"This is Mr. Bartlett Finchley, age forty-eight, a practicing sophisticate who writes very special and very precious things for gourmet magazines and the like. He's a bachelor and a recluse with few friends, only devotees and adherents to the cause of tart sophistry. He has no interests save whatever current annoyances he can put his mind to. He has no purpose to his life except the formulation of day-to-day opportunities to vent his wrath on mechanical contrivances of an age he abhors. In short, Mr. Bartlett Finchley is a malcontent, born either too late or too early in the century, and who in just a moment will enter a realm where muscles and the will to fight back are not limited to human beings. Next stop for Mr. Bartlett Finchley - the Twilight Zone."
Bartlett Finchley hates machines. He doesn't realize that the feeling is mutual. For several months, strange things have been happening. His TV, radio and clock have all awakened him in the middle of the night. When his secretary quits, her typewriter types, "GET OUT OF HERE, FINCHLEY." The TV shows the same message, as does the phone. His electric razor slithers down the stairs after him. Finchley runs from the house and is pursued by his car. He falls into his swimming pool and drowns."Yes, it could be. It could just be that Mr. Bartlett Finchley succumbed from a heart attack and a set of delusions. It could just be that he was tormented by an imagination as sharp as his wit and as pointed as his dislikes. But as perceived by those attending, this is one explanation that has left the premises with the deceased. Look for it filed under "M" for machines - in the Twilight Zone."