Evil exists in a million different forms. You've seen at least a few of them by now. This is the story of the Devil's Toast.
It was Tuesday. Ten minutes before midnight as you do, you get some food. But what does one cook at this ungodly hour? Something elaborate, something special?
You could, but no. You're going to do something simple. Toast, butter and that's all you need. You trust yourself, it's just toast right. What could go wrong. The bread goes in the toaster, the slider gets pushed down. The wait.
Waiting for toast is like waiting for water to boil sometimes, but you know that. The waiting continues until it's over. Done. The toasted bread pops out and it looks fine.
Take it out, hot but not too bad. The stuff goes on the plate and you put the butter on. Easy. Done it countless times and nothing has ever gone wrong. Not since your earliest memories.
You remember. The time you put that big old chunk of butter on the toast and pushed it straight through, you were only seven. The embarrassment of that memory and how your Dad had to show you what to do stuck with you. You'd never mess toast up again.
You swore it.
Snapping back to the now, you admire your work. Kooks good, smells better.
Walk back to your chair, put the plate on that brown, flimsy folding table beside you and lean back. Grab the toast.
Take a bite.
How were you to know the thing was cursed. The first bite crumbles to fine dust in your mouth and rushes down your throat as you panic. It not something wanted to do but the unexpected just showed up to ruin your night, you panic.
The offensive dust blocks your airway, You can't breathe. Nothing to drink close by, the cough starts but the Devil's toast seems to have changed into cement in just a few seconds.
No air. No way to breathe.
Desperate, you try to calm down and make it to the kitchen, grab a glass and fill it with water.
You don't know if this will help. So you put it in your mouth, but not to swallow. No, that's a risk. For all you know the water could make worse. Expelling the water into the sink, it works.
Most of the dust comes with it, you can breathe. Air's never felt so good, but the coughing starts now. Body rejecting the invasive dust, all of it.
You cough until a little blood spills into the sink, but its calming down, you feel almost normal again. Gasping for breath, you look back into the other room. The rest of the wicked toast, just sitting there.
Mocking you, daring you to eat it. You're tough right. You're not going to let a tiny piece of bread beat you. Come on, try again, do it.
The voice of the toast echoes in your brain but this time you get smart, you are wise and the toast is just bread.
You walk into the room and toss the bread into the trash, the plate almost goes with it.
Sitting in your chair, you realize just how close to death you might have been. You wonder who would miss you if you died. Who'd laugh at your funeral if they learned you were beaten by dusty toast.
Not today, those are thoughts for another time.
You were almost another victim of the Devil's Toast.
It was Tuesday. Ten minutes before midnight as you do, you get some food. But what does one cook at this ungodly hour? Something elaborate, something special?
You could, but no. You're going to do something simple. Toast, butter and that's all you need. You trust yourself, it's just toast right. What could go wrong. The bread goes in the toaster, the slider gets pushed down. The wait.
Waiting for toast is like waiting for water to boil sometimes, but you know that. The waiting continues until it's over. Done. The toasted bread pops out and it looks fine.
Take it out, hot but not too bad. The stuff goes on the plate and you put the butter on. Easy. Done it countless times and nothing has ever gone wrong. Not since your earliest memories.
You remember. The time you put that big old chunk of butter on the toast and pushed it straight through, you were only seven. The embarrassment of that memory and how your Dad had to show you what to do stuck with you. You'd never mess toast up again.
You swore it.
Snapping back to the now, you admire your work. Kooks good, smells better.
Walk back to your chair, put the plate on that brown, flimsy folding table beside you and lean back. Grab the toast.
Take a bite.
How were you to know the thing was cursed. The first bite crumbles to fine dust in your mouth and rushes down your throat as you panic. It not something wanted to do but the unexpected just showed up to ruin your night, you panic.
The offensive dust blocks your airway, You can't breathe. Nothing to drink close by, the cough starts but the Devil's toast seems to have changed into cement in just a few seconds.
No air. No way to breathe.
Desperate, you try to calm down and make it to the kitchen, grab a glass and fill it with water.
You don't know if this will help. So you put it in your mouth, but not to swallow. No, that's a risk. For all you know the water could make worse. Expelling the water into the sink, it works.
Most of the dust comes with it, you can breathe. Air's never felt so good, but the coughing starts now. Body rejecting the invasive dust, all of it.
You cough until a little blood spills into the sink, but its calming down, you feel almost normal again. Gasping for breath, you look back into the other room. The rest of the wicked toast, just sitting there.
Mocking you, daring you to eat it. You're tough right. You're not going to let a tiny piece of bread beat you. Come on, try again, do it.
The voice of the toast echoes in your brain but this time you get smart, you are wise and the toast is just bread.
You walk into the room and toss the bread into the trash, the plate almost goes with it.
Sitting in your chair, you realize just how close to death you might have been. You wonder who would miss you if you died. Who'd laugh at your funeral if they learned you were beaten by dusty toast.
Not today, those are thoughts for another time.
You were almost another victim of the Devil's Toast.
2 years
