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Strange? Nay, strange is too bland of a word, as is any word invented to describe the metamorphosis of a neglected toaster in the apartment of a dead man. As if the reflection of the man in the apartment inspired this change, or if the toaster had in fact over the years had been studying its owner, awaiting anxiously, there was no human alive to say. A nearly full-grown, naked man now lay on the kitchen counter. He was not really a man, though. Protruding from the back of his bald head ran a power cord. Atop the summit of his cranium formed two large slots- toaster slots. And sure enough was, on his forehead, a handle to sink toast into his head. His physique was neither fat, nor fit. He simply was. No one ever knew where he came from or what caused life to breathe into his vents. And no priest or deacon alive would dare make judgment on whether a damnation like a toaster man is spawned from heaven or hell. The toaster moved an arm. It grasped at the plug that had electrically chained it to the wall for an eternity, and jerked it from the wall. The toaster inhaled deeply, and his breath was slowly chased away by a relaxing exhale. The toaster was exhausted. Not that any human could ever relate, but a transformation like that would physically exhaust someone. His eyes swirled with dazzling light and color as young blood rushed into his head which swam in dizziness. He passed out and crawled into a deep sleep. He awoke an hour later. He tossed himself from the counter. Knees and legs crumbled to the floor with utter ignorance for equilibrium. Climbing back up onto the counter, he leaned up against it's once-white surface, and used it for his crutch. He stumbled back and forth across the kitchen floor, miraculously wondering at the difficulty of the simple task of walking, which he had observed time over time. Practice makes perfect, and an hour later an unsteady stumble turned into an unsteady pace, with many a rumbling throws to the floor and several bruises to remain for weeks. The toaster looked down the stairs onto the foyer and looked upon his former master. The toaster stared upon him with cold, emotionless eyes. The man looked rather humorous. Twisted and mangled like a cartoon whose pursuer had just knocked him senseless. The toaster did not laugh. The man's comically bent position sent silent grief into the toaster man, and he stared there for hours, noticing how the corpse resembled a bird fallen from the nest, deteriorating. The toaster was not ignorant from such things as birds and the outside world as one would probably imagine. For the years that he had labored upon that dreadful counter top, the small television across the room had been his textbook. All of the world- love, money, transportation, general knowledge was attained through the TV. The television had been his ever-annoying, sometimes disturbing companion in the appliance world. The toaster still stood there naked, still contemplating the situation, feeling with every sensory nerve in his body the slight breeze being spit from the ventilation system. He felt strong and defiant, yet somehow there was still a factor which left him feeling quite vulnerable and defenseless. A drifting eye again caught a glimpse of the dead man at the base of the stair next to the door, and studied him again. Of course! The toaster needed a wardrobe! Remembering his extreme lack of agility, he slowly walked to the bedroom. The closet doors flung open. Simple. He must dress simple to draw as little attention to himself as possible. First, he grabbed a plain red T-shirt. It fit comfortably. Noticing a bothersome brush against his back as if some stray leaf had found it's way to the back of one's shirt, he remembered his power cord that trailed from the back of his head fashionably, and pulled it from the back of his shirt so that it hung freely. The toaster then remembered the several Hanes commercials shown to him by his friend, television. The man who lived here was larger than the toaster, obviously, but the appliance thought it common and proper, not to mention necessary to wear undergarments. He pulled from the top of the man's closet a loose set of boxers and slipped them on. They comically, barely grasped onto the edge of his hips. He smiled to himself in the full length mirror on the back of the closet door. Pants. A pair of blue jeans were grabbed from the bottom of the closet. After clumsily falling over repeatedly trying to put them on and stand on one leg at a time. The toaster sat on the floor and slid them on. He stood up. The huge trousers fell immediately to the floor, inviting with them his boxers. He pulled them up again immediately, blushing to himself even though no stray eyes infected the bedroom. After this, and several other failed attempts, he managed to tie his pants off eventually with a brown leather belt, forgetting a loop in the back on the left side. He again looked in the mirror, this time with great pride as he painted a smile upon that glass canvas. The pants where far too big, and the cuffs were rolled to keep his goofy feet from tripping over his own garments. The toaster's confidence energized him now to explore this new world and start in a giant game. A game in which every man plays, whose unknown objective drives him ever forward in age, now compelled this artificial soul also. |