After a few minutes of sitting in the waiting room, Darren knew that once again, he was fooling himself; he WAS nervous. The hand that was holding the second, puny roll-up to his mouth was shaking; he could not bring himself to flick through the lavish, glossy leaflets in front of him, on the table which was screwed to the floor. The leaflets all promised him a varied, exciting future, if only he had the wherewithal to decisively reach for it.

He allowed his eyes to scan the other clients whose place preceded him in the queue, who slouched disconsolately in the chairs that shared his table (likewise, these were also, firmly screwed into the floor). They were a sorry bunch, he decided, all the spirit leeched out of them, somehow. They all looked tired and bored, flabby somehow, all with that interminable air of seediness that Unproductables all seemed to acquire, after a given period of time. They smelt none too clean either, he reflected, taking some small pride in the fact that that his clothes, shabby as they might be by now, were at least, recently washed.

A young woman approached their little group; tastefully attired, immaculately groomed, she smiled at them, revealing perfect teeth and dimples as she consulted her clipboard.

'Mr. Evans!' she called. 'Come with me. Your interview will be in Cubicle 2.'

Mr. Evans got up to obey his summons, a large, bovine looking character who had, Darren thought, a definite weight problem. He wondered what this particular company would make of that. Surely, it would have to mean 'Intensive Help,' at least.

Darren found as the queue in front of him continued to dwindle, that his state of mind was not improving. Butterflies gnawed at his stomach, turning to waves of nausea, despite the fact that as far as he knew, they might not want to do much with him, at what was only his first in- depth interview.

The thought did not reassure him. He had heard too many tales about what was liable to happen at interviews such as these, and he suspected that these tales were far from exaggerated. He was not at all sure that he was necessarily sick and in need of help, his Unproductive status notwithstanding. Yet he knew that this might not prevent some of the excesses of A-Met's practises towards clients such as himself, even though his closest buddies had often told him that he was too much of a worrier when it came to matters such as these, paranoid even.

But as the old adage went, just because you are paranoid, doesn't mean they aren't out to get you. The new methods that A-Met had developed in order to deal with people such as himself, were reputed to be unorthodox, to say the least. Once the Employment Service had been liquidated, the door had been left open to its take-over by private companies such as Amalgamated Metropolitan. This was the body which had first taken the spirit of the times to its logical extremes, in this case, finally producing an unholy alliance between the New Right (formerly known as the New Left, confusing to Darren, at least) and Applied Radical Therapy, including Neo-Reichian techniques. This, amongst other measures designed to bring a revolving surplus of labor force into the sweatshops. The evils of inequality and underclass, were to be eradicated once and for all. Work, it was said, would set you free. We all created, and were responsible for our own reality. The New Age had dawned, hallelujah.

Darren could remember an old friend of his from school, who had been one of the dropouts of the mid-nineties, before the Clampdown. A wild character of bangles and dreadlocks, Darren knew that he had been targeted for Intensive Counselling, by a similar body to A-Met. Later, Darren had seen the former rebel again, working a seven-day week in a fast-food chain. The dreadlocks had been shorn, the bangles replaced by one of the 22 official State-approved haircuts and uniforms, his eyes...

Darren shivered and held his arms protectively around himself, his body and his spirit, as yet so preciously inviolate. Those eyes in the end, had been so empty...

'Mr. Croft.' Darren's attention snapped to being fully alert, as he realized with a sinking feeling, that his time had come. The girl approached him with benevolent smile, which could have been totally for him. Like an air hostess, the total pro, he thought. So chocolate-box, yet you could sense the underlying steel... 'You will be seen in Cubicle One, Mr. Croft. Just follow me.' (That nice smile again.) 'You can easily get lost in this building, I know.'

Darren followed the girl obediently through a labyrinthine series of stairs and steps. This was symptomatic again, he thought. The government cutting back, by keeping functional, inner-city monstrosities such as these, like rotting teeth which somehow never got to be culled. We have the very best for you, Mr. Croft. Yet, he mused, it was funny, how the Mickey-mouse ersatz jobs these schemes created, seemed to capitalise so little on the skills of their workforce and to be so inefficiently-run, yet somehow seemed to be so insidiously efficient that somehow or other, they always 'got' you in the end.

'Your first time isn't it,' said the girl, facing him briefly. Her eyes appeared to miss nothing. Actually she was not a girl, Darren recognized. She could be in her forties - easily. The anti-wrinkle creams had done a lot of good on what was still an unlined face, but there was a muskiness about her, a solidity that only the gravity of Time could have lent. The hair was cut in an auburn mob square to her rather determined jaw, and Darren could see that underneath the clinical gown, she was wearing a black PVC suit; the recognized badge of those who considered themselves to be genitally adapted (which was sure to mean bad news for him, he thought). Darren looked at the name on the badge she wore on her lapel, which gave her name as Deanna Rudd. Somehow, the sinking feeling returned.

Finally, they reached their destination. Deanna Rudd produced a small key, and motioned Darren into the room, to behind a small screen, which masked a shower unit.

Just pop behind there and undress, Mr. Croft. I'm going to get your notes, and will be with you in a minute.' Darren entered the room, then heard the key in the lock behind him.

Minutes later he had undressed, and found once again, that his nervousness was still with him. What was keeping the woman now? The floor underneath him was cold, and beginning to freeze the soles of his feet. A bar of strip lighting in the middle of the room, hummed incessantly over what looked like a dentist's chair in the middle of the room, its ruthless glare hurting his eyes.

Then footsteps came down the corridor, and he heard the sound of the key in the lock again. Deanna Rudd re-rentered, bringing he saw, a younger woman with him. She introduced the latter to Darren, explaining that she was a student counsellor, and could she watch the interview.

Of course he gave his full consent, Darren said, hoping that this might display a co-operative attitude, and therefore count in his favor. Deanna Rudd then motioned him to lie on the couch, face up.

Darren Croft had been weighed and checked for all his vital signs once he had first made a claim for Sustenance when he had been made redundant from his last job, which meant that the interview could proceed to the preliminary examination. Deanna Rudd started to palpate his chest, abdomen and thighs with sensitive, but firm and practised hands. Most of the comments at this stage were directed at the student rather than at him, though he recognized some of the jargon.

'Depressed sternum. Weak musculature, with a general lack of tone in the torso. You will be required to focus on the oral type especially, during your finals, as these people more than any other character type, tend to expect the State to look after them.'

Thanks for that, thought Darren bitterly as the woman continued the examination. Her hands paused then, as they paid closer attention to his lower abdomen, closer to his groin. Deanna Rudd appeared to be deeply in thought, and had she not been a fully adjusted individual, Darren could have sworn that she was myopic.

'Genitals underdeveloped.' (This time, there was no mistaking the sneer in her voice.) And Deanna Rudd went on: 'But I detected an element of a masochistic sub-pattern in this character structure, too. Can you sit up please, Mr. Croft?'

Darren sat on the couch, as Deanna Rudd put her hands on his shoulders, and brought her face closer to his. Her expression, Darren Croft noticed, was one of a smothering, benevolent concern.

'Well, Mr. Croft,' she began. 'You have not worked for over a year now, and I know that you will naturally want to get well. Do you volunteer for immediate treatment?'

Of course, Mr. Croft volunteered. It was in any case, he knew, a rhetorical question. He knew that were he to refuse, he would immediately lose all entitlement to benefit, and subsequently face destitution, and then, in extreme cases, liquidation. Of course he wanted to participate fully in his treatment, continue to claim Sustenance, and hopefully, eventually find work.

Deanna Rudd then ordered Darren to lie spread-eagled against the coach. The student, he noticed, had retreated, her notebook and pencil ready.

'Relax now,' she told Darren, as she ran her hands down his back, his pelvis. A warm feeling spread to his groin. Deanna Rudd turned to snap on a pair of latex gloves. The massage continued, a soothing oil being poured onto the small of his back, the crevice between his buttocks.

Suddenly, with a vicious thrust of her fist, Deanna Rudd forced three of her fingers into his rectum, causing a sudden twist of agony. With rising panic, he turned his head to face her as she stood astride him, her hand thrusting into protesting entrails. With her other hand, the weight of her body, she managed to effectively restrain him, as his body thrashed, and arched. She was clearly extraordinarily strong, realized Darren; she had to be working out, or was on steroids to be able to do that. No doubt, she had week oral types like himself for breakfast, every day.

Her eyes were glassy as she bent over him, only panting a little, with a fixed expression of anger and triumph. Her white coat was awry, revealing the well-fed and toned body underneath, filling out the tight body-suit underneath.

'I am going to make you WORK!' she declared. 'By the time you leave this building, you WILL be job-ready! You haven't applied for a job in the last six months... Have you?

A distant part of Darren's brain remembered then. These particular counsellors believed that a refusal to work - or what they construed as a refusal to work - was often due to an actual, physical holding-back within the body. The body itself, had to be kick-started back into a state of productivity. Do your jobbies.

'I will purge you of your negativity!' enjoined the counsellor. She thankfully removed his hand then, but not before introducing something within, that felt cold and hard with the other hand. Deanna Rudd was going to give him an enema. 'JESUS', he moaned through his teeth. Since when had THIS been part of routine practise at these bloody interviews? So much for being a paranoid worrier. Why hadn't his best friends warned him?

The trouble was, the truly sick thing about this, Darren realized, was that this body of his, this traitor of a body, was actually responding sexually to this vile treatment. Rather than going into deep shock at the trauma and the humiliation of it all, he was actually getting a kick out of this.

Unfortunately, Deanna Rudd could see what was happening too: this was clearly not the time to analyze his reactions. As she fastidiously removed her latex gloves in the basin, she turned and saw his erection.

She hit him in the abdomen, and he doubled up. Then she pulled his hair and slapped him, hard. There was considerable power in her punches too, Darren felt. He heard the student bite back a suppressed giggle.

'You are not supposed to feel any pleasure!' screamed the counsellor. 'You are here to develop a work ethic!' Then, Darren Croft felt an uncontrollable spasm in his gut, and he knew the inevitable was about to happen. Somehow, he knew that a civilized retreat to a discreet water closet was not on the agenda, within this interview. As he lost control of his bowels, he wondered briefly if the stink in his own nostrils, smelt as foetid to Ms. Rudd as it did to him. His mind idly pondered the logistics of issues to do with the prevention of outbreaks of infectious diseases through interviews such as these, as his own effluvia dripped from his thighs to the tiled floor below.

He was not to wonder for long. Deanna Rudd motioned to the student, who vanished briefly, only to return with an old-fashioned mop and bowl, filled with hot water and disinfectant.

'On your knees, Mr. Croft,' Deanna Rudd told him, 'Now you have an excellent opportunity in which to begin to take responsibility for the mess you insist on creating for yourself.'

Darren was beginning to learn some measure of humility. On his knees therefore, he assiduously scrubbed and cleaned, ever watchful of the double pair of black boots that were stationed just outside his reach. At one point, the student kicked him with considerable force, into his kidneys. Learning the tricks of the trade, Darren realized. Surprisingly though, she was admonished by her superior.

'That's enough, Ms. Severin. Mr. Croft is learning his lessons, now.' Eventually, the counsellor asked Darren Croft to stand up. He did so, feeling vulnerable, all too aware of the uncleanness that still remained on the backs of his legs. The counsellor's hands were on his shoulders once more. The clinical coat properly reassembled now, the expression she wore now was full of wise, benevolent concern as her eyes met his, and held them.

'Well, Mr. Croft,' she said. 'I have made considerable impact on your negativity during the course of this session with you, as I am sure you can see for yourself.

'However... Darren steeled himself for what was to come next... Your sickness is a particularly stubborn one, and I would like to opportunity to be able to work on your particular shortcomings, a lot more extensively. I believe therefore, that you will benefit especially (now, Darren could almost hear the capitals) from Intensive Therapy. You will be required to attend one of our internal workshops for an indefinite period of time. Our computer will notify you of your coming appointment, shortly. Failure to attend without due cause...

'Oh no. NO!!!!' Darren cringed within himself. So this was where being compliant and co-operative got him! Maybe he should have tried to resist Ms. Rudd, or screamed for help. But really, he knew that neither move could possibly have helped, not with an organization like A-Met. The entire place was doubtless bugged to the last inch, to secure against attacks on staff by desperate men and women, the entire place almost certainly, crawling with reinforcements, in case these interviews went wrong for the staff.

He cringed then, as a jet of steaming hot water caught him: the student was hosing him down. She was enjoying this too, he thought wretchedly, as he noted the mocking expression on her face.

Unfortunately, he realized, so again, too, was he. The warm feeling was returning to his groin, and he knew that he was fooling himself yet again: he WANTED this! Deanna Rudd really was an incredibly perceptive counsellor, he saw, she had certainly been absolutely right about him. A masochistic pattern indeed. Wahey….

It was all incredibly humiliating of course and degrading: no sane man should have to go through this, in a so-called civilized society. In his mind's eye, he could hear the compassionate voices of the old-fashioned liberals and humanitarians of his heyday, those who had deplored the Rationalist ethos, that to be a Victim was Criminal.

Yet this humanitarian voice seemed to become puny in his own ears, then mocking. This was retrograde thinking indeed, and pathological, coming from one such as he. No - he had to transcend all this. Darren Croft was indeed a sick man, A-Met had demonstrated this to him thoroughly enough, this day. He needed help, and he had to get well, and now he was getting that help. After all, at least A-Met were prepared to take the time with him, which meant that at least they still considered him to be salvageable as an economic unit, otherwise they may well have started on his brain rather than his rectum. Maybe therefore, they did NOT consider him to be mere fast-food food chain fodder (he hoped).

There could be no pain, no gain, Darren told himself yet again as yet another jet of scalding water hit him in the groin, teasing him. There really was, no alternative.