Spider Chair

That chair looked like some sort of rusted clock-work spider, it was all predatory angles and the suggestion of some livid, serrated movement. I’d not come so far into his sanctum sanctorum, a room outfitted like the cell of some post-modern cenobite, filled with blinking machinery and mold filled coffee cups, without pausing in fear, trembling within easy reach of the door. I think it was the photograph of his family, normal, safe amidst the soiled sheets and dirty surgical tape that freaked me out the most. Was this chair the device with which he had butchered and raped so many people? I noticed the beer fridge in the corner, but its glass front was caked over with thick, flaking orangey stains and it leaked a cloying stench of copper and rot. The flies were everywhere. I asked him how he could live like this. He considered my question for a moment before replying that; “God is in the details”.