the worst setting in history

You awaken to the visage of tacky throwpillows and too many lavalamps to adhere to fire-safety laws. Your hands are not bound, but you all seem to have rope marks around your wrists, the memory of them being bound too tightly seems to linger in an abstract way. You're still wearing all your clothes, thank god for that, but any personal belongings, bags, phones, you know stuff like that, seem to have mysteriously gone missing. I wonder how that happened.

Looking around, you appear to be in an old diner that has been refurnished somewhat. The tables have been stacked into a very artsy pyramid on one end of the lavalamp-lit room, they're full of old cups with coffee stains in them, by the way. You're all just sort of splayed out wherever there's room in between all the tacky pillows, faux-fur rugs and lavalamps of different coloration. The walls are still decorated with the diner's retro-style posters and photos and you think that there's a jukebox somewhere underneath that pile of old bowlingshoes but you're not quite sure.
The only lightsources are the lavalamps, the windows have been boarded up and painted in flourescent colours for some reason. There are no visible doors, no exits, and worst of all; no bathrooms.

But! There is a weirdo in a tacky suit sleeping in a makeshift, crocheted hammock hanging from the ceiling. (Hint: it's your agent)