The SPECTRE meeting had already begun, even though Number 1, big boss Ernest Stavro Blofeld, wasn't there yet. The other SPECTRE members present, numbered 2-10 and all wearing suits, sat at the steel table, on leather chairs. One chair, at the head of the table, was empty: Blofeld's.
"Alright, Number Seven, you'll be in charge of the assassination of Governor Banton." Number Two, an older man with a British accent said, sliding a file folder across the table to Number Seven. "Those are the details. Now, does anyone have any news on Agent 007?"
"Nope," replied Number Four.
"Nuh uh," mumbled Number Eight.
"No, no news on him at all," Number Ten said. "We have no reason to believe that the British have any clue of any of our on-going operations. Bond isn't on to us yet. That usually only happens when Blofeld shows up and sends everything to..."
The door to the room flew open, and the SPECTRE leaders jumped. Blofeld entered, smelling of fast food and pot.
"Sorry I was late, the traffic was just murder." He laughed to himself, but his face went serious as he realized nobody was laughing with him. "Get it? Murder? Because I killed my driver for insubordination?" He was met with a blank stare by every man in the room, with the exception of Number Nine, who chuckled slightly. "Screw you guys, that was funny." He took his seat at the head of the table.
"I was just telling the others that we have no reports of 007 knowing..." Number Two began, before being cut off by Blofeld.
"Ah, yes, James Bond. I say we try killing him with some sort of poisoned lobster this time around." He paused, before his eyes lit up, and he snapped his fingers and banged on the table. "Ooh! I know! We poison his lobsters! James Bond has lobsters, right?"
There was a brief awkward silence.
"No, sir, I don't think he has any lobsters." Number Five said, slowly.
"Get a few of the boys to find that one out for us, will ya?" Blofeld blurted out suddenly. "Put, say, our entire Scotland division on that. 'How many lobsters does Bond have?' Eh, it's a tough question, better put the French lab on it as well." He leaned back in his chair, satisfied with himself.
"Sir," Number Three, a Frenchman, spoke out, "The French labs are already busy working on biological weapons for the CHAOS Program. You specially ordered the lab to so that. Yesterday."
"I'm bored with that shit, let's do the lobster thing instead!" Blofeld grinned to himself, for reasons that were not obvious or clear to the other members of SPECTRE.
"Sir, with all due respect," Number Two said, "I really don't think we should try to kill Bond." Blofeld appeared confused, and Number Two sighed. "Or his lobsters." Blofeld immediately nodded in understanding with the addition of that last part.
"And why is that, Number Two? Or should I say, Number Poo!"
Number Two blinked in befuddlement momentarily before answering, ignoring Blofeld's wordplay. "Every time we go out to kill Bond, he always finds out something vital about our current plot. I don't know how, but every assassination attempt ends up giving him some important information that he wouldn't have figured out anyway. Sending someone after him now, when he hasn't got a clue about anything, is foolish."
"I don't get it," Blofeld said, with the slow speech of a confused child.
"What happened during Operation Thunderball?"
"I ordered one of our men to kill Bond at a spa."
"And then what happened?"
"Bond stumbled across the evidence of Operation Thunderball."
"And Bond wouldn't have given that much of a shit to look around if we didn't try to kill him. With me so far?"
Blofeld wasn't entirely with him. "Yes," he said.
"So, he ended up ruining Operation Thunderball, and then what happened?"
"I don't really remember a whole lot, but I do recall everyone getting a promotion around that time."
"We all got promotions because Number Two was killed by Bond! That's why I'm Number Two right now! We keep having to move up a number because you keep getting the high-ranking members of SPECTRE killed! How long do you think it takes us to find and train somebody worthy of being the number two man of an elite international terrorist organization?"
"I dunno, three?" Blofeld mumbled.
"Sir, listen to me. I joined SPECTRE as the janitor of this building. Alright? I've been here maybe a week. I should not have been moved up through the ranks so quickly just because you keep sending the higher-ups to their deaths! You've seriously fucked up running things around here if that's what happening!"
Blofeld thought about what Number was saying. He brought his right hand to his chin, and stoked it as he thought. Was he really running SPECTRE so poorly? Should he make better decisions? Was the janitor right? He brought his left hand to his thigh, and then to the switch on the underside of the table. He pressed it, and sent deadly current through the chairs and bodies of the SPECTRE leaders. They twitched and groaned in agony before going still and silent.
"Shit, I was just trying to kill Number Two. This button fucking goes to all the chairs?" He said to himself in amazement and shock. He leaned forward to the phone on the table, and pressed a button on it.
"Mrs. Lee, tell Numbers Eleven through Twenty there's just been an opening."