Barty Blackwood and the Gravity of Misfortune

Barty Blackwood had a face that could curdle milk and a luck streak that could make a black cat wince. His morning started, as most did, with an omen: his toast, butter-side down, didn't just hit the floor, it ricocheted off his dog (who then looked personally offended) and landed perfectly, butter-side up, *inside* his freshly cleaned toilet.

"Right," Barty muttered, because what else could one say? He decided to walk to work, reasoning that public transport was a magnet for his particular brand of cosmic spite. Naturally, a rogue drone, delivering artisanal tofu, malfunctioned directly over his head, showering him in organic bean curd and a rather aggressive, whirring propeller that clipped his ear.

Nursing a tofu-scented wound, Barty hailed a taxi. The driver, a man named 'Karma' (Barty checked the license), informed him that due to a sudden, inexplicable shift in global magnetic fields, the GPS was sending them... backwards in time. Or at least, it *felt* like it, as they ended up in a forgotten cul-de-sac where a historical reenactment of the Battle of Hastings was in full, anachronistic swing. Barty, still covered in tofu, was promptly recruited by a particularly zealous Viking.

Escaping the reenactment by feigning a severe allergy to period-accurate wool, Barty stumbled into an alley, only to find himself the unwitting third wheel in a clandestine pigeon wedding. The bird seed, it turned out, was laced with a potent, airborne avian pheromone. Within minutes, Barty was the unwilling object of affection for every winged creature within a three-block radius, culminating in a particularly territorial hawk trying to nest in his (now very messy) hair.

Finally, utterly defeated, Barty spotted a bench and collapsed. He closed his eyes, wishing for the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness. A faint humming grew louder. He opened one eye. Directly above him, slowly descending, was a grand piano. Not just any piano, but one labeled, in bold, cheerful letters: "Acme Piano Removal Service – We Never Drop!"

Barty didn't even scream. He just sighed, a deep, world-weary sigh. "Of course," he whispered, as the first, hopeful, yet entirely misleading, note of a jaunty tune began to play just before impact. He didn't die, of course. That would have been too easy. He just got compressed into a new, rather interesting shape, perfectly suited for a niche modern art exhibit titled "The Inevitable Consequences of Existential Gravitas." His luck, it seemed, was still defying expectations, even in its futility.