Barty Buttercup vs. The Bloodthirsty Beast

Bartholomew "Barty" Buttercup considered himself a connoisseur of calm. His evenings were a meticulously curated symphony of silence, classical music, and perfectly steeped chamomile. This particular Tuesday, however, fate had other plans, winged and minuscule.

It began subtly, a faint buzzing near his ear. Barty, a man who once called customer service because his artisanal sourdough wasn't "sufficiently crusty," initially dismissed it as a rogue dust bunny with ambition. But then came the pinprick, a microscopic intrusion on his pristine forearm.

A gasp escaped Barty's lips, followed by a dramatic clutch at his chest. "My God," he whispered, his voice trembling as he stared at the almost invisible red welt. "It's… it's begun." He immediately stumbled towards his phone, dialling 911 with a theatrical urgency usually reserved for opera climaxes.

"Operator! I've been… attacked!" Barty shrieked, collapsing onto his Persian rug as if shot. "A venomous beast! I feel… I feel a mild tingling! And perhaps… a slight desire to scratch! Oh, the humanity!"

Within minutes, two bewildered paramedics, accustomed to actual emergencies, found Barty prone on his floor, clutching an ice pack the size of a dinner plate to a bump no bigger than a gnat's eyelash. "Sir, it appears to be a mosquito bite," one stated, suppressing a sigh.

Barty, however, was already dictating his last will and testament. "Tell Penelope… I always loved her organic gluten-free crackers. And my prized collection of antique thimbles… they must go to someone who truly appreciates their intricate detail. Oh, the neurotoxin is surely spreading!"

After a stern lecture and a tiny dab of antihistamine cream, Barty was "stabilized." But for weeks, he recounted the harrowing tale of his brush with a bloodthirsty, possibly mutant, arthropod, often displaying the now-invisible "wound" like a veteran's battle scar. He even started wearing a safari hat indoors, just in case. One could never be too careful.