The men crowded into the small room, made smaller with stairs and stools and barrels dragged and rolled up and set in a disorganized semi-circle around a few packing crates set against the far wall. Bottles were uncorked and passed along eager hands and dry lips. Conversations rose and soon silenced the late autumn storm outside.
Someone opened a window to thin the smell of men and cigarettes.
A whistle cut through the mob and they started to quiet and sit down. A man walked to the front and stood on the crates.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “Something must be done.”
Prompt courtesy of VelvetVerbosity‘s 100 word challenge.