Couch

When I was courting my wife-al unit, back when she was merely my girlfriend, I used to stay over at her old apartment. We would sit on her couch and watch the T.V.

I noticed that every time I sat down in the middle of the couch, it emitted the roar of a small turbine. Well, not every time I sat, but when I dropped with gusto, it seemed to pain the big leather couch (the illo above is strictly thematic) something awful, to the point where it would howl. The thing of it was, she never once heard it.

So, I just figured that what I was hearing was either a consequence of a childhood spent eating paint chips, or the captured soul of a long-dead Maya sacrifice in the upholstery, groaning every time I came down on him hardcore.

For the balance of the year, I sat and the couch groaned. Up and down, up and down. Finally, when we were moving her out to the place where we presently live, we lifted the couch to move it down the stairs and the strange sound's origin was finally revealed -- a Dustbuster had become trapped under the couch, presumably for years.

My ass would squish the couch downward, and it would press the little button on top.

I wasn't lead poisoned. And the upholstery was clear of malevolent entities.