Turnabout and Thai Food

Giant glass aquariums partitioned the patrons in a restaurant that cost more for one plate than most people made in one week. The Asian fusion/Thai-inspired menu included ingredients and animals so rare they drove up the price per entree to ludicrous degrees. Such a restaurant befit a man like Sam.

Sam had spent five whole years taking his trust money and seeding it into a thriving corporate empire, investing shrewdly and avoiding risks when others tried to tempt him astray. He knew the future held uncertainty, yet some things remained eternal. Laziness, for one. Efficiency for another. Leading him to his meeting today with another potential buy-out, a small plastics competitor trying to peddle in biodegradable trash.

Trash being the key word. Biodegradable might sound nice on brown paper but the cost of such materials made no sense financially. Not when governments had yet to regulate such requirements, or when people listened to their wallets more than their heartstrings.

Sam ordered a water with lemon. His doctor had told him to watch his intake of sweet beverages, so he limited it to bourbon now. He perused the menu, looking for the most expensive source of protein he could find.

Across the table an aged sea turtle floated in the filtered water, its dead, glassy eyes staring back at Sam through the polished glass. Sam rolled his eyes back, scowling at the sea creature's ugly mug. Next time he should pick a fine dining experience with fewer live decorations.

His phone buzzed as the waiter set down a tall glass. Hitting the button he answered, "Hello, Sam."

"Sam? Hey, we need to talk. The quarterly report just came out."

Sam soured. "I know, and before you start I've already prepared a presentation for the board. These bag bans aren't going to impact us in the long run. They've done studies, people still go out and buy plastic bags, more actually--"

"It's not just the bans, Sam. They're saying the optics look bad from an advertising standpoint. They want us to look into more R&D on the recycle end."

"We've already done research on it!" Sam huffed, sweat forming on his brow. "There's no point in throwing more money at a problem that doesn't matter anyway - our plastics are 60% recyclable, that's more than adequate to meet most hippie demands."

"Still, aren't you meeting with that biodregradable company today? Maybe we can spin some PR off that."

Looking around the restaurant, Sam spoke low, "We're buying them out, not building them up. You know as well as I do this is a kill mission. We can't let upstarts take up our market shares."

"We can always keep them afloat for awhile until the press dies down. It won't cost us anything, their sheets are black."

Sam sighed and lifted his drink, still talking. "A quick death is the merciful way. If we delay shutting them down we'll risk litigation when we try laying off workers later on. It's cleaner to take care of it-- OW!" Sam hissed as the skinny straw he hadn't noticed in his drink suddenly jammed into his nose.

"Sam? You alright??"

Dropping the phone, Sam swore as the plastic stuck to his nostril, causing dribbles of blood to splatter and stain the overpriced linen on the table. He tried yanking at it, but each tug only seemed to draw the straw deeper into his nose.

His phone continued squaking on the table, "Sam? Are you there?"

Sam waved over a waiter to help, his breath coming in short gasps as he panicked. Not for his health, but for his embarrasment. His client would be here any moment, and here he was flailing like a school boy with a straw stuck in his face. The pain grew sharper as they tried twisting and tugging, desperately hoping to dislodge it.

The other diners tried looking away, yet several peeked over at Sam's table in morbid fascination as yet another waiter rushed over to assist. They tilted Sam back in his chair, trying to stave the flow of blood as they kept pulling on the straw. At one point one of the busboys brought a pair of tongs from the kitchen, but they were too large to grip the slippery piece of plastic. A concerned patron finally dialed for emergency services, unsure of what to say yet appalled at the strange accident happening in their midst.

Sam tried to keep calm but his heart raced and suddenly he felt a sharp pain in his chest, his breathing growing labored as blood sloshed through his membranes and down his throat. The crowd of support staff trying to aid him grew frantic as his eyes rolled back in his head, his hands clutching his chest.

"Sam?? SAM! What's happening?? Sam?"

.......................................

As the chaos continued, the old sea turtle floated peacefully in its tank, its glassy eyes blinking slowly, a faint trace of a smile on its face.