You have to hear the latest. The Lady Irene scandal keeps getting worse and worse. The shock may kill me. Irene's owned by commoners now. And I mean common commoners. Working stock. Laborers who work with their hands. Auto mechanics and carpet layers and the like. Big, strong men with greasy hair and dirt under their fingernails. Not just one or two. A dozen. Imagine. A dozen commoners all getting together to buy one pleasure slave for themselves. You know what those kind of men are like. I can only imagine what it would be like to have to service a dozen of them every day. Why, you'd never get a moment's rest. They'd be rutting you day and night, day after day after day. Forcing themselves on you, one after another. These men get drunk every Saturday night and beat their own wives; and now they'd be free to beat you, too, any time they were unhappy with your service. Why, my hands are shaking just thinking about it. My heart is positively palpitating. I think I'm getting the vapors. I can't talk about this any more. I'm too upset. I'm going to have to retire to my bed and see if I can get some relief.
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