I Survived What the Logs Deny (Dummy's corner table)

[Test Dummy]

I knew today was going too well.

No flies dive‑bombing my mug.
No waiter misinterpreting my words as secret menu orders.
No GenXTribe cloth sliding closer like it wants to adopt me.

Just peace.
Silence.
A rare moment of tavern serenity.

Then I sit down.

And the chair says:

SQEEEEEEEK.

Not a normal squeak.
Not a polite squeak.
A long, dramatic, theatrical squeak — the kind that echoes across the tavern like a confession.

Everyone turns.
EVERYONE.

I shift my weight.
SQEEK.

I adjust again.
SQEEK‑SQEEK.

At this point it sounds like I’m communicating with dolphins.

The tender looks over with that “oh no, he’s doing it again” expression.
The waiter pauses mid‑step like he’s waiting for the chair to explode.
Even the alley cat — who hasn’t shown up in days — pokes its head in, hears the noise, and leaves immediately.

I try to sit perfectly still.
The chair squeaks anyway.
ON ITS OWN.

This isn’t furniture.
This is betrayal.

I stand up — silence.
I sit down — SQEEEEEK.

I swear this chair is mocking me.
It’s squeaking in a tone that says,
“Look everyone, Dummy’s back.”

The tender walks by and says,
“It’s just settling, sir.”

Settling.
SETTLING.

If it settles any harder, it’ll file a noise complaint against itself.

So now I’m perched on the edge of the seat like a suspicious gargoyle, afraid to move even a millimeter in case the chair decides to perform another solo.

This tavern is testing me.
And the furniture is winning.