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.
This article may be freely distributed via computer network or other electronic media, or printed out from such media, for personal use only. Any non-personal (ie, commercial) use of this article voids the warranty which prevents my wasting hundreds, if not thousands, of yours and my dollars in lawsuits. Commercial copy permission may be granted if, in the author's sole opinion, other usage of this article is for purposes the author holds near and dear to his heart and/or wallet. For such permission, contact the author via email at roadkills.r.us@XYZZY.gmail.com [remove the "XYZZY." to make things work!] or via mail at the address below. Appearing in person at the author's residence during daylight hours for a personal audience is also permitted, provided no weapons are brought along. This notice contains no MSG, sugar, artificial sweeteners, sunlight, air, or other known carcinogenic substances or energy forms.1705 Oak Forest / Round Rock, TX / 78681-1514 / USA
This copyright may be freely used, distributed and modified subject to the conditions noted above in the preceeding paragraph. Miles O'Neal <roadkills.r.us@XYZZY.gmail.com> [remove the "XYZZY." to make things work!] c/o RNN / 1705 Oak Forest Dr / Round Rock, TX / 78681-1514