Sated, they resumed their earlier deliberations. Thanatos had obviously had time to formulate a spur that would get the underclass into the clinics. Sex, he said, and Collie visibly recoiled.

I’m sorry? said Kimble.

Don’t be: you don’t even know what it means. Thanatos explained as if talking to children. If there’s one thing the unemployed like to do above all else, it’s fuck. I suppose that explains why there’s so many of them. Fuck fuck fuck. Writhing in their sodden bedclothes like sweaty, stinking pigs. Fucking fuckers.

So how are we going to play on that?

For a man so well praised by your contemporaries, you are remarkably fucking stupid. Use your imagination: tell them the virus will prevent them from having sex.

Oh, right. I’ve got you. It’ll probably pay to be as sensationalist as possible; create a proper tabloid shit storm. By the time it gets to print we can get the men thinking their bollocks are about to drop off.

What about the women? said Hewt.

They don’t have bollocks.

That’s not what I meant.

Oh, sorry. He said, sucking his teeth. I don’t know…stinking discharge? Red hot itch? Both? We could even knock up some fake some pictures.

Thanatos steered Kimble back. Do you think you can make it work?

Yes, definitely. Wasn’t it Hitler said the bigger the lie, the more people will believe it?

That was actually my line originally, Thanatos grinned, racked with an unexpected spasm of nostalgia.

It’s going to cost a pretty penny, Broon muttered, trying to reconcile the thought of vaginal discharge with a cheese and onion quiche which kept repeating on him.

Wait till you hear the rest of it, you fucking chump. Being rudely awakened from his pleasant little daydream by this fat ruminant had caused Thanatos’ mood to curdle considerably. He toyed with the idea of skinning Broon there and then (perhaps just the back of his legs and a portion of his belly), but this did not fit in with his future plans. Biting down his rage, he turned to Hewt. I assume you have individual health records for every citizen?

Yes, but not necessarily details of occupation if that’s what you’re getting at. We could prepare a screening questionnaire though.

If they can write, that is. Time was beginning to ebb away. Okay, he said. I’m going to lay it all down now. Any of you cunts butt in and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t: save any questions for when I’m done. He told them the plan, which was in fact devilishly simple. Every unemployed, superfluous patient would be neutered by irradiation. The equipment would be modified to look like a straightforward ultrasound machine and the patients would know no better. It might not be 100% effective, he mused, but any child conceived would probably end up a dickless, no-eyed freak. He seemed to find this idea rather appealing. For those who were employed and functional, there would be mock scanning. The machine would simply not be switched on. The room lapsed into shocked awe.

I’d never really considered genocide, Blah stammered.

Well, it’s more like eugenics really, said Kimble, who had already warmed to the idea. Others followed suit.

It can’t be genocide: no one’s being killed.

It’s more a preventive thing really.

At worst it’s ovicide. Or spermicide, Johansen offered.

I don’t give a fuck what you call it, said Thanatos, who was beginning to wish all of their parents had indulged in a little spermicide. It’s the only solution to your dilemma. Now, does anybody have any questions?