The next morning I get a message that there is a stomach flu wreaking havoc in the lower tier dorms right in the wing where most my employees live. Over a hundred Morty's are sick. This means massive staff shortage. I rush to the hotel straight from my shower. Can't afford to eat right now.

Still very early when I get to the hotel, and yet there seems to be full on hysteria at the staff side. We have a bit shy of half our normal staff at hand. Prep cooks are sobbing.

I call an emergency meeting.
Silence falls on the staff room. The implied power feels now less humbling, as I feel like my actions here have less consequence. In some time I won't matter to them when I'm no longer here. Speaking comes out more naturally:" I know it's crazy to say, but we can't always push ourselves to the perfect mark. Today we will work extra hard to almost reach it. We will find solutions to all our problems with the knowledge gained from our experience , and I'm sure at the end of the day we'll be more dead than tired, but also proud. This is how you will all learn how to grow to the next step." A crowd of people are looking at me like I'm a bit off. Good. Let them be uncomfortable. "First all from the breakfast serving will be helped as much as possible, then we focus on housekeeping. I'll personally help with breakfast, and after that I'll be in here to help organize you all through this day. I can't solve every problem for you as I simply won't have the time, but this once just follow your instinct on most things. Like feel free to compensate every complaint generously and if there is a way to conserve time and it doesn't put anyone at risk, do it. Regrouping at staff lunch. Half go in the kitchen, the rest split equally to every other job needed. Remember to smile.''

I rush to the kitchen through the stairway with fifty others. Most of us aren't trained, but all know how to chop and peel. It's just enough to get us by. The main chef and I have an inventory check, and come to the conclusion it will take less talent to bake bread pudding out of yesterday's bread, than make new, like they'd do every morning. Same goes for most things. Half of the menu is substituted with easier recipes. The few present, that know what to do, get a short coffee break, to ready them for the marathon of their lives.

After an hour of the chaos, the stress begins to break my brethren, and I start hearing jokes about the situation. First the laughter is timid, but as the group feels the relief it brings, an often absent unity begins to emerge. I've never felt this close to my men. I've never even seen most my employees smile, never mind dare talk at work. It feels like the awareness of Master's gaze lifts. What better excuse for fun, than stress induced insanity.

Food gets carried out to the first early customers, and the buffet is set. A short breakfast break later I send half of the group to do room service and waitering. I pick up a note notepad and chaperone as more customers wake up. Most of them think a breakfast buffet is beneath them and require service, while others are attracted by the easy to access.

I'm carrying a plate to some oil baron when I see him enter the restaurant. He's dressed in a casual suit, and looks so similar to all the other Rick's, but for those earrings of his.
I didn't think I'd see him before the week ends. In hindsight it was stupid of me not to prepare for this as I basically run his home at this moment. Yet here I am fighting against dropping the plate from my nerves.
I serve my current customer and make my way to him as If he called for service.

He looks at me blankly. He has eyebags, and seems to be in dire need of caffeine judging by the tremor on his hand. "Good morning, can I get you a cup of coffee as you choose your breakfast?" I ask and offer him the quickly printed menu lying on the table. "Large and black, please," he responds. I smile at him:" coming right up." He smiles back tiredly. He's polite to all kind Mortys then. I don't want to over think that. Easier to assume he's just a nice guy. I want to think that.
I go to the coffee station, fill his order, and return. He chooses the bread pudding with custard and a fruit salad. He has a sweet tooth then. As I put down his cutlery he looks at me queer. He couldn't tell it's me could he? I deem it impossible and hurry to hand forward his order. As much as it would please me to keep my focus on him, I can't afford that luxury, and must move to the next Rick.

As I'm bringing him his food quite some time later, a thought pops in my head. There could be a number of Rick's who chose to have the same shugar daddy, and that daddy could have given them the same earrings. I need some reason to ask his room number.

As I approach he's looking at the empty coffee cup with a vacant expression.
As I'm putting down his plate I say:" I'm very sorry it took so long. We are experiencing some staff shortage. I'd like to write down your room number, so we can compensate this in your hotel bill."
"It was no inconvenience. Just happy it arrived."
"I see, sir. Enjoy your meal."

It drives me mad. I know that when I bring him his check, I'll find out, but it doesn't feel like soon enough. I keep glancing his way to see if he has eaten, and every time it feels as if he is just teasing me with his slow pace.

Finally I get to go to him with our card reader with check in hand. He hands me his card and I swipe it in the machine. It tells me the account is accessed and I hand him back his card. I feed the bill to the machine and it prints to the tail end the account number. I hand him the receipt. "Good day sir," I thank him and move to the registry. The number on the receipt burned to the back of my skull.

I go about my day, until I get to return to my office for a break. My assistant is busy, and I'm gracefully left alone. I pull out the folder of him I've slipped in my personal drawer. I flip it to the first page and in a fraction of a second confirm it was him. He likes his breakfast sweet, and drinks black coffee