Yoshiwara

Bad Toaster

I had been having trouble with my toaster for a while. At first it had just been the usual things - toast not being done evenly or the sliders refusing to lock in position - the sort of complaints that everybody has from time to time. But the toaster had been a present, and it was decorated with a nice design floral pattern. So, I kept on using it.

Then things got worse. The heating elements gave off dark red flames, and cabalistic symbols appeared on my toast. When the toaster began to speak in tongues that, as far as I was concerned, was enough. I retrieved the box that it came in from under the stairs, made sure the till receipt was still inside, and packed the toaster away before heading for the shop.

I was relieved to get there. All through the journey the toaster had been emitting sulphurous fumes and muttering prayers to Satan. I joined the queue for the customer services desk and waited for my turn.

"What's the problem?" the shop assistant asked me, a fixed grin on her face.

I put the box on the counter. "It's this," I said. "I want to return it."

"Do you have the receipt?"

I slapped the roll of flimsy paper onto the desk. "There you are. Bought less than three months ago, according to this."

"Alright," the assistant replied. ""Let's see what's wrong with it." She opened the box. The toaster spat out a jet of hellfire and accused the assistant of deviant sexual practices. A woman in the queue behind me blanched and covered her child's ears.

"I'm sorry," the assistant said, her smile staying at the same angle as before. "We can't accept this." She pushed the cursing appliance back towards me.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Possessed appliances are not covered by our guarantee."

"But -," I began. The assistant cut me off.

"Does it still make toast?" she asked.

I shrugged. "Yes. It makes passable toast. Apart from the pentagrams burnt onto it."

The assistant was firm. "Then it's cosmetic only. And if you look at our terms and conditions ... ?" She pointed at a laminated sheet that had been glued to the counter top. Damn. She had me on that one. The assistant looked over my shoulder. "Next please!"

I drove home with the toaster laughing menacingly at me.

Well, I couldn't get a refund, but I could still get rid of the toaster. On the night before the next bin collection day, I wrapped the toaster in an old plastic bag and placed it in the rubbish bin - black for general waste, of course. Then I wheeled the bin out onto the pavement. When I came back from work the next afternoon, the bin was where I had left it. The council workmen had left a note on the bin informing me that electrical waste had to be disposed of properly - not just putting it out for collection - and that my bin would not be emptied until I had removed the toaster.

I put the toaster back in the kitchen. That night my sleep was interrupted by the screams of the damned echoing up the stairs, and I was in a terrible mood when I came down for breakfast in the morning. But, I was resolute. I was not going to let the toaster get the better of me.

The council dump had a skip for small electrical items. If I left my toaster there, then I would be rid of it. I drove out to the dump. The man on the gate stopped me. "What have you got there?" he asked.

"A toaster," I told him. "I've come to get rid of it."

"At the end," the man on the gate said, and pointed along the rows of containers. When I got there, nobody was around, so I threw the toaster into a pile of discarded gadgets. It protested loudly, but I ignored it. It was somebody else's problem now.

Only it wasn't. When I woke up the next morning, the toaster was back in its place. I knew it was angry at me. It squatted in the corpse of the toaster that I had bought to replace it, and growled menacingly at me. I knew I had to take more drastic measures if I wanted to be rid of thing. Fortunately I had a friend who was a priest. I gave him a phone call.

"You're not going to believe this," I told him, "but my toaster has been possessed. Is there anything you can do?"

"Well," my friend replied, "I am authorised to carry out exorcisms on electrical goods, but I'll need to come and see the toaster first. Most of these cases are down to psychiatric problems."

"Can you come this afternoon?"

"I'll be there after confession."

My friend was true to his word. He arrived at three o'clock, and I showed him into the kitchen. The toaster hurled blasphemous phrases at him in Enochian.

"That's definitely possessed," my friend said.

"I told you so."

My friend went out to his car, returning with a black leather doctor's bag. He laid the contents out on the kitchen table: bell, bible, candle, bottles of holy water. "Standard issue exorcism kit," he explained. "I'll deal with the toaster. you'd better wait outside. This might get messy."

I did as I was told. From the other side of the kitchen door I heard chanting in Latin, punctuated by groans and cursing. The noise grew louder and louder. Strange lights shone around the edge of the doorframe, and blood pooled on the ceiling above me to run down the walls. It was obvious that some terrible struggle was going on in the kitchen.

Then - silence.

I opened the kitchen door. There was no sign of my friend the priest, but the toaster was still there. It had grown bigger: four bread slots instead of two; and the floral design had gone, replaced by a scene of pandemonium. The toaster shifted on its tray. "Where is your God now?" it laughed.

But it did make good toast.