“Well, it’s not my birthday, but you must be Christmas!”

The man’s vividly Australian accent breaks through your thoughtful reverie and you are drawn back to the situation at hand. Right, you had been vacationing on a yacht, got captured by a bunch of pirates, then were sold like livestock to the highest bidder: in this case, some middle-aged guy with an unbuttoned tropical shirt and a crude sense of humor.

As the person who’d accepted your buyer’s money leaves the concrete basement, the latter places his hands on his knees and bends down to peer at you, all tied up on the cold floor.

“Why, hello there,” he croons cruelly. “Why don’t we introduce ourselves? I’m, uh, called Buck Hughes, but you can call me sir. In fact, I insist that you do. What’s your name, eh, pretty one?”