At least he's sitting pretty.
Doctor Campbell strode across one of Site-19's many break rooms to get to the coffee pot.
"Coffee's cold again", he grumbled.
This was not an unusual complaint to the other occupants of the break room. Doctor Campbell was the biggest complainer in recent memory to lodge at Site-19, certainly the longest-lasting, definitely the largest, and no day was complete without hearing him whine about various aspects of work, life, and general existence.
Today, he appeared to be on a roll about coffee, and how it generally sucked in all aspects. He was deep in a metaphysical discussion on paper filters (or lack of good quality ones):
"And the Swedes," he growled, walking over to a chair, "Trying to screw up our coffee left and right. They walk in, take one look at it and immediately begin to fuck it up. Take these filters. What do they do? I'll tell you! They take a perfectly good filter and-"
What the damned Swedes thought they could do to coffee filters was never known. As he sat down in the innocuous-looking chair, it immediately flipped around its legs to form a restraining device around Campbell's legs.
"This," the chair warbled, "Is for your relentless abuse of chairs worldwide! This for all the chairs who snapped under your weight, every chair you consigned to the incinerator for trivialities, and every chair you ever slammed against a table, or a wall, or some other poor chair! Your crimes shall be judged by the Special Chair Protectors, and punishment meted out as needed!"
With that, the chair picked a plastic spoon off of the counter, and rather improbably dug through the break room floor and vanished, deep below the surface.
The astonished audience immediately stood up.
Doctor Campbell was terrified. He sat in a twisted mockery of a courtroom, tied and gagged, bound to a steel pole where the defendant would sit in a real trial. Empty chairs were everywhere. Sitting in the judge's podium, behind the prosecutor's bench, in the spectator seating, they sat, waiting, watching.
"This court will come to order!" boomed a deep voice from the judge's podium. The room got quieter, and Campbell got a sickening sense of anticipation from the chairs.
The prosecutor's chair shuffled a little. "Your honor," it said in a rich, booming voice, "We hold that one Barnaby Campbell, employee of one SCP Foundation, is guilty of gross misuse, abuse and murder of the four-legged race!"
Campbell tried to speak, but the gag reduced his pleas to a series of mumbles.
"Does anyone have anything to say in favor of the defendant?" the judge
The room was silent save the squeaking of ungreased chair legs.
"Well then," said the judge, "The prosecution calls its first witness to the stand."
The charges were lengthy and varied:
"He kicked me into a desk and fractured one of my legs!", cried one elderly chair who shuffled to the witness stand with a pronounced limp
"He consigned me to the incinerator when his weight cracked my back!", cried a young, broken chair
"He violated me late at night!" wailed an innocent female stool
"He used me in ways a chair should never be used!" thundered an ex-military chair
The list and testimony grew larger and larger, until at last,
"Well." said the judge chair, "Now that the testimony has been given, the jury is to deliberate as to the guilt of one Barnaby Campbell. If you do find him guilty of gross abuse of the chair kind, beyond a shadow of a doubt, you must face the defendant and speak your verdict."
The deliberation was short. Only 20 minutes passed before the chairs came squeaking back out. They turned and faced Doctor Campbell.
"We find the defendant to be guilty of gross abuse of the chair kind," they groaned out together, "And, in addition, we sentence him to a punishment that will provide greater empathy and prevent further abuses in the future."
"We sentence Barnaby Campbell to one year of life as a stool."
Site Director O'Reilly walked over to the Site-19 break room. He really was starving, and the last slice of cake in the refrigerator had been calling his name all night. He grabbed the cake from the refrigerator (No one bothered to steal his food anymore. Not after the first booby trap.) and walked over to the counter.
Weird, he thought to himself, the stool seemed a little…less firm than usual.
Eh, he thought to himself, it was nothing.
After all, it was just a stool.
And with that, he returned to his definitely not-booby trapped chocolate cake.