Frank sits at a small, plastic desk, probably refurbished after twenty generations of first graders had drooled and scribbled and stuck their gum on the bottom, and adjusts his reading glasses so he can determine which of those little bastard bubbles was number seventy-four, A. Oh, the indignity of having to take a test, when all the State of California had to do was pull up his record, his commendations, his years of meritorious service to its people, and it would be obvious that they should simply hand him his Private Investigator's license, thank him, and have him on his way.

He looks up at the clock on the wall, and plods his way through the next...he looks at the last page of the dull gray, recycled booklet, then sighs...hundred and twenty-five questions. "Bullshit," he mumbles.