At last, it was 10 o'clock. I rose from my desk and hurried out to the carpark, to greet the truck; a semitrailer, 40 feet long and expanded both ways, sideways to around 22 feet wide.

They had just arrived and were setting up. I exchanged a few pleasantries with Cyntiha, from accounts, as she arrived just seconds after me. Her fingernails had been chewed down to the quick, little crescents of ragged collagen, weeping tiny amounts of blood. I was dimly aware she was in an even worse state than me. Her image was on my CD. I hated her, the fat, smug bitch.

They called me into the trailer and gave me the equipment. I fitted the VR helmet over my head, settling it comfortably. Then I took the shotgun from them, my hands trembling with excitement. They took my CD, slipping it into a drive. The GO tone chirped in my ear, as it did every week. This was my seventeenth week, and I was finally making progress, according to the psychiatrist. So much so that I had been allowed select a number of my workmates' images for the exercise.

I stepped into the trailer, weapon at the ready, port arms. The first image flashed up: Cynthia, scowling and shaking her finger at me, denying part of my expenses claim. I shot her in the mouth. I stepped around the corner, into Sales. Next, that bastard Jenkins, the sales manager. I blew his balls off then shot him in both knees. I was starting to hit my rhythm. I could get through an awful lot of aggression in a half hour.

Finally, I emerged. I knew the drill: hand back their gear and go straight to HR. The shrink was waiting for me. She purred softly about how I was much calmer nowadays; how I was even being considered for a promotion in light of my improved attitude and interaction with others.

If it wasn't for the Postal Service there is no way I'd still have my job, I thought.