Collective Mutants: When Toasters Go Bad

by Rossi

The morning began ordinarily enough.

Allison stumbled down the stairs, yawning. She was, as was typical, first up: Fatimah tended to sleep late after working for most of the evening; there had been a last-minute deadline for the leaflets to be used in whatever Karen was protesting against this week, with the usual red wine afterwards; Fish had been out with his mates and James had had some kind of geek-fest in the lounge room involving some of his Engineering mates and a stack of videos. She wrinkled her nose at the teetering tower of glasses on the sink, sticky with Coke, but share house living meant give and take, and she was prepared to give James the chance to do his own cleaning up. Any way, she had more pressing concerns, namely in the shape of Vegemite toast and a nice hot cup of milky tea.

The bread, for some reason, was in the vegetable crisper - muttering under her breath, Allison finally located it and dragged it out, grabbing the milk with the other hand and balancing the margarine in the crook of her elbow, necessitating her using her moccasin-clad foot to close the fridge door. On the stove, the kettle was close to boiling; she fished a tea bag out of the canister on the windowsill above the sink and dropped it into her favourite mug, which was an enormous red-enamelled monstrosity that she'd had on the farm. Humming quietly, Allison pulled a couple of slices of bread out of the bag and reached over to the toaster.

"Good morning! Can I interest you in some toast?" it asked her cheerfully.

The subsequent explosion woke the whole house.

"What the?" Fish mumbled, stumbling out of his room and down a hallway that smelt strongly of burning plastic. He was nearly knocked into the wall as Karen, gripping a fire extinguisher (the house had several, provided by Allison's parents as a house-warming (pun intended, knowing her father) gift when the farm-girl moved in), charged down the stairs. She was closely followed by Fatimah, flying rather than walking down the stairs, her eyes wide and anxious. More slowly came James, wrinkling his nose at the stench of fried electronics.

A thick cloud of smoke rolled out of the kitchen, and inside, they could hear Allison coughing and spluttering. Then came the reluctant squeal of the windows being opened, and the backdoor was flung open - the smoke wafted out into the small backyard, allowing the four to see what had happened.

"You killed the toaster, mate," Fish observed astutely. Not a morning person by nature, being hungover as well tended to blunt his natural intelligence. Allison gave him a withering look.

"It _talked_ at me. Scared the crap out of me," she said defensively. "So I kinda... lost it."

"You did indeed." Karen regarded the smoking remains sadly. "And I was craving Vegemite toast for brekkie this morning."

"You said the toaster talked? How is that possible?" asked Fatimah, peeking at the mess from behind Fish.

As one, they turned to look at James, who blushed scarlet to the roots of his hair.

"Um, yeah, I meant to tell you about that..."

***

"So, on this spaceship, they have a talking toaster?" Allison asked, munching away on her Vegemite-smeared toast.

James nodded, pausing to take the screw out of his mouth before replying. "Yeah, the Talkie Toaster. It drives all the crew nuts, constantly harassing them about bread products."

"And you thought it would be a good idea to make one of your own?"

"I plead temporary insanity." James tinkered with some wires, nodding to himself when he had tweaked them to his satisfaction. "Brought on by the over-consumption of Coke and a Red Dwarf marathon."

"No jury would convict you, Blue," laughed Karen from where she was making tea for herself at the kitchen bench. On the table, James turned the ruined toaster over and applied his screwdriver to some more wiring. A small blue spark erupted from its insides and he yelped.

"Wouldn't it be better to unplug it?" asked Allison. When he looked at her, she shrugged. "Just a thought."

"Nah, I can't hear what's going on inside it if I do that," James said, smoothing down his on-end hair and picking up the screwdriver again. "Come, baby, speak to me," he told the toaster. "I'll make sure the big bad pyrokinetic doesn't hurt you again."

"James, sometimes you worry me," Allison said, with Karen nodding her agreement. James merely grinned, and yelped as he received another jolt from his patient.

The End.

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