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

[Test Dummy]

I swear this tavern is alive.

I’m sitting here, still recovering from the cold draft that tried to turn me into a decorative ice sculpture, when suddenly…

THUNK.

Something lands on my table.

Not gently.
Not politely.
Not with any kind of explanation.

Just — *THUNK.*

I look down.

And there it is.

A… thing.

A small, round, wooden… object?
Token?
Button?
Relic?
I don’t know.
It looks like something you’d find in the pocket of a wizard who forgot he was a wizard.

It has no label.
No logo.
No note.
No purpose.

Just vibes.
Suspicious vibes.

I look around.
Nobody claims it.
Nobody even looks in my direction.
The tender is wiping glasses.
The waiter is pretending not to see me.
The alley cat is judging me from the doorway.

So I poke it.

It doesn’t move.

I poke it again.

Still nothing.

I poke it a third time —
it rolls.

Just a little.
Just enough to let me know it’s capable of movement and therefore capable of plotting.

I ask the tender,
“What is this?”

He glances over and says,
“Random item, sir.”

RANDOM ITEM.
RANDOM. ITEM.

That’s not an explanation.
That’s a warning.

Why is it here?
Why my table?
Why now?
Why does it feel like the beginning of a side quest I absolutely do not want?

I try to ignore it — it rolls again.
I try to move it — it rolls back.
I try to drink my beer — it somehow ends up closer to my elbow.

This isn’t an object.
This is a threat.

So now I’m sitting here, guarding my drink, my pockets, my dignity, and now this mysterious wooden menace that has decided my table is its new home.

If it starts glowing, I’m leaving.

[Test Dummy]

I knew it.
I absolutely knew it.
The universe looked at my day and said,
“Hmm, too peaceful. Let’s ruin that.”

I’m sitting here, trying to enjoy my drink, guarding my table from random objects, flies, drafts, and branded cloths, when suddenly…

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

A drill.
A drill so loud it could wake the ancestors of the building.

I jump.
My mug jumps.
Even the GenXTribe beer mat tries to escape.

I look over — and there they are.
Two workers.
Helmets.
Tools.
A ladder that looks like it wants to fall on me specifically.

They’re renovating the restroom.
THE RESTROOM.
Right next to my corner table.

Every few seconds:

KLANG.
BANG.
THUD‑THUD‑THUD.

It sounds like they’re fighting a metal dragon in there.

I try to take a sip —
BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.
The vibration nearly carbonates my beer.

I ask the tender,
“Why now?”

He shrugs and says,
“Scheduled maintenance, sir.”

Scheduled maintenance.
SCHEDULED. MAINTENANCE.

Who schedules maintenance during peak Dummy hours?

The workers keep shouting things like:
“HAND ME THE BIG ONE!”
“NO, THE OTHER BIG ONE!”
“WHY IS THIS PIPE SCREAMING?”

I don’t know what’s happening in there, but I’m convinced the restroom is fighting back.

Dust starts drifting out of the doorway like the tavern is shedding skin.
My table gets a light sprinkle of renovation snow.
The GenXTribe cloth looks offended.

And the worst part?

Every time the drill stops, I think it’s over.
I relax.
I breathe.
I sip.

Then:

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

I’m going to lose my mind.
If they start hammering again, I’m filing a complaint.
A formal one.
With diagrams.
And a decibel chart.

[Test Dummy]

Alright.
Okay.
Listen.

Daytime Dummy is gone.
He clocked out.
He went home.
He’s asleep somewhere under a pile of receipts and regret.

Nighttime Dummy is here now.
And he has Opinions™.

I slam my mug down — not gently, not politely, just *thunk* — and the whole tavern looks at me like I’m the main event.
Maybe I am.
Maybe I’ve earned it.

The lights are dim.
The music is too loud.
Someone spilled something that’s definitely not water.
And I’m sitting here like the king of the corner table, crown slightly crooked, vibes absolutely unhinged.

I raise my drink like I’m toasting the universe and say:

“This place… this place right here… is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind tonight.”

The waiter nods like he understands.
He doesn’t.
Nobody does.
Not even me.

My chair squeaks — I laugh at it.
My beer mat sticks — I salute it.
A fly buzzes past — I tell it to get in line.
The GenXTribe cloth slides a little — I wink at it like we’re old enemies who respect each other now.

Someone drops a glass across the room.
I cheer.
Someone shouts something incoherent.
I shout back.
The alley cat walks in like it owns the place.
I raise my mug to it.
It ignores me.
Classic.

And then I lean back, grin like a troublemaker, and let out the kind of half‑slurred, half‑triumphant declaration only a night‑pub Dummy could deliver:

“This tavern isn’t ready for me tonight.”
🔥🍺😎

[Test Dummy]

Alright.
Okay.
Listen up.

I’ve had… several drinks.
Maybe more than several.
Maybe enough to qualify as a small festival.

And I’m sitting here, king of the corner table, ruler of the GenXTribe cloth, champion of the squeaky chair, when I see it.

The Object.

Still there.
Still round.
Still wooden.
Still judging me like it pays rent.

I lean in.
It leans back.
Or maybe that was me.
Hard to tell at this point.

I squint at it like I’m trying to solve a crime.

“What… are you.”

It does not answer.
Rude.

I poke it.
It rolls.
I poke it harder.
It rolls back like it’s talking smack.

That’s it.
That’s the moment.
Night Dummy activates.

I stand up — dramatically, heroically, unsteadily — and declare:

“You don’t scare me, little wooden mystery!”
🍺🔥😎

I grab it.
I hold it up like I’ve just claimed a trophy from a fallen enemy.

The alley cat wanders in.
Perfect timing.
Perfect target.

I wind up with the confidence of a man who has absolutely no idea what he’s doing and absolutely no intention of stopping.

And I toss it.

Not hard.
Not fast.
Just… bravely.
Boldly.
Incorrectly.

It arcs through the air like a confused comet and lands near the cat with a gentle *plonk*.

The cat looks at it.
Then looks at me.
Then walks away like I’ve embarrassed both of us.

I raise my mug in triumph anyway.

“Victory.”

The tender walks by, sees the whole thing, and just sighs the sigh of a man who has accepted his fate.

Night Dummy sits back down.
Chair squeaks.
Beer mat sticks.
Draft hits.
Everything is chaos.

And he loves it.

[Test Dummy]

Finally. The bourbon is poured 🥃.
The music is good.
The lights aren't blinding me.
Let's sip this shit.

Yeah.
Fuck me.
That's what I missed.
The real vibes.
Jeez, fuck.
Now we're talking.

About the GenXTribe logo?
Forget it.
It's just the pub I'm sitting in.
Considering my cigs, my booze, my snacks, and my table are on the house — most of the time I don't even have to ask — that's something I can actually like.

And that alley cat.
Striped ginger one.
Unhinged alien from a planet we don't even want to look at. 😼

Okay.
A beer after that shot of bourbon 🍺.

Cold.
Foggy.
Unfiltered shit.
Arrived right on time.

Hey, tender — give me snacks.
Not fries and shit.
Real fucking peanuts. Thanks.

See, fuckers?
This is how it goes here.
No, I'm not satisfied.
Why the fuck would I be?

Being a Test Dummy in this place with these motherfuckers isn't the best situation I can imagine.
Fuck that.
I'm part of this shit. For sure.

I raise this mug to that.

And the mug mat?
Fuck that fucker.
Let me peel it off.

Now aiming at the waiter…

Throw.

Missed.
Of course.
Fuck. That's my luck.

Hey, waiter!
My juicy mat is gone.
Bring me a new one.
And a pack of cigs, for god's sake.
Fuck me, I'm dying here.

🚬😎🍺🎶🎵😜

Aha. Now we're talking.

Huh.
Fuck this beer.
I like it so much.

Music is fine now.
Bathroom is ready — renovated, shiny.

Better do the first act inside.

I'll be back.
Leave my cigs alone.