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Summary
This establishment really wasn’t Tenna’s scene. Maybe it was a symptom of age, maybe it was a side effect of having a developed prefrontal cortex, but a dark lounge/bar/club/den of degeneracy-type thing with perpetually dim lights and suspiciously sticky seats just didn’t whet his pallet anymore. The thrum of the music pounded his own thoughts out of his head, a rigid tightness settling above his brow bone that would definitely become a tension headache later. That’s what money sounds like: shitty music, cocktail shakers, and desperate people.
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Tenna is the host of a dying gameshow. Spamton is a consultant hoping to strike it big. They meet to talk business.