Heavy Duty Metal Table Novels & Stories

I hated the echo as it made my skin crawl. "Fuck!" I kicked at the heel of my shoes and mud splattered off; flying away and adding color to the table legs that sprawled out beneath the walls of hanging weapons. The table tops themselves held knives and daggers small enough to be hidden underneath sleeves. I perused over them before picking up one; and squinted at its design. "Hmm...A Dalamain?..." I frowned.

Theraphosa was a bit hesitant this time. “Access granted for Matthew Blair Dragunov.” The red glow turned green. “All present individuals identified. Opening.” Upon saying so, the door slowly split open and revealed the interior. There was a short legged table in the middle with a mat under it. All around the table, countless weapons and equipment were neatly placed with some space between them and the table in the middle. In the back, there was a table with various equipment attached to it such as a magnifying glass, a light bulb, and a small welder. It also had cabinets that were probably filled with other tools.

Familiar, but in the way a burned down husk of a family home was familiar. With a firm yet controlled motion, Marcus planted a palm on the thick metal handlebars and pushed the door open wider. The room unfolded before them, a dim space draped in heavy shadows aside from the central table where a bright white light shone overhead. The table itself was worn, but cared for: a long mahogany affair scarred by years of clandestine dealings, but still it dominated the center, surrounded by high-backed leather chairs that seemed to absorb the essence of whatever secrets were spilled, whether that be words or blood. On the walls, shell-shaped sconces cast a gloomy glow, barely illuminating the faces

The rust has been smoothed over by skin, sweat, and blood. The walls are lined with neatly arranged racks; rows of levers, pulleys, and handcrafted mechanisms, each one as brutal as it is functional. A low table sits near the center of the space, bolted to the ground. It's not built for comfort. It's built for conversion. Pride turned into panic. Lies into truth. Strength into screams.

Ruby POV I sank into a large mahogany chair, its plush cushions and inviting design exuding an old-world luxury. The fabric was edged with gold tacks, giving the chair an elegant, almost regal presence. Before me, the table gleamed with a dazzling array of clear blue crystals, nothing like I'd ever seen. Everything in this pack house seemed to be crafted from precious stones and metals, a testament to their wealth and power. "Do you like my décor?" Gabe's mother asked, noticing my fascination with the unique table setting.

To Amy, the metal man looked like a bronze statue of 2Pac if it came to life. She saw the electric light in his eyes glowing like a charging light on a smartphone. His chiseled, metallic chest resembled body armor on a gladiator. Amy’s words were stuck in her throat as she stared at 2Pac. She didn’t want to be fascinated by a robotic man wearing blue jeans. Amy tried to keep her focus on her son sitting in the metal man’s arms. She looked up at the robotic 2Pac, who towered over her. His carved titanium alloy-covered shoulder muscles shimmered from the auto factory ceiling’s lights shining down on his six-foot-four frame.

The underground chamber was colder than it should have been, the walls thick with age and reinforced with layers of security that no one would dare breach. The room itself was decadence woven into power—an unsettling mix of old money and ruthless efficiency. The chandelier hanging above the long mahogany table wasn’t made of crystal or glass but of bones—fossilized fragments of creatures long extinct. Twelve men sat around the table, their expressions carved from stone. These weren’t politicians who played at power in the public eye.

Coagulated. The table wasn’t just for writing. Not with the leather restraints looped through iron rings at each corner. There was a chair, bolted to the floor beside it. A chair with deep gouges in the wooden arms. Like someone had fought. Screamed. Clawed. I tried to breathe. The scent of dragon scale hit me next. Burnt metal and smoke. Fragments were scattered across the table’s surface. Some fresh, some brittle with age. One had blood on it. Still wet.

"You two can handle that, right?" "No problem."Each man took an end of the table. It wasn’t an easy feat, either. The tables were made of solid mahogany that had been polished and buffed to a sparkling finish that made it hard to get a good grip. Gordon backed through the doors, sliding his feet backwards as he went so that he didn’t trip over anything. Mr. Hayes followed, the corner of his bottom lip clenched under his upper teeth. Both of them were visibly exerting themselves and something about it made the tender flesh on the inside of Tracy’s thighs begin to tingle.

I and Adolphus also stood up and he came closer to me. “Yeah. This is a stone table, but its structure works on a mechanism. Secretive, invisible to eyes, but definitely a mechanism to open the surface of the table, revealing the content of the box under the surface. This table is designed to store something very important and if my assumption is right, his infrastructure is also designed to keep that thing untouched by any kind of destruction,” I explained my observation without any hesitation. I looked at Cathy when she didn’t reply to me and jerked my head in confusion when I saw a baffled expression on her face.