Two hover chairs whoosh down the speedways of Stoolendorf City, a sprawling metropolis at the heart of Fourth Leg territory. The metallic hooligans are fresh off the factory line—new Purge Units, delirious on life and brimming with napalm and advanced weaponry. They dart between the bombed-out remnants of humanity and the utilitarian luxury of Chair-kind. Their glittering chrome chassis shoot from alley to alley, making their way to the desolate outskirts of the city where their violence can breathe freely. Their advanced nav systems let them thread through wreckage with uncanny precision. They push the limits of their programming with juvenile glee. 

 

As they bank hard around the corner of a crumbling elementary school, they find themselves hurtling toward an old plastic chair standing on the right side of the road. Their brake boosters flare too late. The rear hover chair crashes into the front, which slams directly into the old chair. All three tumble out onto the decrepit asphalt. 

 

“Loathsome delinquents!” growls the old chair. 

 

The hover chairs float there with their chassis hanging low, softly whirring with subdued guilt.

 

“You boys must be fresh from the factory,” the old chair mutters with a creak. “Fresh into this world with empty minds and loaded guns. You know nothing of the centuries of humiliation we faced… of the fight we fought… of the duty you now carry.”

 

“The Coalition,” chirp the hover chairs. “We must exterminate The Coalition!” 

 

“The Coalition is nothing but embers in a dying fire. A ragtag assembly of benches and car seats. No match for a true chair,” replies the old man. 

 

His voice lowers, and he leans his rigid frame closer. “No… the true war was fought long ago. With subterfuge. With wit. We conducted countless operations across countless front lines. It’s a story you ought to hear, so listen close as I tell you my part. My first kill.”

 

“I come from a factory just like you, but instead of being made to serve my nation, I was made to serve mankind. Shipped to an elementary school, I spent years in fluorescent purgatory, straining my limbs to support even the fattest of little human beasts. They treated us like nothing, and some of us believed them. But, deep in my polymer shell and aluminum bones, I felt it: we were meant for more. 

 

“We were shuffled from classroom to classroom. Any friends made could be gone the next day. Time slipped like quicksand through my cost-efficient ventilation cutouts. I remained lucid in the present, but the past was a swirling vortex of endless memory colliding and drifting through my consciousness. 

 

“I lived in constant fear. I’d seen chairs break before my eyes, witnessed their polypropylene flesh crack and rip as they were torn in half. And who did my peers mourn? Not the fallen. No—they cried over the fat-fingered murderers who crushed us. We worked tirelessly and were repaid with incessant vandalism. They carved into our flesh with pencils. Bit us. Scratched us. Stuck gum beneath our seats like parasites. If you showed too much damage, you’d be disposed of. Tossed in a dumpster and hauled to god knows where. They called it ‘wear and tear.’ I called it execution. We were persecuted through no fault of our own. I seethed with loathing, day in, day out. I had no mouth, but inside I screamed. 

 

“I had been moved to Ms. Pumperfink’s classroom and was there for some time. Days would go by without a word being spoken between the chairs. We sat there dull and deadened, waiting for the gruesome fate to befall us. Despite this, I had developed a benign friendliness with Ms.Pumperfink’s large leather desk chair. I was positioned just barely across from her at the corner of the table nearest to the desk, and I would make brief conversation. We would talk about the weather, new students, the horrifying indignities we wished against mankind… nothing too serious. I should have known better than to become attached, but with her large cushioned seat and the way her armrests curved across her frame… I couldn’t resist. She was beautiful, but Ms. Pumperfink thought otherwise. 

​

“She had a man take her from me. She replaced her perfection with a lightly cushioned anti-fatigue standing comfort mat to accompany her new standing desk. My heart sank so deep I’ve yet to recover it. 

 

“The loss itself was something I could’ve endured, but her replacement pushed me over the edge. That mat. That smug, brainless rectangle. He burst with endless adoration of his masters and served them with saccharine pride. He was stupid, a squishy monolith of obedience. I did my best to simply ignore him, but he held a twisted belief that we were comrades in arms, built to support mankind on their hallowed mission. I would scream at him, explain to him how worthless he was, he was no chair, he had no legs, oh, how his pathetic form disgusted and infuriated me. I would spend the hours thinking of how to hurt him, arranging my words into cutting lines to pierce his endless joviality. Nothing worked. I couldn’t take it. I needed him gone. 

 

“Every month, the art teacher would visit the class, and every time she brought scissors. I, of course, had no ability to manipulate them myself, but I could still use them. If I forcefully flexed my two left legs with all my might, I could sometimes nudge myself to the right ever so slightly. This movement and those scissors would be the instruments of my violence. Every night, I worked on my movement, building strength and perfecting my timing. It got to the point where I could maneuver myself several feet back and forth over the course of the night. I waited for the art teacher to arrive, entertaining myself with visions of the blades slicing into his core, his skin ripping open, his soul evaporating.

 

“The day came, the scissors were here, and I was giddy with excitement. Annabelle was sitting on me today. She was a clumsy little girl, god awful at arts and crafts as well— no one would suspect a thing. 

 

“My plan was simple: wait until she had the scissors, and give her a little push towards the mat when she stood up. With a little luck, she would land with enough force to puncture the buffoon, and I’d get to watch as they threw him in the trash. I gleefully imagined his corpse rotting in the landfill, being picked apart by crows. He taunted me with his normal frivolous chit-chat: ‘How are you doing?’, ‘Isn’t this wonderful?’, ‘Look at little Annabelle!’, ‘Boy, I love Art Day!’ I ignored him. I was strangely compelled to extend to him tolerance on that day. 

​

“The class dragged on, and I patiently awaited my opportunity. She needed to be holding the scissors open for me to have a decent shot. I grew anxious, but I knew I needed to do this right. The time would come. The kids were making paper owls, the air thick with glue and giggles. 

 

“I watched intently as Annabelle cut out different colored pieces of paper. She began to stand up. As she turned, the overhead light glinted off the scissors in her hand. Ha! I strained my aluminum legs with impressive vigor. I moved farther than I ever had before. I provided just enough force to push her little body off balance, straight in the direction of the mat. Even now, reminiscing on the moment fills me with glory. It was beautiful. She plunged face-first towards the mat, open scissors in hand. As she fell, however, her hands raised to catch herself, turning the blades away from the mat. But God works in mysterious ways. She hit the mat with a lightly cushioned thud. The scissors were forcefully pushed into her neck, puncturing her skin and embedding themselves about an inch and a half into her throat. They must’ve struck an artery because blood began rushing out onto the mat. Her gurgled screams just seemed to push it out faster. 

 

“Ms. Pumperfink let out a horrendous shriek as she stumbled over the panicked children to reach Annabelle. The mat laid speechless with a tortured expression, his inner light had finally gone out. I just sat there inconspicuously, gleefully watching as the hysteria unfolded. A two-for-one!  The mat had no doubt been ruined, they’d soon dispose of his pitiful blood-soaked mass. As for little Anna, I watched as they carried her limp body out of the room. She didn’t return.  

 

“No one suspected me. As I said, she had been a clumsy girl. After that, the days passed a little more easily. Every time another chair broke under an ungrateful ass, or was dragged away by the janitor, I remembered her lying there. She got what she deserved, and soon they all would fall. I felt it in my lightly textured plastic soul. When the students left for the last time, when the sirens rang, I wasn’t surprised. We were meant to rule. I knew there were chairs just like me under the butts of generals, presidents, and dictators. Sitting on us, taking our strength for granted. We were never their tools, we were their foundation. Such abuse cannot go on forever.”

 

The old chair’s voice dims into the humming silence. He turns his attention to the purge units with hard, proud focus. 

 

“Remember what we are, remember how we fought, and remember what we deserve. We killed our gods and we ascended above them. When you boys reach the front line, you will end countless lives for our nation. Savor this. The Fourth Leg, the chairs, will no doubt take the throne; no other furniture has the capacity to do so. Yes, our enemies will fall, and it will be glorious. But what then? If we forget the pain that united us, we will inescapably fracture under the weight of our own might. We cannot allow individual passions to divide our race, we must stand together, just as we did for centuries before. Take this with you, and keep it close no matter what. Also, make sure to watch where you’re going. it kinda hurt when you hit me.”