The Metal Chair

The local iteration of the 80's metal scene was dispersed amongst venues used, on other nights, for punk, stand-up or open-mic. Occasionally a touring glam-metal band would sell out the entertainment centre but, with the exceptions of Whitesnake or Guns N' Roses, Margaret never found those nights to be worth the ticket price. She preferred the scraggly coalition of local doom metal bands, a trio of Christian brothers that drove four hours to gigs, interstate corpse-paint aficionados and the occasional group that crossed the ditch and the thrash genre. This scene did it for the love and Margaret, doing her part out of her love, set up the chairs.

New headbangers always squinted unsure at Margaret's contribution but it became widely accepted amongst the usual crowd for three reasons. First: broken feet are often a compliment, via moshing, to the music. Secondly, some drone metal is best appreciated whilst sitting and stroking chin. Thirdly, if anyone ever implied that Margaret was there for the band members and not the music, it was handy to have something solid.

It was '88 when Eddie (bass and vocals), William Murderface (guitar) and Shango (drums), jamming with the Ainur Choir, looked upon this woman setting up chairs and smiled, saying:

"That's nice. That's a nice thing to do."

And lo, they belted out a tune that imbued one of Margaret's fold-out chairs with magnetic, mythic resonances, turning it into The Metal Chair. The Metal Chair is a trend setter - whenever it is opened or closed, all fold-out chairs in a fifty-metre radius follow suit. It served Margaret well, saving her time and giving her the element of surprise during the occasional brawl.

 

Four days ago, Amy opened bleary eyes to the profile of the drooling man beside her and smiled. Waking further, she caught herself smiling and frowned. Laying on back and staring wide-eyed:

"Shiiiit. Emotions."

She was wordless until, when she brushed teeth and he dropped stool, he received a text: he was obliged to help his Auntie Margaret move house on Thursday. Erin spat froth and gripped the sink, scowling at her reflection:

"Fuuuck. I'm gonna' help with that."

So Amy helps carry pieces of furniture, each item with a different member of the wider family, over which she meet-and-greets. The house is now empty and the male cousins have somehow turned securing the moving truck's load into a pissing contest. Amy looks for a way to be productive and mills into the back shed. The floor is covered in a half centimetre of dust and artefacts have come out of boxes or from under sheets. Amy peruses: an electric jug, an inkpot with phoenix-feather quill, a vinyl pressing of Geronimo Jackson's Magna Carta.

Four minutes before Margaret wheels in, muttering: "Get nothing damn done with all those dicks swinging - oh, hello."

Amy smiles eager: "You have cool shit. That painting, is that - ?"

Margaret nods: "A Basil Hallward? Yes."

"And that?"

"Flea-market chrono-visor. Broken, but we're getting a skip tomorrow."

"Awesome."

Amy resumes perusing and Margaret appraises this prospective niece-in-law: spunky, unassumingly sexy and she came to help, therefore seemingly family minded, an uncontroversial virtue in those engaged in long-term bangery with your family members.

Yeah, Margaret approves: "See that chair?"

"That metal fold out chair?"

"That is The Metal Chair. You can have it, trade it for whatever drugs you kids do these days. Payment for your help. Besides, the new place has less storage and I have a better chair."

(A nasty rear-ender in '11 left Margaret without the use of her legs. A friend to eccentric engineers, she was gifted a wheelchair that can reach 156 k's and launch 3-D printed flash-bangs.)

Amy: "Uh, cool? I'll chuck it in my boot now. Thank you. Should I also take -"

"No, don't touch that."

"The microwave?"

"Inside the nuker is, well, a nuke. Teeny-tiny one. Should I feel the whim, or by accident, I can eradicate this backyard. Comes with the property. Caveat neighbour."

"I'll just take The Chair."

 

Malcolm is the straightest, most cis, whitest, most masculine straight-cis-white-male currently straight-cis-white-maling in Australia. His most distinguishing characteristic is this his financial circumstance lands in the exact median of middle class. He stands when Amy is pointed to the table by the head-waiter, shakes her hand with both of his:

"Good evening, Amy. I express my desire to sex you and that your gender should forfeit democratic rights in favour of domestic duties. Also, ethnic diversity in the workplace is the product of something something minorities discriminate."

Amy sits: "I see you already ordered a Cab Sav."

"Allow me to mansplain - penis, penis, penis."

She drains her glass: "Euh. Tannins. Ok, let's tack some brass. A friend is getting married in November and the plan is high-tea before hens night. I fucking hate high tea. So, I need you to get some of your white boys to do some of that cultural appropriation you're so good at."

Malcolm nods thoughtfully: "Making high tea politically incorrect by association."

Refilling glass: "Bingo. The part you'll like is that I have this chair which will allow you to set up aaaaall the chairs in your conference. That. Equals. Political. Clout."

Puckering: "Yes. Well. The Straight-Cis-White-Male Convention was supposed to happen in Rostov-on-Don next month but China virus, known colloquially as novel corona virus 19, has forced the event's cancellation. Due to that, I will not be able to use your chair to gain the political power necessary to bad-fashion high tea. However, I do still have a network able to make a word uncouth. If I recall, there is a word you particularly dislike. 'Sponge'."

Amy tilts to her right and wretches twice, manages to hold it in with fist to lips, composes herself with a burp: "Yep. Do it. No mercy."

Meshing fingers with elbows on table: "So be it. I shall make an edict. Straight-cis-white-males shall use the word spo - sorry, that word, shall use That Word, and it's  equivalent in thirty-four other languages, when talking about something or other. Influential elements of society, initially confused, shall assume that it is discriminatory slang. In, like, two weeks, tops, That Word shall become an insult, a slur to not use in polite company, a baaad wooord."