A man buys a wonderful old brass lamp at a rummage sale. He brings it home and plugs it in. There is a terrific explosion. When the man regains his senses he is sprawled against the foot of a bookcase, covered with plaster debris and bits of porcelain. He gropes to his feet and staggers over to the wreckage of the sofa and gapes in horror at the scorching ferocity of what happened. He turns away dumbly and looks at himself in what’s left of the living room mirror. He has a black eye and his hair, singed in places, is standing on end.
He stumbles out of the living room, into the bedroom. The phone, he realizes, is ringing. It’s right there on the night table. The man sits heavily and picks up the receiver and a cloud of rancid powder squirts in his face. He drops the receiver, blinded, and tumbles off the bed, hacking and gasping uncontrollably, convulsed.
Outside the apartment, a pair of tiny men in fezes and balloon pants are standing smoking a cigarette. One of them has a big spiked rope coiled over his shoulder. He looks at his watch and sighs. “So it’s still the boiling water, then the closetful of toads, and then it’s us,” he says.