Then there is a bit of chuckling.

    They grab your ankles and wrists and tie you to the wall.

    Before they exit the meat locker, the English speaking brother says:

    "You stinky American will work for nothing."

    He spits at you and leaves.

    The door to the meat locker slams closed.

    For weeks you work as the jizz slave of the Greeks.

    They tie you up at night, and in the morning feed you, and fill the room with new slabs of raw meat.  Then they untie your hands.

    If you don't jizz-fry the whole meat locker by noon, the Greeks come in and work you over.

    The penalty for eating any of the jizz-fried steaks you produce is a kick in the sack.

    Eventually this punishment has to be changed to a punch to the gut as your crotch becomes completely numbed over.

    Then one morning you wake up as the all-too-familiar sound of opening of the creaky meat locker door signals the start of another day of hard labor.  But when you look up, it's not a burly Greek man that you see at the enterance of the locker.

    It's a young man with a brown paper bag over his head.

    "Sammy!" you say.

    Sammy does not respond, but walks over to you and quickly unties you from the wall.

    "Son," you say.  "How did you find me?"

    Sammy says nothing, and walks out the door.

    You stumble after him, but your legs are atrophied, and you have to use the wall for support as you make your way across the locker to freedom.

    When you exit the locker, Sammy is gone.

    What you see are the crumpled bodies of the Greek slave drivers who held you captive.

    You step past them and make your way to the back door of the Sharon House of Pizza.

    Upon your exit, you hear a voice call out:

    "Dad!"

    Sammy?

    Nope.  Just Noam.

    "What's up, Dad?  You look like shit."

    "Hi, Noam," you say.  "Hey, if I pass out in the next few minutes, would you do me a favor and carry me down to the basement?"

    "Uh, sure, Dad."

    You pass out.