The Lost Chapter of Nick and a Brief Explanation as to Why it Took so Long
The Lost Chapter of Nick, or How to Become a Model, or at Least Look Like One! as it is called in some circles, is shrouded in mystery, death, and Old Navy clothes. The mystery is not something trivial like where it's been all these years or why it wasn't written, but what to call it. The scribes who first contrived the story of the Toasters neglected the accoustic player of the band completly, having been swept away by the inspiration to write it in the first place. It wasn't until all the research on the founding members was painstakingly completed after a period of years that the question of Nick came up. To which the infinitely wise and learned scribes replied, "Wing it."
And so they did. And when it was finished, it was glorious, wonderful, and untitiled. This was because, simply, all the good names are taken. Several were considered, such as TV Guide, Vouge, Entertainment Weekly, and Southern Living, but all were dropped because they didn't capture the true essence, and some poser company had taken them already. Teams of researchers gathered together to come up with a name, but none fitted. Doomed was the general feeling of the room until a mister Cecil R. Llama stood up and said "Screw this catchy title thing. How about the Lost Chapter of Nick?"
The people loved it, but the researchers didn't. Thankfully, it was quickly decided that their opinion didn't matter and the name stuck. For the longest time the researchers couldn't figure out what had gone wrong, why they weren't famous, and why people threw fish at them. The last of the questions, sadly, was never to be answered. The other two were never appropriatley answered either, but many consider the matter closed because one night, as he left for home, Mr. Llama was lynched by a mob of researchers who had finally figured out one thing: They couldn't stand a smartass.
This concludes the explanation.
Nick McDonald woke one morning with a feeling that someone was trying to tell him something, but he couldn't tell what. He went down stairs and asked what was for breakfast.
"Eggs and TOAST." His mother answered. "I thought I'd try my brand new CAST IRON TOASTER and see how it makes TOAST."
Sadly, Nick didn't catch the added emphasis on any of the words, so his Mom, compelled by forces of Fate she couldn't and probably shouldn't understand, carried the toaster over to him.
"Nick, take a look at our CAST IRON TOASTER. I got it from the CAST IRON TOASTERS section of the All Things CAST IRON. Do you like it?"
He took the toaster from his Mom, muttering something about a crack addiction under his breath, and turned it around in his hands. The early noon rays of sun light caught it at odd angles, making it shine. On the bottom was this label:

"Whosoever pulleth toast from this toaster shall be then King born of the Rock Industry, Llamas, Toasters and Toaster Ovens alike, Sloths, and a small man named Ralf Burnson in Kentucky who likes to collect stamps and dress his cats to look like James Bond Girls. Good luck."

Nick picked up two slices of bread and carefully, with the patience of a wounded Rhino, forced them into the slots. The toaster hummed with anticipation as he then pushed the small black handles on the sides of the toaster down, watching as red heat crackled through those little wavy things inside a toaster. You know the ones that heat the bread? Good. Anyways, he waited for the toast to come up, but it wouldn't. Obviously, he wasn't destined to form a band. Screw the band, he thought. Nick was hungry. So grabbing the butter knife, he forced his threatening if not dull blade into the toaster and forced it to give up one piece, then the other of toast. Cheating? Most likely. But when supreme rule over some of the more useless creatures on Earth is at stake, you do what you have to. Fate would understand.
There was the expected Heavenly chorus, but Nick decided they were stupid morning birds and resolved to throw rocks at them later. He tossed the toaster on the counter and went to school.
The legend is blurry here, but somehow Nick ended up lugging a pipe about the campus. He marveled at the quality of the pipe, how it cleared a path through the halls and could still be used as plumbing later. "What is this metal?" he wondered. "No mere steel or iron be this. Unless, of course, it be, it be, uh...."
He was floundering. Fate, who had been more than willing to let the events of that morning slide, was now thouroughly pissed. He came up behind Nick and swatted him upside the back of the head, shouting. "It's CAST iron, got that genius? CAST IRON! Just like that stupid toaster, just like the freaking name you're supposed to have come up with for a band, just like this pipe I'm about to use to beat in a new mouth hole for you! You got that, Einstien?"
Nick did. The Oakley's of Ignorance fell from his eyes, and he saw the light. Fate sighed and muttered something about "Future of the country going all to Hell" and left.
And so it began.

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