Spy moves nonchalantly through the hotel lobby, pursuing the target, a smartly dressed man in oversized glasses. He follows the target into an elevator. He taps the button for a floor three higher than the target. Nonchalant.
His stomach gurgles loudly.
The target looks over at him. The spy acknowledges the man with a slight nod of the head.
His stomach gurgles again, loudly.
The spy turns pale. He grips the brass railing on the wall of the elevator, presses his head into the oak panel.
The elevator reaches the target’s floor. The door closes behind the target. The spy lunges for the button for the very next floor.
Spy (breathlessly): Hurry, hurry, hurry.
The door opens. He rushes into the hallway, and uses a tiny laser emitted by his phone to burn out the lock on the first room he comes to. He dashes into the bathroom.
Spy is locked in hand-to-hand combat with a henchman whose scarred lips turn up in an eternal sneer. His distinctive injuries have earned him the name “Grimace”, a name which he does not realize infringes on a copyright held by MacDonald’s. Grimace knees the spy in the stomach.
Spy: Holy jeez. I’m about to explode. Do not do that again. We’ll both regret it. Honestly.
Grimace nods and goes back to choking the spy. Spy looks relieved.
Explaining his situation to a newfound accomplice.
Spy: At this altitude I can stagger to a toilet 3 steps at a time flat out before my legs start shaking.
The spy, in a crowded banquet hall, flirts with an attractive woman whose locket contains the launch codes.
Spy: Oh, good. I was hoping to get a nibble.
Woman: How about a bite?
The spy grabs an elaborate shrimp hors d’oeuvre from a passing waiter and offers it to the woman.
Spy: You first.
Woman: That’s how I like it.
He feeds her the morsel. She grabs an hors d’oeuvre from another plate. Holds it out to him.
Woman: Now you.
Spy (scrutinizing the contents of the cracker): Oooh. Cheese. I’ve got a whole history with dairy, and it will not be good. Is there another one of those shrimp ones? That looked good. Seriously. I’ll be . . . occupied for quite a while.
Woman looks disgusted. Spy shrugs.
Spy (talking to someone over his ear-piece): I’m worried that it might be physiological, or some kind of chronic disease. Just because it’s been so consistent. And I have various pains in my stomach and abdomen.
But then I think, what if it’s psychological? I’m under kind of a lot of stress. And previously it was my body saying, get this out of me, and that seems fear based. Like fight or flight.
But now I’m having a hard time making it happen. So it’s gone the other way. And that seems like, I don’t know, like I’m psychologically clenching and holding on to it. I do a lot of holding things in and pretending, and I wonder if my body is responding to that. My body is getting the message and doesn’t want to let go. Does this make any sense?
T (the technical advisor): I called to explain how the embeddable nano-tracker worked.
Spy: Right, but I thought we had a deeper relationship than that.
T: Do you want to know how it works?
Spy makes faces mocking him during the explanation, and ends the call curtly as soon as T is finished.
Spy, on the toilet, finds and then texts a picture of the MacDonald’s character “Grimace” to the henchman. The spy shakes his head, smirks.
Spy enters the grocery store and approaches a clerk.
Spy: Do you guys carry really strong laxatives?
Clerk: Aisle 9.
Spy: Thanks, my wife is really constipated.
Clerk does not seem to realize laxatives are for the spy’s personal constipation. Spy suppresses a smug smile. He’s at the top of his game.