Upon entering his office, Brent Filmore saw a small neatly folded piece of paper on the floor. Instantly his rapid thinking and his keen investigators senses did not pay attention to it, until the said piece of paper placed itself under the Second Chief in Command's shoe and sent him flailing into the air.
As Mr. Filmore opened his eyes, he noticed something fluttering down from above, and realized that it was a small neatly folded piece of paper, which landed softly on his protuberant stomach. The First Chief's Second looked at it quizzically, then grabbed it, unfolded it and read it:
Dear Second in Chief Brent Filmore,
I learned from our local Little Shire weekly of your desire for information on me, so as to eventually deduce my whereabouts in an end to contact me for a possible position for I.A.M., and It is with great regret that I must turn down your invitation and possible post, for I am at the very moment of writing theses lines fighting for my life, you may wonder why I would write this message in such extreme circumstances. It turned out that at the time of deciding to write to you, I realized I had run out of paper and that my pen was out ink, so I took the liberty of borrowing my neighbor's pen and a scrap of paper. I tried to make him understand but his dog Willy, turned a deaf ear to my logical arguments, and for the moment seems to be taking pleasure in biting me. Yet I obviously cannot leave before finishing this message, otherwise I am sure my neighbor would think me a thief for running away with his pen.
I am sure you understand why I cannot join the Agency at this moment, perhaps once things have calmed down I will reconsider your offer.
In the meantime I will forward you a few manuscripts a friend of mine has been working on, I am sure you will enjoy them greatly, for they are all about me and my exploits.
In all fairness