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No, you’d all be swanning it somewhere else, enjoying the easy life.” He strutted along the line-up, catching his breath. “Youprobably think that having passed your medicals and gotten this far in the selection process, you’ve already made it, with better times to come waiting just around the corner. Nothing could be further from the truth.” He grinned evilly. “And let me tell you: even if I wasn’t paid to do this, I’d volunteer to spend a week torturing shit-bags like you.”
He spat in the face of the first candidate in the line-up, the harshdesert sun bouncing off his mirrored glasses. “What’s your name?”
The current object of his scrutiny answered feebly, body trembling:
“James Henry, but most folk call me – ”
The commando (for that was stencilled on his left breast shirt pocket), a veteran of many a civil action since the Big Scare, punched James Henry in the stomach, doubling him over. A knee to the side of the head finished him off.
“Why were you not listening to me? I just told you: your name is shit-bag!”
James – ‘shit-bag’ – lay still on the hard baked ground. His lips began to turn blue. Concerned, the young female shit-bag standing in line directly behind him knelt down, felt for a pulse. She was very pretty.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you ugly little whore?” the commando screamed. “You don’t move unless I say so.”
The girl flinched under the tirade and flying spittle, but didn’t budge. “He’s not breathing, he needs CPR,” and began to breathe life back into him.
“No one here breathes unless I say so. In fact if breathing wasn’t involuntary, you’d all suffocate!”
The commando stepped closer, almost on top of the girl. He spoke again, his voice quieter, the harshness almost levelled. Something else, something icky and black, took its place. “Obviously you’re not cut out for this line of work.” He looked her over as she continued to work. “I can see though that there are other avenues better suited for you.” He murmured into a collar mike, then, to the other shit-bags, reverted to his usual scream-fest:
“Right, now that Florence Nightingale has decided on a new career avenue, the rest of you can start running. It’s really simple – all you have to do is run straight ahead until I tell you to stop. The first dozen make it through to the next round, which is this afternoon. And don’t think you’re not being watched. You’ve all been radio tagged, and if you do stop – even for one second – you’re out.”
The recruit hopefuls did as they were told, and, not knowing how far or for how long, jogged into the open frying pan ahead, their boots kicking up miniature sand devils.
As the first commando climbed into his jeep, another jeep skidded to a stop next to the remaining shit-bags. Two more figures in military fatigues jumped out. One, a male in a crisply pressed uniform, creases razor straight, addressed the female shit-bag:
“You’re wasting your breath,” he said, brushing red dust off his trouser cuffs. “He’s out of the program. He’ll be picked up shortly.”
“He’s a human being, like every one else,” the female shit-bag retorted as she continued to pump fallen comrade’s chest.
“He’s a what?” said the other uniform, a female. “Aren’t you an uppity little thing,” she sneered. “He’s a broken consumer, probably not even fit for medical recycling, although our offshore partners will probably find something of use in his sorry carcass. They’re not as discerning as we are.”
Tears began to wash down the female shit-bag’s face. “You’re the one who’s not human, you’re – ”
A sharp slap from the female camo wearer stopped her. A red welt immediately appeared on the shit-bag’s pretty face.
The male commando spoke sharply, unable to take his eyes away from the shit-bag’s blond hair. “Don’t damage the merchandise.”
His partner taunted him. “Oh, got the hots for cutie have you?” Then, “After she’s been processed, you can pay for her like anyone else. “ She gave him an exaggerated wink. “But you’ll have to get in line.”
The male commando stiffened, but didn’t bother replying. If he had his way – and he’d do everything in his power to make that happen – he’d be enjoying the company of the shit-bag in her present state, before the chemicals and conditioning remade her into a one-size fits all toy.
***
It didn’t get much better than this, the first commando thought as he drove slowly behind the remaining joggers. Oh, well, if he could run over the ones who’d already dropped it’d be perfect, but, all things considered, getting paid to do what he loved most was pretty sweet.
They’d been at it for three hours now, and there were only nine candidates left on their feet. The other thirteen had already been picked up and packed in dry ice by the chump truck before they could spoil. He could have stopped the exercise before now, having reduced the first round numbers sufficiently. But the sight of seeing these sad little consumers trying to drag their sad little arses across the desert moved something deep inside him.
Dreading another attack of heartburn, the commando rubbed his chest and took another sip from his choc-cherry milk. He drank it at every opportunity, never stopping to wonder why he needed to do so. Instead, with another shit-bag hitting the hot dirt, he swung the jeep around in front of the leader of the motley pack, clicked on the loudspeaker, told them to stop. Rank did have privileges, but if he pushed it too far it’d come out of his pay. And always in the back of his mind lurked the snaking thought that he wasn’t a commando, not a real one, and that he could never have run as far as these remaining shit-bags had this morning. He’d been discharged from the real military for ‘conduct unbecoming’, never getting past the rank of mess sergeant. Lucky for him, though, those days were long gone, and now with everything being all commercialised, with his attitude and skill set, he could be anything he wanted. That’s what the recruiters had told him, and it sat easy in his mind, nice and comfortable, like sipping choc-cherry milk.
The second phase of the program was a world apart from the events of the preceding morning. The eight remaining candidates (one had suffered heart failure after the run finished), fatigued and sunstruck, had been transported back to base. There, as a group, they sat through several hours of psychometric testing. After a break – during which time another recruit hopeful was culled, his test scores deviating from some arbitrary norm – there followed individual, chemical assisted interrogations called “orientation sessions”. There were questions about their family life and upbringing, what age they had last wet their beds, what gender they were attracted to and did they watch porn, and many other private things, none of which would be remembered once the drugs wore off. “We have to be sure,” said the dark figures sitting outside the reach of the spotlights during these sessions. “There is too much at stake.”
By late evening, six of the original twenty-four applicants received the news they’d been waiting for, hoping for.
“Congratulations!” said a pretty HR rep in a low cut business suit, the same one who had brusquely greeted the recruits when they had arrived before sunrise that morning and signed the release forms.
Now her face beamed with camaraderie.
“Welcome to FabCola! You all made it! After a good night’s sleep, tomorrow will be the first day of your second life: you’ll commence your intensive training to become junior sales assistants at one of our FabCola Family Restaurants!”
The final six, all former professionals, made redundant in the new order of things, after what economists called the “necessary realignment”, cheered, slapped each other on the back. The selection process was finished; their employment futures secure again. No more soup lines for them.
It was almost too good to be true.
***
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