“What would you do if I said I’d finally got the better of you, old friend?” Lamont gloats, slipping into the chair’s comfortable velvet.
He watches as Jackson splutters out the poison-laced cocktail, laughing. “I’d pity you. You should’ve known better. Your last big play has undone you!”
Ramona joins his side, her glazed-over eyes those of a traitorous accomplice. “I’m sorry, Lammy.”
“It’s not poisoned, is it?”
Jackson grins. “No. And that’s not an ordinary chair, old friend.”
The chair begins to fold in on itself, its mechanical groans soon drowned out by the sound of agonised screams and breaking bones.