Somewhere, an evil villain rejoices over a successful plan to infect a population with a mind-altering plague. Intended to make its victims experience emotional highs and lows before finally becoming homicidal maniacs, the plague, passed on by simple means, such as touch or through food, is spreading quickly through the small city.

We find Nichole, alone and infected with the plague, seated in her room. Having taken a bizarre turn in her, the plague, instead of twisting her view of the people around her, has instead brought to life a normally silent world of furniture and inanimate objects, into a rather opinionated group of guests that now inhabit her small bedroom.

"I've always wanted to sit on someone," a chair confides as Nichole glances over.

Brushing strands of hair away from her eyes she watches the chair with a discerning stare. "I guess that makes sense..." she confides as she leans back on her hands, watching the seat with some interest.

The chair, though motionless, continues on, "When you've been sat on as much as me, you begin to wonder what it's like. You know, to be in control, to sit atop someone rather then being the submissive article of furniture that is sat upon."

"It must be hard," Nichole says, concurring with the statements of the chair, her thoughtful glance trailing towards the doorway. "Is that all you really think about?"

The chair's worn seat and legs shown signs of its age and maturity as it remains still, lifelessly so, before speaking again. "Perhaps I might think of how I have four legs, yet never walk. That I have a back, but it's used to support others backs. I have a seat, yet never sit upon it..."

Nodding slowly, Nichole's hair falls in front of her eyes as she peers from under the strands to the dinning chair before she begins to speak. "Sounds like a good riddle, maybe you should do writing?"

The chair, discerning these words in an inactive state, after some pause, speaks again "Ah, to write. It would be nice to do such a thing... Yet, this world of pens and quills.. Of wells of ink and blank pages awaiting the caressing touch of stain upon them... is but made for people with arms, and hands... not legs without feet."

Glancing down slowly Nichole observes the chair's legs, wooden shafts leading to bracing and connected with cross pieces. Inclining her head slowly, Nichole speaks, "I guess you don't like pirates..."

Though static in place the chair fumes at the mere concept. "Pirates!?" it blurts. "I feel for those who should lose their appendages, yet, to expect me or any of my kind to offer up our limbs without even the choice of refusal is simply barbaric! It astounds me that such atrocities are allowed to go unpunished!"

"You're wearing pants today." A voice emanates from the grains of the flooring below.

"That's because you're a pervert, and I don't talk to you," Nichole declares as she turns a scowling glance towards the floor. "Or at least that's what I would say if I were to speak with you! Of which isn't even an issue! I don't!"

"You're so harsh..." the floor says in a spiteful tone.

"Are you even listening to me?! I'm speaking to you of the atrocities that plague my kind! And you're bantering with the floor! Who talks to the floor? Only CRAZY people!" the chair hollers.

Shaking her head slowly, Nichole rises. Walking towards the doorway, "That does it, I've got better things to do then stick around with you guys if you're just going to be yelling at me!" she says as she steps out of the room.

"I'm still better off then you!" The chair says as Nichole leaves the room.

"Shut up, she'll turn around!" The floor responds. "Especially when I tell her about your sick fantasies about sitting on people!"

"Tsh, she won't believe you! You already lost all your credibility with that 'Oh I look up peoples dresses!' bit! Pervert."

"Oh, I'm the pervert?" The floor says with a scornful tone.

Peeking her head back in, Nichole's voice rings out a high pitched shout. "SHUT UP ALREADY!" She screams, slamming the door shut on her room.

-by Mabui