Zero Parades: For Dead Spies – your partner is slumped in his chair. Dead? Not quite. But just a shell, now, absent the gooey human filling that makes a body a person.
The scene gets stranger. The apparent cause of this comatose state is a home stereo, spinning a disc marked with the name of a popstar but playing nothing but silence. Oh, and this man – codename PSEUDOPOD – is fully dressed above the waist but below, the unenviable job of protecting his modesty is left to a pair of tight red briefs. In one pocket, you find a potential explanation for Pseudopod's trouserlessness: a card for a phone-sex line. Well now.
