As he walked up the long, dark wooden staircase, his shins ached with a fierceness that seemed impossible. How is it possible, he thought, to be in this much pain, day after day, minute after minute, second after second, and not just die?

The din of voices from the top of the stairs reminded him of where he was going and for a second that depressed him even further, but he kept going nonetheless. Slowly, the further he ascended, the louder the sounds became. Conversation, moaning, the creaking of furniture, arguments and the unmistakable creaking spring sound of intense copulation.

After what seemed like forever, he reached the receptionist's desk. Plain, white and aseptic it seemed quite at odds with the nature of the place. Of course, he had grown up in the decadent and amoral nineties, when sex was everywhere and it was loud and gaudy, celebrated in palatial topless bars, permeating the advertising on billboards (remember those?) and television, even sold in the back of newspapers and clandestinely in strip joints.

He tried hard to remember those days and tried harder still to remember those women of four decades ago. God almighty has it been that long? He seemed to remember them having heaving breasts (usually silicone), toned legs, ridiculous names and dyed hair. Treacherous, hazy memory had heaped them all into one homogenous mass, although he had the vague notion that they were pretty generic back then anyway. Still, much better than this.

"Sir?"

The girl's monotone, empty intonation snapped him out of his thinking. He answered almost mechanically.

"Oh, sorry. I was miles away. Number 9100310, Rodrigues, Albert."

A giggle. New girl. Dumber than the last one, though substantially prettier, in that bland goverment sort of way.

"Do you have an appointment?"

If you would take five seconds to look at your fucking little computer screen, you dullard bimbo, that I indeed have an appointment for 3:30 and am about six minutes late. He thought but did not say this, which was good, because the girl added this before he could actually articulate an answer.

"I know that seems an unnecessary question but we recently discontinued walk-ins at this facility and not many of our, uh, users know about it.

Users. That's a funny one.

"Mmmm I believe I have a three thirty appointment with Ms. Babayan. PISN 873307."

"Sir, for future reference, the PISN prefix is unnecessary."

Was there a touch of animosity in her voice? He was a little too drunk to tell.

"I know that. You know that. The last girl didn't. I'm very sorry."

A smile. Fake but enough to provoke a genuine response, or at least, a genuine fake response.

"That's OK sir. My job protocol prohibits me from discussing it any further, but I've been dealing with some real specimens today, I'm a little snappy."

"You don't need the protocol with me sug. I'm an old timer."

A smile, this time a genuine one.

"That's good, sir."

"You can call me Al."

"I'm temped, but protocol won't allow it. Your right thumbprint please."

He pressed his right thumb on the greasy machine.

"You're cleared for access sir. She's waiting for you in room 452."

He could never quite get used to the next part. The door lifted and what had been a somewhat bearable noise turned into a near nightmarish maelstrom of voices and sounds, underscored by the hum of flourescent lighting.

(TO BE CONTINUED)