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James Bond sat before his typewriter and scowled. Bloody beaurocratic nonsense! If it wasn't one thing it was another these days! In his opinion, the double-oh section of the Secret Service was becoming too politically correct, too concerned with emotional well-being and psycho-babble nonsense that had nothing to do, in Bond's estimation, with the killing of another human being. He found their silly written tests and oral examinations a waste of time, and, truth be told, slightly humiliating. With these thoughts buzzing away in his mind like an incessant gnat, Bond scrolled a piece of paper into the machine and began to type away. If the Psych evaluators wanted fifteen minutes of random typing, by God he was going to give it to them!
Never considering himself a 'desk person,' Bond was ill at ease with the keys of a typewriter. He could type - no doubt - but it was a distracted, laborious task that more often than not caused him to develop a pounding headache. His fingers searched out their targets and pounded away for five minutes. Then, with smug satisfaction, he leaned back in his seat and lit a cigarette. Technically there was no smoking within the confines of his office any longer, but Bond had never let this deter him from the occasional smoke from time to time. As he savored his cigarette, Bond next pulled out his gun, a Walther, and began to disassemble it. When it was carefully laid out upon his desk, Bond retrieved a small leather pouch from a drawer. Inside were cleaning supplies and a soft, well-oiled rag used to clean the weapon.
As he worked, Bond poured himself a stiff drink of bourbon. Liquor, naturally, was off limits while on duty. A rule that had been passed, much to Bond's dismay, while he was on assignment in Jamaica. Undeterred, Bond kept a secret stock in his bottom drawer for times such as this. To hell with all the rules - he was a bloody assassin! Did they want him to take up knitting? Or possibly painting? He would keep his own vices, thank you very much! He hoped that this little demonstration - he stopped short of calling it an uproar - would make it clear exactly how he felt about all this 'healthy-mind, healthy service' mumbo-jumbo.
When his smoke was extinguished, his drink consumed, and his gun reassembled, Bond pulled the piece of paper out of the typewriter with a 'zip!' He carefully proof-read his work before folding it and placing it in the manilla envelope the Psych people had provided. On his way out of the office, he stopped at his secretary's desk, Miss Ponsomby, and dropped the envelope into her 'out' tray.
"Read this through, would you Lil? And see it gets to Psych for evaluation."
She looked at him with a mixture of longing and contempt, but then conceded a smile.
"Off for the weekend, James?"
"Maybe for good," Bond snorted, tapping his finger on the envelope. He waved a care-free goodbye and pushed the down button on the elevator.
"I'll be at Bilotti's - the Italian restuaruant on 9th," he called out. "If you should want to go over my Psych assignment, that is."
Lillian Ponsomby waved goodbye as the elevator doors closed, and then pulled the folded piece of paper out of the manilla envelope. The first thing she noticed while unfolding it was the wretched state of the paper. What had he been doing - working on his auto? There were a smattering of smudgemarks, fingerprints, of what looked like oil on either side of the page. In the top right corner was a ring - the kind made by a wet glass. She sniffed it and gasped. It smelled like whiskey! Worst of all were the ashes that had been left inside the paper - it was as if he put a cigarette out on an official document! Shaking her head in astonishment, Miss Ponsomby read the few lines of type in the center of the page and gasped once more.
15 MINUTES
by J. Bond
To do list:
1. Smoke
2. Drink
3. Clean gun
4. Make love