A man in a small red sports car squeals around the corner of an otherwise busy street, and screaches to a halt in front of a building with revolving doors at its entrance.

The man hurriedly gets out of his car and rushes through the revolving doors, through which he finds himself spat out on the sidewalk again.

With a look of momentary self-loathing and self-recrimination for having done something so stupid, punctuated by both fists striking downward in the empty air...

Then the man makes another mad dash through the revolving doors. This time not being spun back around.

The man takes a special set of stairs, with a broad red line running down through its middle, and proceeds to the first of several automatically opening heavy doors...

Until he ends up stepping into a lone telephone booth, after which the man dials a special number, then turns around with his arms crossed over his slender chest...

After which, in an instant, he dropped through the tricked out bottom of said telephone booth, to end up in the subterrainean, multi sub-floor headquarters of CONTROL.

The man's name, as if no one could've guessed by now, was Maxwell Smart: Agent 86.

Not the brightest tool in the shed, but the only one willing to work for below minimum wage currently paid to active agents of CONTROL.

Moments later, Smart stepped through another automatically opening door, with a wood grain finish, so as to place him inside the office of the Chief of CONTROL.

"Good morning, Chief," cheerfully, and a little idiotically, greeted Smart as he stepped through the automatically opening, then closing, single bulletproof, and bomb-proof, faux wood grain, single door.

"Oh, good morning, 86," absently said, in return, the Chief of CONTROL to someone who considers himself to be the number one CONTROL agent. How wrong he was...

"What's the KAOS-created anti-goodness, pro-evil act against the United States and her allies?" asked Smart, even as he sat down in the chair directly in front of the Chief's desk, crossed his legs at the knees, took out a cigarette from the metal box of same on the Chief's desktop, placed it in his mouth and lit it with a lighter Maxwell Smart carried in his coat pocket.

"We've gotten word," began the Chief, while looking over the paperwork from the open file situated upon his neat-as-a-pin desk, "that KAOS has located one of their many recruiting centers in the back of a bakery that specializes in chocolate fudge.

"Chocolate fudge," repeated, somewhat stupidly, Agent 86. "Imagine that. Not only is KAOS threatening our freedom, they're contributing to fatness and the onset of adult diabetes. Diabolical, Chief."

For a brief instant, the Chief of CONTROL tightly closed his eyes, whilst pinching the bridge of his nose, both designed to stop the headache he was about to have, and one which he always seemed to have, because of this singular agent of CONTROL.

"What're we doing, Chief?" continued Smart, as if the Chief had no adverse reaction to him at all. "Pulling together a group of heavily armed, and armored, agents to rush the bakery, with me on point, until every last anti-American agent was laying dead and bloody upon the floor?"

"No, 86, not quite."

"How about a small group of well-dressed agents, entering the bakery and making a large order of donuts and fudge, but then paying for it with specially marked bills with which we could track down the whereabouts of their top agents, so we can arrest them later?"

"No, 86," the Chief sighed, as he tightly closed his eyes and pinched his nose again.

"Would you believe," wound down Maxwell Smart, as his idiocy stood out once again, "me going in to get a couple of dozen donuts and fudge for us to nibble on while making up some sort of counter-intelligence plan to be put into action at some later date?"

This time, the Chief of CONTROL not only tightly closed his eyes and pinched his nose, he took a bottle of anti-headache pills from the top drawer of his desk, and quickly placed one in his mouth to be washed down by a hastily poured glass of water.

"Headache, Chief?"