It was a Dark And Stormy Knight. As he pulled off his armour, he trudged into the kitchen, his face cloudy. Grabbing a Bud Lite (TM) from the fridge, and wondering if the Lite stayed on when the door was closed, he opened the dishwasher to throw in yesterday's dishes, since the stove top, sink, and counters, not to mention the trashcan, were already crowded with plates, mugs, and rotting, mouldy food.

As the door creaked open, Sir Pseu noticed a strange smell and noise, simultaneously. Startled, but not enough to drop his beer, he leaped backwards. Or tried to. Having removed only his helm and gloves, he still wore over 112 pounds of Kevlar(tm)-encrypted, titanium-ribbed, electrobiologically-assisted armour, but his power pack was turned off. So he merely flopped backwards onto his well- protected rear (Itralians are notorious cowards in battle), and in thorough disgust at what he saw, drained the beer in one quick gulp.

The weak brew didn't help. There was still a thing in the dishwasher. His dishwasher. In his castle. Not 5 feet from his face, gurgling, writhing, stinking, slowly crawling out towards Sir Pseu's armoured boots, was a hideous, mottled, unbelievable, indescribable horror.

Slowly it slithered, slimily, towards him, as the dishwasher door melted before its noxious drippings and the cheap wallpaper began to peel from the walls, exposing cheap panelling put up backwards during the great wallboard shortage of '08. The DAS Knight, his face now raining sweat, could only back away in sheer, unmitigated terror. Slowly the reality of his fate etched itself into his mind, and with his last tenuous grasp on sanity, he drew his black-matte, Glock lance (bought before the Great Plastic Weapons Massacre by the '96 Congress), and blasted away at the thing. Then he fainted.

He awoke, his head buzzing, the acrid smell of gunpowder barely noticeable beneath the other, evil smell. His roommate was bent over him, pouring Even Newer Coke over his head, a worried look on his face. Licking his moustache, and thinking of what it would cost to get this stuff off his armour (assuming it didn't just corrode the armour past usefulness), Sir Pseu sat up. Suddenly it all came rushing back to him.

"The dishwasher. The dishwasher!" he screamed in a hoarse whisper.

His roommate, glancing sadly at the now melted Maytag, nodded and said quietly, "I bet the warranty doesn't cover this!"

"A Thing. A thing in the dishwasher! Is it dead?" he cried, his voice trembling in fear.

His roommate only looked sadly at the floor, and mumbled, "I knew I forgot to turn it on before I left town last month. Must have been that plate with the quiche burned onto it..."

Last updated: 2 Apr 1994

Copyright 1990, 1994 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX. All rights reserved.

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