To the normal onlooker, I was but a shadow under the glare of the sodium-vapor lamp. My objective: to steal the recipe for the ARA’s chili for Her Majesty’s Secret Service to use in the War on Constipated Diarrhea.

I slithered along the brick outside wall of the Union, right there in that the narrow corridor between the Union and Mees. Suddenly, a foul stench streaked into my nostrils. It was a pungent aroma, one that my spy senses had not graced me with since I had lived in Goa. I tried to hold my breath, but it was too late; the foul aroma had already permeated my pores. I could taste the foulness in my mouth.

It was all I could do to keep my lunch in my belly. In the midst of the dry heaves the stench caused, I had one coherent thought; that somebody could see me gyrating against this wall and think some very inappropriate things (Yeah, baby!).

I had to get away from the Eau de ARA as quickly as possible. I took the most logical approach to vacating the area. I flipped up the manhole cover and, like a cat, scaled the side of the ARA using nothing but my überparkour freerunning skills. I leapt off the roof of the building, completing a full quadruple-somersault triple-axel Mohawk before diving through the manhole cover, which spun shut behind me.

I shot down the shaft, and the smell grew hotter on my nostrils, burning, singeing. I could suddenly see the stream of raw, unfettered sewage flowing below me. Oh God, all that poo from all those hard working bums! And I was headed straight for it!

I dug my leather-bound knuckles into the concrete, using the infamous piñata grasp. The leather of my gloves, and soon, the flesh of my fingers, knuckles, and hands, ground off on the concrete that was gliding by. My bloody wrist stubs streaked blood behind me as I hurtled toward the sewage.

Realizing that losing my hands was a stupid thing to do, I aborted the plan and headed straight for plan F. No double-oh agent had ever died a death in such an undignified manner,. We were all killed by laced 1787 Chateau d’Yquem or an exploding Vacheron Constantin or some other outlandish method. No spy had ever succumbed to the overwhelming stench of human feces, and I was not going to be the first.

Using my feet, I stripped off the end of a paper clip, attached it to an Office Depot rubber band, and mixed a little WD-40 with a slightly used band-aid and a chunk of wet toilet paper that I had ground off on my slide down. I was able to make a slick grappling gun/bungee cord combo. Still hurtling toward the sludge, I clipped the device to my belt and launched the rubber band. It caught! My gorgeous business-in-the-front-party-in-the-back hairdo suddenly switched the direction of its hopeless flailing. I was shooting toward the surface!

Fresh air almost greeted my lungs before I slammed skull-first into the manhole cover that had sealed solidly behind me on my way down.

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