I discovered another bullet-hole chair, only this one was bullet riddled.
It leaned against a dead milking parlor of an abandoned dairy farm. It might have leaned there for years, decades.
I saw the chair while waiting to deliver goods for the dog sanctuary rummage sale. There it was, riddled through metal on one side, cushion blown out the other.
Someone used it for target practice and they were apparently a good marksman.
I thought about taking it home and adding it to my collection of bullet-hole chairs—a matching set!
But I left the chair behind because I wanted someone else to notice it, make up a wild story, perhaps even take it home and have it become the centerpiece of a home’s décor, like mine is.
(Footnote: A few days after the discovery of the second bullet-hole chair, I was helping a friend clear out a garage when I saw two metal, cushioned folding chairs. I picked one of them up and noticed holes in the bottom in precisely the same arrangement as the aforementioned chair at the barn. I surmised they were present to provide ventilation for the cushion. No bullets made the holes. I still have just the one chair.)