Arthur Flemming and the Bolt from the Blue (Cheese)

Arthur Flemming didn't have bad luck; he had a standing appointment with a cosmic sadist. On Friday the 13th, he decided to preempt fate by staying in bed. Genius! Except his mattress spontaneously combusted, leaving him with singed pajamas and an urgent need for new bedding.

He tried to make coffee. The grinder launched beans with the velocity of a small-caliber weapon, embedding them in his newly singed ceiling. The kettle exploded. He settled for tap water, which, naturally, tasted faintly of regret and old pennies.

"Fine!" Arthur declared to the universe, his voice cracking. "You want me out? I'm out!" He ventured outside, hoping a change of scenery might break the curse. A pigeon immediately relieved itself with pinpoint accuracy onto his spectacles, blurring his vision just as he stepped into an open manhole. He landed, thankfully, on a pile of discarded yoga mats.

As he crawled out, disheveled and smelling faintly of pigeon and urban decay, a thought struck him: pizza. He deserved pizza. He ordered a large pepperoni, extra cheese, hoping the greasy comfort would soothe his tormented soul. The delivery guy, a surprisingly cheerful teenager named Kyle, arrived shortly. "That'll be $24.50," Kyle chirped, holding out the box.

Arthur paid, snatched the box, and tore it open, eager for relief. He took a massive, defiant bite. And then... *clink*. His teeth met something unyielding. He pulled it out: a small, shiny, clearly industrial-grade bolt. "A bolt," he wheezed, incredulous, holding up the offending piece of hardware. Kyle, still cheerful, replied, "Oh, yeah, sometimes a spare from the pizza oven falls in. Adds character!"

Arthur, choking on the irony (and a small piece of pepperoni), slumped against his charred bedframe. He wasn't dead, but he was pretty sure his esophagus had just filed for divorce. The bolt, still in his hand, seemed to wink. The universe, it seemed, wasn't just a sadist; it was also a structural engineer.