[ WP ] You 're a detective who has just arrived at the scene of a murder which you instantly recognize as the handiwork of your nemesis -- who went to the chair five years ago .

`` Woa,'' Detective Harrington spoke like a gargoyle when he was on the job. 
 
 `` What is it, Joe?'' 
 
 `` I know this man.'' 
 
 `` The victim?'' 
 
 `` No,'' Harrington took off his sunglasses and raised an eyebrow at the city police officer. It was almost midnight. `` I know the man who did this.'' 
 
 `` That's amazing, detective, but how are you so sure?'' 
 
 Harrington reached into his pocket and produced a bent cigarette. He put it between his lips so that it would flick up and down when he talked - it looked so cool. Smoking had never been a habit of his, but he went through a pack a day anyways. 
 
 `` Ever heard of couch enthusiasts?'' 
 
 `` …No?'' 
 
 `` Well use your brain, kid. What do you think I'm talking about?'' 
 
 `` People who like couches?'' 
 
 `` You're a thinker. I like that.'' Harrington reached for another cigarette, `` You see this here?'' he traced along the corpse's arms, then legs with the cigarette before popping it in his mouth next to the other. `` That's an advanced sitting pose. People who know their shit call that *The Weekend. *'' 
 
 He put his sunglasses back on. 
 
 `` And I know my shit.'' 
 
 `` What does that have to do with the killer, detective?'' 
 
 `` The killer too knows his shit, kid. He and I were like brothers once. Al was his name. Damn, he had a bright career ahead of him, all he had to do was sit his butt down on it and put his feet up. But Al got hungry. Too hungry for his own good, the punk.'' 
 Harrington flipped a cigarette lighter out from the pocket of his leather jacket, lit one up, then tossed it into a nearby dumpster without taking a drag. 
 
 *Bad for the lungs, baby. * 
 
 `` We couch enthusiasts were a tight bunch, once. Still are, but my old pal Al shook up the ground when he left us. The decline - or should I say, the *recline* - of the enthusiasts began on a terrible, fateful night. 
 
 `` There was a club where we'd meet at. Shady part of town where the lights are n't always on, you know what I mean?'' 
 
 `` It was dark?'' The officer said. 
 
 `` Exactly. Well, in that part of town, we had a clubhouse. Great spacious place, with sofas, lazy boys, Chesterfields, beanbag chairs, hammocks, you name it. One day he came in, said he…'' 
 
 It was n't raining, but something wet was dripping from his eyes. 
 
 *It's just man-sweat* 
 
 `` Al comes in, says he's not comfortable anymore. In a place like that, it's impossible. That haven was the most comfortable place in the world, ask any couch enthusiast if you can get a hold of one. We split up after Al left, but damn that was the finest place there ever was.'' 
 
 `` What was it called, this place? Maybe we should check it out.'' 
 
 `` It's been five years, buddy. Place was called *The Chair*, and it's been five long years since Al showed his face there. 

