John Manziel, Master of Espionage and Disguise

Dawn breaks on the private atoll off a secluded Hawaiian beach. The quarterback goes through all the old drill routines: simulated pocket dropbacks in the surf, five dozen tight spirals at a medium palm tree. Finishes with a few forty yard sprints and a fresh guava juice chased by a small coffee. He’s ready to meet.

Underground, a bunker conference room, half-hour later.

“We need you at your best for this reception,” said the murky CIA handler.

“Tell me,” he says.

“We need intel. The baroness probably has it. Your secondary mission is to implant the tracking device on the Exxon exec.”

“I got it.”

“Great. We’ll send you down to Wardrobe next.”

“No need. This part, I take care of on my own.”

A few hours later and the man is ready to infiltrate the party.

Five minutes in, and she’s on him already.

“What is your name?” asked the Sudanese baroness.

“Lovell Lyett. I am an alt-country musician,” he replied suavely. He calculated the worth of her sapphire earrings and when she dropped her purse he had retrieved valuable state secrets from her phone via his Bluetooth rapid-magnet extractor (a valuable invention from Uncle Nate, his very own Q) along with €54,000 from various unmarked Paypal accounts used for etsy purchases.

He fades into the party, flitting around the edges, his massive shoes cutting a graceful swath through the floor like a Baroque dancer of yore. Afterward, sipping Hawaiian teas or mineral water, always watching.

Half-hour later, across the ballroom.

“You look familiar!” shouts the belligerent oil tycoon from Texas.

Panic flashes briefly in the spy’s stomach, that worst fear: recognition. This man came from his old circles. Could he have been found out?

“Yeah, I know you. You was in one of them old BOND MOVIES. You’re IN-VEEN-SEE-BELL!”

Secretly breathes a sigh of relief. As the man chortles he deftly inserts a microscopic tracing device within the florid folds of his jowls.

“Yes, it’s me. Boris. I am INVEENSEEBEL!” John mimics, smiling, and pats the man on the back and walks away.

One last task remains: the obligatory Instagram cameo. He slips out the side catering entrance, finds a willing participant. A quick pose and then it’s away to the beach and the hovercraft.

Mission accomplished. Until the next crisis arises.