The first mission I ever got was a complete crock. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t blame the agency (much), and would’ve done the same in their shoes, but being in my shoes? Man. Just get a load of this nonsense:

• mission: infiltrate a highly sensitive finance office; gather intel on recent disappearances of three, high-profile VPs
• parameters: time is of the essence as lives may be at stake
• cover: new guard on C-level detail, former special forces, quiet type

Sounds exciting, right?

First of all, day 1, my cover’s blown. DAY ONE. I’m in the middle of orientation when one of the missing guys walks right in. Just plain as frickin day, lah dee dah. He’s got a Starbucks frappa-whatever in his hand too. Complete garbage. I’m so confused, I walk right up to him and ask who he is, and he goes ‘Jonathan Fraser,’ and I’m like ‘Aren’t you…missing? There are a lot of people looking for you…’

Well, if I didn’t say the magic word. He’s cracking up to the point of tears. “The hell’s so funny?” I ask without shame.

Amidst laughter, he asks “Who–ha, ha–who sent you? Was it J-joan? Oh lord, this is rich!”

Pompous ass. I’m neck-deep in paperwork, pretending to be Johnny Appleseed, and he’s walking around the world in broad day light? I turn to my orientation officer, who at this point is about to call security on me, and say ‘I quit.’ And I walk out.

I head to a pub and get a pint to clear my head, and it dawns on me that I’ve completely blown my cover. Pulling out my phone, I try to come up with a Plan B. Luckily, there’s an office across the street who’s got openings for facilities folk. Figure I’ll get visibility from the top-floors, take photos, and get stateside.

Fast-forward a day, I’m set with my gig and picked up some binoculars. I stow away in a closet until dark and get to work. Across the street, like a birthday present, all three of the men are in an office together. I don’t have the best view, but they’re opening boxes and passing bags around. I wonder if it’s narcotics, and then I see guns; look like SMGs.

In minutes, I’m at the back of their building in stealth gear. Placing a sonic slicer on the stairwell deadblot, I punch a blue button to rotate the pins. I head up.

I can see their shadows break the light spilling into the hall. Sweat on my brow, I creep closer to get an angle. Suddenly, they flip on lights and head into the hall. Walking away, I’m unseen as a I dart behind a door, but see their holding the boxes and guns. And wouldn’t you know it? They’re paintball guns.

I spend the next 3 days listening to bugs I’d planted, of the thrills of their extended ‘guys weekend’ they’d taken without telling their wives. No mob, drug trafficking, or international espionage. No press conference where I get a medal and a pic with Uncle Sam. Just paintball and gambling. Garbage.

And I get it, you give the joke mission to the new guy cause if he screws it up (like I did), it’s not the end of days. But come on… I mean, not even real guns???