He was a sorry-looking individual. Wearing the traditional porter uniform, well-worn and shiny with too many trips to the dry cleaner, he adorned its ...houlders with copious dandruff from his receding hair. He was in his forties, meek, had an air of indifference, and was by no means the hotel's prime asset. A loser one would ungratiously say. Susan asked him if she could have the dress pressed, the one she intended to wear to the wedding. This would be OK - " just ring reception when it is. His voice boomed. ?I only ask for you Artimus. Sign yourself over to me, as my slave.? Time stopped. Whispers grew in the crowd as realization set in. No one had ever asked this. To be a slave was the ultimate disgrace, the ultimate defeat. Yet, if he did not agree, he would die. Right here, right now. He did not want to die, and so he could not refuse. His tongue grew thick as he steadied himself to say the words he never thought he’d have to say. And for a price he never could. More

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