Mix Up

There was a strange noise coming from the washing machine. While it usually rumbled and sounded a little run down, now it was clattering like it was full of cutlery. I knew what I had in there—socks—wouldn’t make that much racket, but I was afraid to open it on account of all the things that had gone wrong when strange noises appeared in my life. I looked ruefully at the spot where my fridge used to be. I wasn’t eager to toss another appliance to the street.

My chair became uncomfortable. My clothes were itchy. I had to go to the restroom. I needed a drink of water. It was too hot in the house. There wasn’t enough of a breeze. Eventually, I ran out of excuses and distractions and walked into the laundry room, toolbox in hand. I looked at the dial on the washer. It hadn’t moved from when I put it on “Start Cycle” half an hour ago. This was it. I turned it to “Off” but it kept making noise. I yanked on handle of the lid, but it wouldn’t budge.

I kicked it out of frustration. Another appliance ruined by Russian hackers. I reset my wifi password and suddenly the clanking stopped. The lid eventually unlocked once the spinning slowed down. I opened it.

There was a bundle of wires and what looked like clay packed inside. My socks were nowhere to be seen. Taped to the top of the weird machinery was an envelope addressed to someone with my name but at a different address. I walked over to the sunlight pouring in through the window and opened the letter.

“Your subversion has gone unchecked for too long. The fridge was a warning and you ignored it at your peril.”

The bomb in the washer exploded, sending fireballs and jets of metal streaming out into the house. The whole interior of the house disintegrated, what was left of me drifting out of the window as ash.