Dinner Meeting by David V. Mammina

Waking up to an old rustic table with my head buzzing and wrists tied around the back of a chair probably meant that my business proposal wasn’t received well. That is if I even proposed anything. I can’t remember how I came to be here in such a dire situation. In fact, I don’t even know where here is. It could be due to my blurred vision, but I barely make out three silhouetted figures sitting about the table. Before I can even attempt to yank my hands free, one of them makes a snarky comment seemingly at my expense. “He’s a lobster waking up in a pot of still water, isn’t he?” a feminine voice starts. “Shall we begin? I think we’ve waited long enough.” “I hate shellfish. Don’t reference crustaceans, if you please,” says another. With my eyesight improving, I can make out the bar to the far left, empty of patrons. Then, oddly, I catch a smell of some sort of wild animal emanating from the next seat. This whole thing is wrong. What have I gotten myself into this time? Am I a hostage?