Agis vs the Modern Toaster

Agis had been trained since childhood for battle. Back in the days when the agoge meant wrestling bears and dodging spears instead of spam emails, he earned his stripes through brutal fights, harsh winters, and a regimen that made your gym membership look like a meditation retreat. He'd fought foes across distant lands and even attempted to wrestle a bear once—not successfully, but the story killed at dinner parties in Sparta.

None of that prepared him for his most fearsome foe: the modern toaster.

Yes, a toaster. A sidekick to breakfast, an appliance so trivial that even a philosopher wouldn't waste a thought on it.

Yet today, it betrayed him. Its mission was simple—toast the bread. But the moment Agis pressed the lever, the contraption shrieked like a Spartan poet insulted in public, unleashed a shower of sparks as if auditioning for the next Star Wars, and then fell silent—like an oracle refusing to speak.

Agis narrowed his eyes. This was no ordinary kitchen mishap.

This was a modern Hydra, smug in its silence, mocking him with unresponsive buttons.

He exhaled sharply. "Fine. This will not stand."

He pressed the button again, slowly, deliberately—because even warriors must test patience before resorting to violence.

Nothing. The silence stung like a Spartan forgetting his shield in battle.

Plan A: Logic.

Agis turned the device over, studied the gears, springs, and inscriptions (probably a manual written in a long-extinct language). Surely, there must be a simple fix.

Armed with a knife, he attempted to push the lever back into place. That was his first mistake.

A loud ZZZZZT! roared, followed by an explosion of sparks so dramatic it seemed Zeus himself had weighed in.

Agis leapt back as the knife vibrated in his grip, possessed by what he assumed was an appliance demon.

The toaster hissed.

Agis glared.

Plan B: The Spear.

Even in the kitchen, a Spartan is never without his spear.

Agis jabbed at the toaster's insides with precision, as if striking at the heart of a worthy adversary. A loud clunk followed—promising!

Encouraged, he prodded harder.

Then another mistake.

A BZZZZT! erupted, followed by a burst of flames that leapt from the toaster like an overeager pyrotechnician at a festival.

Agis yelped and dodged—his reflexes, at least, were still excellent.

The toaster had now officially entered the battle.

Plan C: Total War.

Agis unsheathed his sword—a battle-hardened companion in wars against barbarians and, now, breakfast appliances.

The first slash sent crumbs flying like confetti at a victory parade.

The second dented the metal—progress!

The third, fueled by modern frustration and medieval rage, sent the toaster skidding across the counter, knocking over a bowl of olives.

Agis froze.

The toaster... still stood.

It gleamed in defiance, its buttons shining like miniature shields of insolence, daring him to try again.

Plan D: The Overthrow.

Summoning the full might of Sparta, Agis hoisted the toaster high above his head and, with a war cry that might have echoed through history, hurled it across the kitchen.

It soared through the air, collided with the refrigerator, and shattered into several pieces.

Victory.

Or so he believed.

As the smoke cleared and the scent of burning plastic mingled with the shattered remains of his kitchen pride, Agis's gaze dropped to the counter.

There sat his greatest failure—a slice of bread, untouched, utterly raw.

Plan E: Walmart.

No Spartan warrior accepts defeat.

With the determination of a man who once charged into Persian armies, Agis marched toward the great halls of Walmart, his bronze armor gleaming under fluorescent lights. The automatic doors hissed open before him like temple gates responding to an oracle's command.

A young employee, whose name tag read "Justin," looked up from his phone just long enough to mutter, "Welcome to Walmart," before doing a dramatic double-take at the fully-armored Greek warrior standing in the entrance.

"I require a bread-heating device," Agis announced to Justin, who was now wondering if his manager had mentioned anything about dealing with ancient warriors during orientation.

"Uh... aisle seven. Appliances."

Agis strode through the store, his sandals echoing against the linoleum as confused shoppers scattered before him. He found himself in an aisle lined with gleaming boxes, each promising toast perfection through "innovative heating technology" and "digital precision."

"What sorcery is this?" he muttered, examining a box that boasted '6 Toast Shade Settings.'

A different employee approached, clipboard in hand.

"Can I help you... sir?"

"Yes! I seek a worthy replacement for my fallen bread-heating device. One that will not spark like Zeus's lightning or refuse to heat my bread like a stubborn oracle."

"We have this model on sale," she offered, pointing to a chrome-plated device.

"It comes with a one-year warranty."

"Warranty?" Agis frowned.

"Is this some form of blood oath?"

"More like a promise to replace it if it breaks."

"Ah! A sacred covenant between warrior and merchant. I accept!"

Twenty minutes and several confused cashier interactions later, Agis returned home with his new weapon against raw bread. He placed it on the counter with the ceremony of a general positioning a siege engine.

"Now," he declared, "we shall see who is worthy."

The new toaster hummed to life, its digital display glowing like Prometheus' gift.

Agis inserted his bread with the caution of a man disarming a trap.

Then pressed the lever.

Nothing happened.

He pressed it again. Still nothing.

"By the gods..." he growled, reaching for his spear.

"BETRAYAL!" Agis roared, his voice rattling the kitchen windows.

"Even the sacred covenant of Walmart cannot prevent treachery!"

He jabbed frantically at the digital display, which responded by blinking "Err" in mocking red letters.

The warranty paper lay on the counter, its fine print seemingly laughing at his plight.

This toaster, somehow, was even worse than the first. At least the original had the decency to die in glorious combat.

This one simply... refused to acknowledge his existence.

He pressed every button combination possible.

The toaster responded by playing a cheerful tune and doing absolutely nothing else.

"I did not survive the agoge to be defeated by musical bread boxes!"

With the patience of his warrior training fully exhausted, Agis grabbed both the toaster and his warranty, storming back to Walmart.

The automatic doors, sensing his fury, wisely opened faster than usual.

Justin was still at his post, now armed with a handheld scanner and a look of resigned acceptance.

"The covenant is broken," Agis declared, slamming the toaster onto the customer service counter.

"This device mocks me with its electronic songs and demonic red messages. It refuses to fulfill its sacred duty!"

"Did you try unplugging it and plugging it back in?" Justin asked, reciting the first rule of his technical support training.

A long silence followed.

"You suggest I... remove its power source and restore it? Like choking an opponent until they submit?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"BRILLIANT!" Agis boomed, causing several nearby shoppers to drop their items.

"A true warrior strategy! Deprive the enemy of its strength, then restore it when they're weakened!"

But even after returning home and trying Justin's suggestion three times, the toaster remained stubbornly uncooperative, its "Err" message now seeming more smug than ever.

"ENOUGH!" Agis roared, his patience finally shattering like a Spartan shield under Persian arrows.

"I have tried reason. I have tried combat. I have even tried the sacred technical support ritual of power restoration. Yet still you mock me!"

The toaster continued displaying its error message, the red digital letters somehow managing to look condescending.

Without another word, Agis unplugged the toaster one final time - not to reset it, but to free it for what came next. He grabbed both the toaster and his warranty, storming back to Walmart.

The automatic doors, sensing his fury, wisely opened faster than usual.

Justin was still there, looking increasingly like a man who regretted coming to work today.

"Keep your demonic bread burner," Agis declared, placing the toaster on the counter with surprising gentleness.

"Some battles cannot be won through conventional warfare."

"Do you... want a different model?" Justin offered weakly.

"No. Today I learned that true warriors adapt. We do not need your sorcerous devices." He paused, considering.

"Though I will take store credit and an exchange. There's a very impressive looking spear in Sporting Goods."

With the solemnity of a man who had survived battlefields but not breakfast, Agis marched outside. By an open fire, he crouched...

His sword rested beside him, no longer an instrument of war, but of culinary salvation, joined now by his shiny new Walmart spear—which, he had to admit, was surprisingly well-balanced for modern craftsmanship.

He held the bread above the flames, roasting it slowly, adjusting for wind patterns like a soldier refining his tactics.

A neighbor passed by, peered over, and sighed.

"...The toaster again?"

Agis glanced up, soot-streaked, weary, yet victorious in spirit. "Yes. And its Walmart replacement. Though I did get this rather nice spear in exchange."

A beat of silence.

Then, the neighbor pulled out her own slice of bread.

"Mind if I join? My microwave's been giving me that look all morning."

Agis nodded, a smile finally breaking through his warrior's demeanor.

"Welcome to the resistance. Though I should warn you—this is now officially a war against all kitchen appliances."

"Even the coffee maker?"

"Especially the coffee maker. Have you seen how it plots? Yesterday it waited until my back was turned, then spilled hot water everywhere. Classic Persian tactics."

The neighbor considered this as she held her bread over the flames.

"My refrigerator has been making suspicious noises..."

"Ah, yes. The great white sentinel. We'll deal with that one next. I still have store credit for three more spears."

And so, beneath the modern skies and amidst the ruins of kitchen warfare, a Spartan and his neighbor forged an unexpected alliance against the tyranny of modern convenience.

Some say on quiet mornings, you can still hear Agis' war cry echoing through the kitchen aisle of Walmart, a testament to the day a mighty warrior learned that sometimes the old ways are best—especially when dealing with rebellious appliances.