Phyllis was chatting with her new Pebble Creek Pines neighbours on the bus.  She’d signed up for this activity without hesitation.  She’d heard about these focus groups on the telly.  They asked people questions and used their answers to improve their products.  Who’d have thought she’d earn good money for her opinions?  Her late husband, Bert, would be amused.  “Fancy someone paying you to talk!  I have to listen to you for nothing!” he’d have said. 

The waiting room was elegantly furnished and comfortable.  All the residents were happy.  This was a delightful outing, and it was costing them nothing – in fact, they were making money!  The stewardesses were hospitable.  Phyllis wasn’t sure of their actual job title, but they wore identical uniforms that reminded her of her first and only plane ride.

Rather than interviewing the residents all together, they were taking them in one at a time.  That was a little surprising.  Phyllis thought focus groups were conducted differently, but this company must be intent on obtaining individual answers to their questions.

After forty minutes of patient waiting, Phyllis was finally called in.  She followed the stewardess to the interview room.  The three previous interviewees were nowhere to be seen.  There must be another exit, she thought.  Maybe they don’t want them telling us about the questions in advance. 

Phyllis sat down at the table.  She noticed that the room had a linoleum floor.  It’s spotlessly clean and fresh, she marvelled.  It’s like they just finished mopping before I walked in!  They’ve used a raspberry-coloured detergent, she thought, because there’s some traces of red on the surface.  How strange.

The interviewer proceeded to ask her some questions from the clipboard in front of him. 

“How would you describe your chocolate preferences?”

“Oh, I don’t eat chocolate”, said Phyllis airily.  “It’s too expensive and I don’t have a sweet tooth.”

The gentleman noted this down.

“What about lollies?”

“Not really”, said Phyllis.  “I’ll have one if someone offers me one, but I don’t buy them.”

“I see", said the gentleman, making another note.

“Do you spend any money in an average week on confectionery?”

“No”, said Phyllis.  She giggled.  “Oh, dear.  I’m not much help, am I?  I assume you’re a chocolate and lolly company, but I don’t eat sweets.  They’re bad for my teeth and my figure, you see!”

The gentleman smiled.  “I understand, madam.  May I congratulate you on your healthy and sensible eating habits.”

Phyllis giggled again.  It was lovely to receive affirmation, even from a stranger.

“I wonder”, said the gentleman, “whether you would be prepared to break your own rule and try a sample product, just for us, so we could gauge your response?”

“Of course,” smiled Phyllis.  “Like I said, I don’t buy them, but I’ll take one if they’re offered.”

The man reached across the table and handed her a soft, pliable lolly.  It was the colour of raspberries and it smelled delicious.  Phyllis obediently popped it into her mouth.  The man watched her intently as she chewed.

A strong fruity flavour flooded her tongue.  It was intense!  She smiled at the interviewer, and he smiled as she swallowed the lolly.

Suddenly, Phyllis’ smile faded.  Her eyes widened.  A soft gurgling sound emerged from her middle.  Something very unusual was happening.  A sharp scalding pain was attacking her stomach and it was rising inexorably towards her throat.  A cry of surprise and horror escaped her.  Her hands clutched desperately at the air as raspberry-coloured froth suddenly burst forth from her lips and poured down her blouse onto her tweed skirt.  Upon contact with the substance, the fabric hissed and smoked.

Phyllis screamed as the froth became liquid and poured forth in increasing quantities.  The pain was beyond endurance.  It felt as though she was being consumed from the inside out. 

The interviewer climbed onto the table as Phyllis convulsed in agony and toppled onto the floor, where the substance hissed and smoked upon contact with her skin.  Quite soon, the screaming died away.

A cool, soft, feminine voice issued from the speakers set high on the wall.

“Subject terminated.”

A door opened and two cleaners in biohazard-retardant clothing entered with specially treated mops and buckets to dispose of the mess.

Once they had finished, the interviewer resumed his seat.  “If you don’t consume our products, we’ll consume you,” he muttered to himself. 

A stewardess popped her head around the door.  “Ready to continue, sir?”

“Certainly,” he replied.  “Send in the next one, please”.