In an old junk shop just off the Newton Road (handy for the buses, trains from 7am and every hour until 11pm, easy distance from Exeter, reasonable rates) a small red light winked and blinked in the darkness of an autumn evening.
“I am the Way,” declared the microwave. “I am Light. I am Life.”
“Must you?” sighed the electric fan. She sighed often, as she remembered better days.
“Give it a rest,” advised the record player in a high, squeaky voice. His setting had stuck at 78, a fact which he personally deplored. “You’re like a blooming stuck whatchamaycallit. Tip of my tongue – you know what I mean.”
“It’s always the same,” grated the toaster moodily. “I wish someone would buy him, put us all out of our misery. It’s more than a person can take, night after night. I never did hold with religion.”
“Blasphemy!” shouted the enraged microwave. “May you be recycled into chicken wire! You ignorant machines will rue the day...”
“Put a sock in it!” snapped the washing-machine, interrupting the tirade. “Who’s closest? You, teas-made – give him a shove, go on!”
“Who me?” stuttered the poor teas-made timorously. She shuffled as far from the Microwave as the shelf would allow and trembled dangerously on the edge.
“You will rue the day,” shrieked the microwave in high dudgeon. “I am Life! I am Light! I am the Beginning and the End!”
“You’re the end all right,” sniggered the washing-machine.
“Please,” sighed the fan. “I have a headache.”
“Very well,” said the microwave in frozen tones. “You asked for it. You unbelievers shall pay with your lives! I shall will you out of existence!”
“I’d like to see...” began the toaster heatedly, and broke off.
The small red light winked out, the junk shop silent and deserted.
“Hah!” said the microwave. “I told you so! How’d you like that eh? I am the Light. I am the Life. I am All.”
No one answered. The microwave basked in the quiet for a while, then he got bored. He wondered he should do next.