“Step into my fortress,” says the microwave, the evil auctioneer, conductor of particle transportation. And many did.
If ever there was a bad-ass in the kitchen it was the toaster. It was a nutcase.
“How’s things Marty?” asked Paul. Paul and Marty were kitchen cupboards, neighbors and comrades for the best of twenty years. They’d been through everything together -They’d been together since they’d left the factory.
The plughole was growing tiresome of this menace, this looming eye over it, watching, it’s long neck cocked out, waiting for something to happen. The tap had spent every day since installation spying (maybe that’s too subtle a word) on the plughole.
The saucer was an angry little dish. He was like a human pinkie finger…