Retreat. Tactical withdrawal from the vicinity of the Bridge of Applied Stupidity was the only sane option. Witnessing Finnian nearly plunge into Gurgle Creek due to misplaced loyalty ribbons and aspirational signage had curdled what little remained of my tolerance for Aerthosian public works projects.
Back towards the dubious sanctuary of the shop. The walk felt longer this time, each step heavy with the accumulated weight of second-hand idiocy and first-hand exasperation. My earlier attempt at finding mundane distraction had backfired spectacularly, confronting me instead with a potent, tangible symbol of the village's talent for self-inflicted absurdity.
Safe inside, door bolted (futilely, but symbolically). The air within was thick with dust and the lingering psychic residue of too many annoying encounters. It didn't feel like a sanctuary. It felt like the cramped, poorly lit stage upon which the farce of my retirement was being performed, whether I liked it or not.
The Hero Cushion still sat on the counter, its lopsided embroidered face seemingly smirking at my predicament. 'Comfortable guarding,' the old woman had intended. The irony was sharp enough to cut through dimensions. Guarding against what? Rampant stupidity? My own mounting desire to just dissolve this reality and start over? Unlikely to be effective against either.
I needed to sit. To process. To let the sheer, staggering incompetence of the Metaphor Bridge wash over me and recede, hopefully leaving behind only the usual dull ache of existential boredom rather than this fresh, stinging wound of disbelief.
Where to sit? The floor? Increasingly appealing, offered stability, minimal risk of structural failure. But also cold, dusty, and infested with things likely far more sensible than the average Oakhaven villager (silverfish, mostly).
The crates? Piled precariously, contents unknown (possibly fossilized horse blankets, possibly nesting places for aggressive rodents, possibly containing portals to slightly less annoying dimensions – tempting, but risky). Uncomfortable. Unstable.
That left… the stool. The replacement stool. The one I had cobbled together from three disparate pieces of shop junk after the original, equally unstable three-legged stool had succumbed to entropy and gravity. This new creation wasn't strictly three-legged; more like two-and-a-half legs and a prayer. I had jammed a piece of wood roughly into place, secured with a bent nail and possibly solidified contempt. It wobbled even when unoccupied. Sitting on it felt less like resting and more like participating in an uncontrolled experiment concerning balance and material failure points.
But it was there. And marginally higher than the floor. Reluctantly, distrustfully, I approached the Stool of Dubious Construction. Eyed it critically. Prodded one 'leg' with my foot. It shuddered ominously but remained upright.
Fine. Calculated risk. Minimal duration sitting event intended. Maximum likelihood of sudden, undignified descent: High, but perhaps worth it for a few moments off my feet.
With the ginger caution usually reserved for handling volatile antimatter containment fields, I lowered myself onto the stool.
It groaned. A low, mournful sound, like wood lamenting its fate. It wobbled violently, threatening immediate collapse. I shifted my weight, counter-balancing, using innate cosmic equilibrium senses usually employed for navigating asteroid fields or adjusting planetary orbits. Found a precarious point of semi-stability. Held my breath.
Silence. It held. For now.
I allowed myself a fraction of a relaxed muscle fiber. Stared blankly at the opposite wall, letting the horror of the ribbon-festooned bridge replay behind my eyes. Tried to process the fact that my practical advice had directly led to the creation of a structure that was both less safe and more offensive to aesthetics. The recursive stupidity… it boggled the mind. Even a mind accustomed to paradoxes and non-Euclidean geometries found Oakhaven logic uniquely baffling.
How could they consistently get it so wrong? Was there a subtle perception filter over this whole dimension, translating common sense into mystical nonsense? Was Mayor Grumbleson secretly a high priest of some chaotic deity dedicated to promoting metaphorical infrastructure collapse? Was Elara's relentless optimism somehow warping reality itself?
Or were they just… idiots? Garden-variety, homegrown, turnip-fueled idiots, operating without the benefit of basic critical thinking skills or architectural codes? Occam's Razor suggested the latter. The simplest explanation was often the most depressing one.
Creeeeeak.
The stool shifted slightly beneath me. A new sound. Not just a groan of protest, but the sharp, distinct splintering of overloaded wood fibres giving up the ghost.
Ah. Here we go. Predicted structural failure incoming.
I braced myself, not for impact, but for the sheer annoyance of the inevitable fall and subsequent need to find yet another seating solution.
Crack!
The dodgy 'third leg' – the piece secured with hope and a single bent nail – gave way entirely. The stool tilted violently. My cosmic balancing skills were insufficient to counteract sudden, catastrophic failure at such close quarters.
There was no dramatic crash. Just a lurch, a slide, and a dull thump as I ended up deposited rather unceremoniously onto the dusty floorboards, surrounded by the three disintegrated components of my failed attempt at furniture construction.
The primary emotion wasn't pain (the fall was mere inches), nor surprise (it was entirely expected). It was pure, unadulterated irritation. Followed closely by weary resignation. Of course the stool collapsed. Of course it happened now, while I was contemplating the fundamental idiocy of my surroundings. The universe, or at least this corner of it, possessed impeccable comedic timing. Always favouring slapstick tragedy at the expense of my dignity.
I sat there for a moment, amidst the debris. Termite dust puffed around me. A silverfish scuttled indignantly away from the impact zone. The Hero Cushion stared down from the counter, its stitched face radiating smug judgment.
Right. Get up. Assess the damage (to my pride, mostly). Figure out Plan C for achieving vertical posterior support.
As I started to push myself up, brushing termite dust off my tunic, I noticed movement at the window. A face peering in. Wide-eyed. Filled with awe and misunderstanding.
Widow Meadowsweet.
Naturally. She had the observational persistence of a carrion bird and the interpretive skills of a drunken haruspex. She must have been passing by, drawn by the sound of splintering wood (or perhaps by her uncanny ability to sense moments of peak hermitic embarrassment).
She didn't see a grumpy recluse collapsing on faulty, self-made furniture. Oh no. That would be too simple. Too mundane.
Her eyes were fixed on me, sitting amidst the wreckage. Then they flicked to the debris itself – the three separated pieces of the stool. Then back to me. A slow nod of profound comprehension spread across her wrinkled features.
She saw a ritual. Obviously. Bob the Guardian, communing with the floorboards. Performing a sacred act of disassembly. Deconstructing the mundane (the stool) to understand its deeper essence. Reading the patterns in the termite dust. Interpreting the wisdom of the shattered wood. The number three! A powerful symbol! Legs of the past, present, future! Or perhaps earth, sea, sky! Or maybe faith, hope, and misplaced charity! The possibilities for nonsensical interpretation were endless!
Her expression shifted from awe to reverent understanding. She gave another slow nod, lifted a hand in a gesture that might have been respect or possibly warding off unintended magical side-effects, and then scurried away, doubtless eager to report this latest display of profound, albeit involuntary, mysticism to the village rumour network.
I hadn't even said anything. Hadn't sighed. Hadn't glared. Hadn't gestured cryptically. I had simply fallen off a badly made stool. And it had instantly become another chapter in the burgeoning Saga of Bob the Inadvertently Arcane.
'Chapter the Ninth: The Guardian Deconstructs the Tripartite Stool of Worldly Burden!' Coming soon to a Gregor the Gregarious performance near you!
I finally got to my feet. Looked down at the three pieces of useless wood. Kicked one piece viciously. It skittered across the floor, coming to rest against a pile of equally useless pottery shards. Felt marginally better. Cathartic, even. If kicking debris was going to be misinterpreted as ritual anyway, might as well get some satisfaction out of it.
No more stools. Floor-sitting it was. Safer. More stable. Less prone to spontaneous disassembly and subsequent mystical analysis. Though, knowing Oakhaven, they'd probably start seeing profound meaning in the specific way I sat on the floor. ('Look how he aligns his posture with the northern ley line! Such geomantic discipline!').
There was no escape. My retirement was doomed to be a public performance piece, interpreted by fools, narrated by liars, and occasionally interrupted by genuinely weird phenomena I was increasingly, reluctantly, feeling obligated to investigate.
Maybe I should just embrace it? Start charging admission? Sell embroidered cushions myself? 'Bob's Bits, Bobs, & Existential Despair - Inquire Within (Metaphorically)'.
No. That required effort. And interacting with customers. And possibly learning to embroider. Unthinkable.
Floor it was. And maybe… maybe consider soundproofing and window coverings. Thick ones. Very thick ones. Anything to reduce the number of eyeballs witnessing my daily struggles against gravity, entropy, and badly constructed furniture.