[Giligan]

On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, Chapter 2

The man rubbed his oatmeal skin, and paused to survey his surroundings.
Soft tan carpet snuggled his Oxford shoes.
Light music accompanied the light tinkling of glasses as nattily-attired gentlemen and ladies murmured to one another in conversation.
Wealthy-looking businessmen sat around a large table in the center of the room, quietly playing the tactical and quite addictive game of poker. Another table, off in the corner, was occupied by a smaller contingency of gentlemen. Several pimpy-looking types in ill-fitting suits shuffled around the table, affixing passer-bys with “Hey, nice suit, my friend. Come a step closer to this table and you’ll be taking it off via your posterior.” looks.
Robert leaned over Jennifer’s shoulder and pressed the com-link’s “talk” button. “That’s the table, Agent Squibbles. Move in.”
“Affirmative.” The agent nodded emotionlessly and began walking towards the table.
He was stopped in mid-step by a large, ringed hand on his chest. “Dat table’s invitation only, sir. You’re gonna have to step back now.”
The agent slowly looked up to the face of the goateed goon. ”Really? You and what army?” Then it hit him. That was the wrong answer. In fact, that answer was only suitable for squabbling with your siblings at age 5. And only then if you were the unwittiest, uncoolest kid ever to set foot inside a junior Armani. Even if that comment hadn’t been rated #195,289 in Every Witty Comment A Clever Gentleman Needs to Know, 7th Edition, saying it to a 359 pound monster was a bad idea. A really bad idea. It was tell-a-pregnant-woman-you’re-taking-a-survey-and-ask-her-why-she-thinks-she‘s-worth-reproducing bad idea..
He weighed his options. In less than .30 seconds, this goon was going to relocate him to a dumpster in the back alley. Most unpleasant for his suit.
But why not use martial arts? Of course! He would impress all the gentlemen at the table with his mastery of Krav Maga, as he neatly flattened this lump of dough of a security guard. .03 seconds before the goon grabbed him, he struck a martial arts pose.
The guests at this lavish casino, now occupied with staring at this incident, broke out in hysterical laughter. They know, thought Agent Jat. They know I’m going to flatten this goon without one hair of my head being moved out of place.
And then it hit Agent Jat.
He didn’t know Krav Maga.
He was in the middle of a hatha yoga pose.
The smiling goon grabbed the agent by his lapels and the two of them strolled, albeit rather hurriedly, to the double steel doors marked “exit”. “Come on, friend. I think you and I are gonna do some meditatin’ outside.”


Internal Investigations Directorate... Director Marquisard leaned back in his padded leather chair. He removed a cigar from his mouth and lazily blew a smoke ring, which impacted against the glass of his 20-foot tall office panoramic window.
He had a huge salary.
He was powerful.
He had a view out his office that would make any Alpine resort designer weep.
And he even owned over 163 of those.
No, his trouble was respect. He knew - from latrine rumor - that he was collectively referred to as “gas gut”. He’d never been able to prove it naturally; he was called “sir” to his face. But he knew people thought he was a rat.
On more than one occasion, he’d try to blend in with his cool and recognized Secret Service colleagues and be cool, but it was like a uniformed on-duty police officer trying to blend in at a college beer party. No go.
He needed a plan. He would sink those Secret Servicemen’s careers so badly, they’d need a submarine to deliver their coffee and donuts.
He laughed gleefully at his wonderful new plan.