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Childish eyes gazed through a tinted bus window. The flat countryside sped swiftly underneath the churning wheels of the bus. Looks of amazement were sent through that tinted glass from a face who had never seen such wide open space as now. Restless new feet unbearably longed to tread on the soft fields of the country's plains. Nature fascinated the toaster, filling him with boyish giddiness like a young child on Christmas morn, which he had only now calmed himself of. He turned his head to inspect the rest of the bus, besides his window, which he had been staring at as one would a television set for the past couple hours. He stared at the passenger in the seat next to him. He was a grotesque character, indeed. Long black hair paraded either side of his face. Tattered old suspenders hid a plaid flannel shirt underneath, and both yet where blanketed by a dusty, brown canvas jacket. The stranger's jaw was well-pronounced and his face was thin and worn. Several scars covered his face which seemed to sink into his head. Above all of this, though, the toaster cringed to look at this skinny, ugly man because his face was full of a deep, lonely emptiness. The toaster felt much sorrow for him. The stranger peripherally noticed the toaster-head staring at him, but turned neither his head nor shifted his eyes to acknowledge that he noticed the inspection. The toaster stood on his seat with his knees, giving a quick glance to everyone aboard the bus. He immediately noticed uncanny differences between these people and the ones introduced to him by the television. First of all, these people did not even glance at him to notice that his head was a toaster, and he would probably guess that they would be none more surprised if they did see it, and more disheartening, yet none the less shocking is that that same deep emptiness clouded all of their faces. Some evil force, so it seemed, had boarded the bus, and drained the life from all of the people aboard. The toaster frowned and plopped down in his seat. He reached out at a chain that hung from his belt loop and tugged at the watch at the other end. He held it close to his face and squinted to examine its details. He could not translate it's encrypted images, masked in the form of a series of X's, I's, and V's. The two precise arms were meaningless to him. He turned it over and polished its metal with the front of his shirt. He looked out the window again, hoping for something new. The image he saw was the exact same as he had seen twenty minutes ago. He stared back up at his neighbor, whose hooked nose resembled that of a bird, and with his black hair and facial form, he resembled a great raven. "Why do none of the people aboard here smile?" The toaster dared, hoping to open up a conversation. The ugly man blinked. When his eyes opened, they were glaring at the toaster who now sunk back in his chair a little, and without turning his head the man blinked and opened his eyes again to fix themselves back onto the back of the seat in front of him. "I speak for no one else here." The ugly man spoke in a deep, yet somehow squeaky tone, which made the toaster, who had not expected a response, jump with fright. "You?" The toaster requested. "Farmer Bill." "You are a farmer?", asked the toaster. "No. Just an old nickname." He paused. "Have you read The Tale of Two Cities?" "I'm afraid I am a bit of a stranger to books." "Pity. Well, the farmer in the start of the story who is the harvester of death..." Another pause. "I played that role for many years." Strangely, the age now also showed in his face. He now looked much older than the toaster originally had guessed. The toaster requested, "Yes?" "I used to be strong. Used to be confident. I have seen many things whose shock would kill many men alone. I am haunted nightly by demons of my past and fear of my future. I await anxiously the day that I die." "Well, hey! I just got here. Don't chase me out of the restaurant until I see a rat for myself." "Well said. I am sorry. I am not a normal man. I have created. I have destroyed. I have loved. I have lost. And I cannot die. Look upon these thin arms. I have starved for years. These arms once ripped holes through walls, like bears' claws." "Where are you going?" The toaster asked, trying to steer away from the topic at hand. "That is the one common fate I share with the rest of the loathsome souls upon this vessel. I don't know. This is where life has taken us. And we wait upon this bus, quite possibly for years going in circles and waiting for life to lead us somewhere better." "No offense intended," The ugly man sat forward a bit and turned his head to see what the toaster had to say, "but you need to get off this bus." The stranger lifted an eyebrow. "I mean, if life is so unbearable for you, then help make it a bit easier for those who don't know what to expect." "I cannot, for I am selfish. I wish the best for anyone who must experience the same trials as I, but cannot let go of the past. It is a drug." He held out his thinning arm. "It has drained me so, yet it is an addiction I cannot give up. With the bad memories that drain me, come also the good memories that keep me alive." The toaster sat fumbling with his new gold watch, seemingly awaiting the end of the stranger's lecture. "I used to be a hero..." "Can you tell me what these strange runes mean on this watch?" The toaster broke in. "Ask naught of me unless you wish to hear it.", snapped the ugly man. "I used to fight and kill in the name of peace and justice," "So... How did that go?" "It was a nightmare!" Farmer Bill snapped, raising his voice. He lowered his tone a bit and continued, "No good comes of killing, whether demons or angels, killing is an altogether evil act, but sometimes must be done to help the all." He turned his head to stare again at the seat in front of him. "Your head. A toaster." "Yes?" "I had only just noticed." The toaster smirked a smile, "So what good came of it all?" "Some of the finest peoples in my life where met while I remained in duty. Can you really make toast?" "You mean women?", the toaster mused. Farmer Bill gradually grinned. He apparently stared into his past, looking upon some gorgeous young mistress. "Yes. A few of the most beautiful women ever created were met in those days." A tear raced to his chin, and his smile diminished from a bowing head, "and they all died in my arms." "Yes." The toaster dared once again, breaking another long silence. "What?" "Yes, I can make toast, but I do no longer. I have slaved, thanklessly over heat for too long. I'm on vacation now." Pause. "Tell me about these girls." He didn't expect an answer.
The toaster looked down to his feet. Now, out the window. Another large green sign passed the speeding bus, illustrating an abstract shape filled with a number. Numbers, numbers, numbers- they were everywhere. What comfort did they give? Why did most people let numbers guide them like cattle in everything that they did. "Where are you going?" Farmer Bill broke his thoughts away. "I don't know. To the city, I guess. New York City." "You don't have a place to live?" "Nope." "I'll help you." Farmer Bill said without smiling. The toaster smiled with delight. "You have a place in New York?" "No." Bill turned his head to the toaster. His eye twinkled, and he lifted the corner of his mouth. "I've got connections." He proudly boasted a half-smile. The toaster stiffly held out his hand, deciding now to be formal. "Thank you very much. It has been really nice to meet you." Farmer Bill accepted the handshake and asked, "And who do I now shake hands with?" "With me." "And who are you?" Hmmm..." The toaster had not really yet contemplated a name. His former master gave him only the name 'Hurry up, you stupid toaster', and that just would not be proper any more. "I guess my name is Toasterhead." "Nice to meet you TH." He stared directly into the toaster's eyes, which glared now. The age could visibly be seen draining from Farmer Bill's face as youth and excitement grew within him. He let go of the toaster's handshake, carefully keeping locked his glance. A much younger and healthier voice now spoke, "Toasterhead, We must get off this bus!" "Uh, sure. At the next stop..." "No time!" Farmer Bill seemed now frantic. "Can't you see this bus is evil? It's draining our hopes and dreams. It's making us weak." Farmer Bill stood up and ran to the helm of the bus, dragging the toaster by the arm behind him like a rag doll. "Driver!" He hollered, approaching the front of the bus. "We need to get off this bus!" "Well, OK, At the next stop..." "No time! We have to get off this bus now." "Nothing doing," The old, white haired, driver sat up in an almost salutary manner and began quoting from the bus driver's creed, "Lest any chap be sick or drunk or anything is left that stunk, the moving bus must never stop except by hand of light or cop until it's destination we do reach say I again this little speech." The driver smiled, closed his eyes and seemed quite proud of himself for following strictly his duty. "Please, sir, perhaps you could make an exception?" The toaster pleaded with the old, neatly-uniformed driver. "Perhaps, we could work something out." Farmer Bill stuffed a crisp, one dollar bill into his shirt pocket. "What?!" The driver overtook a look of shock and distress. "Are you trying to bribe me?! Go, sit down!" "Maybe this will change you're mind." Bill stuffed another one dollar bill into his pocket. The toaster hysterically laughed at Farmer Bill, wondering at whether he was being sarcastic or if he was seriously crazy. "I will not be bribed!!" Screamed the bus driver who now bit his bottom lip with nervousness. He took the bills and pulled them from his pocket. He held them in front of his face, and looked at them in disgust before he threw them to the floor. "Now go back to your seats before I..." "You what?" Bill whispered over his shoulder like the bad half of a conscience, "...kick us off the bus?" "Sit down!" Spots of sweat formed on the forehead of the bus driver who was now red with fury. "OK, I've had enough of this..." Bill stepped back a step and reached behind his back. He pulled a large, unidentifiable handgun from his back. A red light shined a dot on the driver's forehead. "Now, stop the bus or die!" Farmer Bill bellowed with a deep, loud voice. The rest of the bus remained dead and motionless, seemingly oblivious to the entire situation. The panicked bus driver impulsively stomped on the brake pedal. Tires screeched. A lady screamed. Farmer Bill flew through the front windshield. The front windshield shattered. The toaster saved his position by wrapping his arms around a large metal pole in the front of the bus. The toaster's feet left from underneath him. Chaos ensued aboard the bus. Bill rolled off the hood and onto the pavement. The toaster stole his chance to escape and kicked the door open and leapt to the gravel on the side of the road, falling upon his imperfect landing. He scrambled to view the front of the bus, to observe Bill's fares. He lay on the ground, seemingly disoriented. With little pause the bus released a, "Psshhtt!", and it's engine revved. Bill rolled to the other side of the road. The bus rolled past him, missing his shoulder by inches. |