My dad was a woodcutter by trade. After a long day cutting wood, he'd sit in the chair by the fire. It was his favorite chair.
The neighborhood witch had some sort of quarrel with him. I never understood why. She cursed his axe.
One day, the axe cut off his right arm. We had a replacement arm made out of tin.
When the axe cut off his other arm, all we could do was get him another tin one. Ought to have thrown away the axe at that point; not sure why we didn't.
It wasn't long before the axe had cut off each and every flesh-and-blood part of his head and body. He was all tin in the end.
Now, my uncle wasn't a woodcutter like my dad; he was a mad scientist. He'd save each chopped-off bit of my dad; but he'd never tell us what for.
After my dad was all tin, my uncle stitched all the old meat-and-bones parts of him together, then jazzed them with a bolt of lightning. They came back to life.
After that, my meat dad and my tin dad bickered constantly.
"Get out of that chair," my tin dad would say. "It's my chair."
"No, it isn't," my meat dad would say. "It's mine."