"Good morning. You're applying for our Security Director position; may I ask how you heard about us?"

"A contact."

"I see...fine. Then let's go over some of the points on your resume, shall we?."

"Of course."

"You have some rather specialized job skills: Hand guns, automatic weapons, martial arts; twelve languages; computers. Interesting. I don't see the name of your last employer listed..."

"No."

"And there seems to be quite a gap between this application and your last salaried position."

"Yes."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"No."

"Well, thank you for coming in; we'll let you know. Bye now."

“Ready to order?” She balanced her notepad on her forearm and pulled the pen from behind her ear.

“Toast. Lots of butter.” Barely sparing her a glance, the customer thrust the menu at her. She took it and left the table with a sigh.

Compared to this, things had been platinum in Section. The guys had liked her. Seymour had almost loved her, until she’d screwed it up. The grass isn’t greener, she thought miserably.

As the cook took her order, he said, “Geez, Gail, you look like you just swallowed a rubber boot. What’s wrong?”

“My whole life,” she whispered.

Madeline was calm. The interview was going very well. This was going to be a job in which she could excel. The personnel director was all smiles as he stood and escorted her to the door.

“Well, my dear, we are happy to have you here. I’m sure you will do well in Human Resources.” The hand on the small of Madeline’s back moved south to caress her derriere.

The whimper from the man on the floor sounded loud in the quiet office. “Don’t EVER touch me again.” Madeline smiled and left the office.

Grease. Oil. Good old-fashioned chrome and rubber. Rainbow colors of metallic paint... eye candy for the entrepreneur.

Walter wended his way through the shiny new bikes, caressing a seat here, a fender there. Nortons, Harleys... classics from bygone decades... new Yamahas, Suzukis... future classics-to-be. He breathed deeply, savoring the smell of new rubber.

A young man approached him, disdain for his customer's older appearance apparent. Walter smiled. Why did these wet-behind-the-ears kids always have that "what-could-this-guy-possibly-want" attitude?

"Can I help you? Sir?"

"Yeah. I'm the best bike mechanic you ever met. Thought you might be looking for a shop manager."

“Ordering!”

He grabbed the slip hanging from the carousel. Two eggs, over easy, side of hash browns, bacon, and sausage.

He cracked two eggs onto the grill. “Ordering!” a voice shouted. Tuna melt, rye, tomatoes. Turning back to the grill, his eggs perfect, bacon sizzling, and the potatoes were crisp. “Order up!” he yelled as he slammed the plate on the pass through, then turned back to finish the melt.

The crowd thinned, and the cook slipped outside for a cigarette.

Nothing beat the symphony of a smooth breakfast shift. Not even running the most covert organization on the planet.

#1 *Based on what could be a true story...*

“Have you tried rebooting?”

“What do you mean it won’t let… oh, never mind, I’ll be right down.” Popping a couple M&Ms in his mouth Seymour made his way to the elevator and down to the 12th floor. Within a couple of minutes he found himself before the malfunctioning computer. Less than thirty seconds later he had identified the problem. It was unplugged.

“Art directors!” he thought disdainfully.

It was his third week in the I.T. department of a large advertising agency and he was just about ready to blow something up in hopes of getting his old job back.

#2

It was Saturday night and once again the club was packed, it’s patrons gyrating at a feverish pace to the pulsing music. Excitement, and a touch of nervous energy flowed through the man’s veins, though it couldn’t be detected in his cool, calm demeanor.

Familiar music began to play; it was time. Taking a deep breath he adjusted his sunglasses and walked out onto the stage and began moving in time to the music. Who would have thought that a former anti-terrorist agent could find happiness as a Chippendale Dancer.

As his clothes came off, the women chanted, “Mi-chael! Mi-chael!”

#1

“Sometimes I wish somebody’d make my decisions for me. Be a hell of a lot easier that way.”

He had foolishly said that, wishing for a different life. He’d gotten what he’d wished for when his newly found twin brother died and he was forced to replace him.

The boredom of his previous existence had never looked so appealing as it did after a few months in Section.

When Section’s services had no longer been needed and most everyone released, he nearly wept with relief.

Eagerly, he went back to corporate America and never again wished for someone else’s life.

#2

“So, what do you think Nik?”

“Nikita,” She corrected him automatically even though anybody had yet to listen. She then gave her opinion and suggested some modifications for more credibility.

Papers in hand, the assistant shoved off, wondering at the new chick’s infinite knowledge.

Nikita had tried her hand in several different fields but she wasn’t comfortable in any of them.

Then, one Sunday evening she happened to turn on the TV to find a most unrealistic spy show. Astonished at the sheer implausibility, she knew what she had to do.

Two weeks later she was their new special consultant.

“It might take you awhile to get the hang of the house style. Headlines need to grab the reader -- find the hook in the story and use the most powerful language you can without getting sued.”

I need to stop rolling my eyes if I want this job.

Black Helicopters Destroyed My Village, Cries Lone Survivor

Super Secret Agency Listens To Every Move We Make

Government Developing Army Of Clone Warriors

I Was A Sex Slave For FBI

Writing headlines for the Enquirer will be a piece of cake.

He sat, staring at the files spread on the desk. The victims were all children. How he despised predators of defenseless. His mind methodically examined and discarded possible profiles of the killer.

Inside the front doors of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime at Quantico, he watched the woman approach. She held the hand of a young boy. An adorable baby rode on her hip. They saw him. His beautiful wife smiled with obvious love. His son yelled, "Daddy!" startling passersby. His daughter reached out with chubby hands. Michael stepped into the light and embraced his family.