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The Dinner
♆
Wading through the flooded tarmac, the old black car came to a halt with a high-pitched screech. Dressed in red and black with tasseled ropes of gold, a bellboy stepped out into the downpour. Rushing to the car door he opened an umbrella in a dark flash as the gull-wing door pivoted open revealing a pitch black world inside. The two floating reflections of light from Maximillians eyes peered from the inky black as his lithe figure glided out of the car. Protected by the attendant he fastened his fine suit jacket to the echoes of incessant rain, surveying his final destination.
Inside the restaurant sat his host. An impeccably groomed man clad in a pinstripe suit and waiting patiently at the table, hands clasped together. To his left sat Maximillian’s partner, a dumpy man that in contrast took very little care of himself. Upon observation one could tell there was an attempt to tame his wiry shoulder-length hair. But despite the intermittent pats with a fresh napkin, the beads of sweat still gathered on his brow.
With long strides Maximilian, under the safeguard of his aide's umbrella, approached the glass doors of the restaurant. Opening before him and as he stepped inside he took pause. Something felt off. It wasn’t an internal feeling but something…else. Something in the air perhaps. He persevered, shaking the feeling best he could as he followed the manager to their table. Circular and nestled in the restaurant's corner, a single dim light illuminated the setting from above. Bouncing from the white tablecloth it offered some semblance of identity to both his partner and the man they were here to meet.
He raised a hand, indicating to his squat compatriot there was no need to stand for his arrival.
“I am late. My sincerest apologies, Abraham.”
The man sat eerily still, like a granite gargoyle eternally tasked to keep watch,
“Not at all,” he finally said, “We are only discussing our future. What importance would a few minutes hold?”
Maximilian slid onto the buttoned leather banquette, to Abraham’s right and across from his partner.
“I hope you don’t mind, but we have ordered for you.” He spoke. Maximilian smiled back, the kind that’s absent from the eyes.
“Not at all.” He was a tall man and he sat with a straight back. Uncoupling the gold buttons of his jacket he settled into his seat resisting the dull glow from touching his face which only sharpened the flash in his eyes.
“So, I’ve talked with the partners. We are capable of supplying the Deuterium. We’ve done our research and the hydrogen nucleosynthesis…well we have a green light.”
The faint shadows of his curled mouth and warped eyes suggested that this time his grin was genuine.
“Excellent. Once we have the station online, you and your partners will have stock options. Limited at two percent of course.”
The trio were interrupted as waitresses filed one by one to the table, laying glasses and utensils in quickfire fashion. Sat either side of a service plate, Maximilian stared at the knife and fork with a gaze of pure hatred. His fixation was quickly broken by a plate of food being placed in front of him. Inspecting the meticulously prepared dish he did not sense anything he did not like.
Monkfish, kohlrabi, dates and several small florets of cauliflower. He scrutinized each element one by one until he was satisfied with its construction. In a swift motion he slid a hand beneath his jacket towards a hidden chest pocket, revealing gold plated cutlery as he retracted it.
“I hope you don’t mind. The silver, it irritates my skin.”
Abraham gave an accommodating gesture as Maximilian eyed his partner who was already slicing into his food, unresponsive to a trait he must have known well by now.
“The plant. Is it already in place?” he enquired.
“It’s still under construction. We have the materials in orbit and it shouldn’t be longer than a couple months.”
Maximilian smiled, “What are a couple months. It’s only our future.”
Abraham stopped his knife midway through his thick steak for a brief moment, before continuing with the cut.
“So it seems we have a deal, Mr Lazarescu.”
“Please, call me Max,” he said in riposte.
Slicing into his own meal, he slowly raised a stuffed fork to his thin mouth. He was a true epicurean, taking his time mulling over flavors dancing together in unison or clashing in an excitement of contrast. But it wasn’t long before a slight crease formed in his brow. His tongue began to sizzle, the gums along the edges of his teeth set alight and in a sudden explosion his mouth burst in a conflagration. And yet he sat still.
With the darkness his only aid in hiding his expression, he very calmly placed his utensils down and did not rush in picking up the freshly poured glass of wine sat ahead of him. He swirled it in hand his eyes burning more intensely than before. He tipped the glass forward, his head back, and swilled the admittedly glorious Richebourg around his mouth as silently as he could. Glancing to his companions he was relieved that they were consumed by their own nourishment. He took a deep gulp and swallowed. The burning sensation was still present but had been tempered, and whilst it continued down his throat, he kept the glass in hand. Ready at any moment to put out another fire.
“This will revolutionize the energy market. I am sure you are aware but Striga currently has a fourteen percent market cap. With this new plant, and our ability to synthesize deuterium on Triton we will, at minimum, triple that.”
His host allowed his glasses to droop down his long face, peering over them at Max.
“Why do you think we’re going for this?”
The question was rhetorical in nature but it served as confirmation to him that the porcelain mask covering his unease remained unbroken and uncracked.
“What a fine restaurant you picked, by the way. I appreciate the food you ordered, what did you say it was?”
“I didn’t. I asked the girl there for the chef's specialty.” Abraham retorted.
He pointed, fork in hand, to the waitress standing nearby. She wasn’t facing the table but she was its shepherd, always within earshot ready at a moment's notice to fulfill the guests wishes.
“Excuse me, yes. This dish, I believe it’s the chef’s specialty?” She approached the table and nodded.
“Yes sir. It is Monkfish, kohlrabi, cauliflower florets with date puree topped with ramsons.”
Max forced a smile into his face. The waitress was not at fault but he nevertheless unnerved her with his stare.
“Ah, wild garlic. Really rounds out the dish. Please, give my compliments to the chef.”
She broke eye contact with him, looking down to the floor before retreating away from the table and, presumably, headed to the restaurant kitchen.
Max kept hold of his wine, feeling a pain grow in his stomach. He intermittently took sips as he investigated the restaurant walls. Various paraphernalia littered the stone walls, tapestries, stag heads, the…crucifix. Max averted his eyes immediately, gaining the attention of his hunched partner who took a rare moment away from stuffing his face with porcini mushrooms.
“Yes, it is rather nice isn’t it. My family has been coming here for generations. It’s where I’ve always liked doing business. Used to be a chapel, you know, the Order of the Holy Sepulchre I believe, or so my grandfather told me.”
Max’s eyes flicked from one corner of the room to the next, his panic growing larger than the pain. It was only through gritted teeth as he tried to compose himself that he noticed. His compatriots had stopped eating, and were staring at him. His partner with a destitute expression carved into his face and his host, Abraham, who was unsuccessfully holding back a grin.
“You don’t look so well. Something in the food?”
Max clumsily placed his glass on the table, wiped his lips with the napkin and slid out from under the table.
“Excuse me.”
The strained words added new cracks to his already crumbling visage. His partner dropped his fork, bracing himself to slide himself out before Max threw a wave.
“No. Stay.”
With stumbled steps he made his way from the table, one hand clutching his throat, the other across his own belly. He made his way to the glass doors he breached earlier, spotting the large stone lintel above them inscribed with Latin phrase.
‘Acta deos numquam mortalia fallunt. Mortal actions never deceive god.’
“Striga!” came the shout from behind him.
Max spun to meet it. Watching Abrham, not ten feet from him, click a bolt into place of the ornate crossbow held in his grasp. He grinned, raising it to eye-height.
“To the future.”
♆
Prompt - “You are the CEO of a successful energy company. You’re invited to a business dinner, and if the deal goes well, it could revolutionize energy as we know it. Only one problem. Garlic’s in the food, utensils are silver and it’s held in an old chapel. And you’re a vampire.”
