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The Rover 75 slammed into his designated carpark deep in the bowels of the building with barely controlled anger and a metallic scrape as paint redistributed itself on the nearest concrete pylon. He had just been about to have a monumentally enjoyable threesome with a pair of nubile lynx girls when his mobile went off in mid foreplay. It had taken some work to get the girls to let him go, and he still had a few bleeding scratches from where Gretchen had gotten her claws caught in his sheath as he tried to extricate himself with noncommittal mumblings about an emergency at work.

The stallion grunted at that thought. Damned if he was letting that one go. He had a mind to file an incident report with the fucking OH&S department.

Nature of Injury.....scratched sheath, blue balls from loss of orgy

Extent...fucking serious

Root cause analysis...don't interrupt my root you pillocks.

The pleasure from contemplating an explosion from the bureaucratic fucktards on level 6 lasted only until he realised the brain dead fun police would probably take it seriously and he would end up in a sixteen hour meeting brainstorming ways to avoid blue ball injuries in future. Probably with focus groups writing their ideas on post it notes before workshopping each other's ideas for a sheath injury prevention drive culminating in fucking trust exercises with rope and blindfolds.

He could think of a few exercises he might like to engage in with ropes and blindfolds involving the sixth floor but they might not be up to organisational policies and standards as updated in general code 117.43 (revised) 2014. In triplifuckingcate.

Everything had a policy now, generally fifty seven closely typed pages in Helvetica 9 point font (yes, there was another policy that specified that too). Like his car for instance. Once he had driven an Aston Martin. That was a car.

Now he had a Rover 75. That wasn't just wrong; it was sacrilege. It was even second hand. And beige.

Less conspicuous...and better value per annualised kilometres used or some such spreadsheeted waffle. All he knew was he could barely even get a hardon when he drove it. He even had to rent a fucking Astra from Hertz just to fuck an average looking filly from the records office in the backseat lest he be in danger of not getting it up. The horror....the horror...

"Identity check sir"

"Wha...?"

"identity check...sir."

"You know who the fuck I am Reynolds"

"I know sir but...new procedure and all. You need to speak into the mic, voiceprints and all. Really sexy, honest."

"Fine...fuck it."

"Sir?"

*sigh*

He was standing before the main door of his building leading from the carpark, with a short line of impatient furs waiting behind. He ignored them though. He was the star here, not some fucking finance analyst otter from Croydon with a bad combover.

"Identity confirmation request"

The machine gave a sort of stuttering sound and an electronic voice lisped out of the speaker.

"Request understood. Please state name and employee number."

"Colt, Stud Colt, number three five eight two two."

There was a moment's pause, before the computer made up its mind.

"Welcome to MI6 Mr Colt. Have a nice day."

The bull on security waved him through then, a dumb smile crossing his muzzle.

"Have a nice day sir...try not to kill anyone today, at least not the ones that aren't like supposed to be..."

He smiled back but his eyes did not smile.

Fuck, it was only that one time. Well, there were those six passengers on the tube at Kings Cross but they were more like collateral damage...

And ...I guess the busload of nuns in Catalonia...

With these unsettling thoughts in his mind, the weary secret agent headed for the restricted lift and a meeting on level 9 with his boss and nemesis, a cold hearted wolfess who hated his guts and most of the rest of his body as well. Some days he really hated his job.

At least there would be a pitcher of martinis in his office to soothe the pain; and he ran out of Vermouth a week ago.