Brock Price, a man who normally moved with the predatory grace of a shark cutting through a sea of smaller fish, stumbled through the entrance of the hospital as if his spine had been replaced with a bendy supercharged vibratir. His thousand-dollar Zegna suit trousers were pooled around his handmade Oxfords, the silk boxers beneath them tangled at his ankles like a failed parachute. This left his primary, and currently catastrophically distressed, asset on full, throbbing display. The 12-inch f...