The Perpetual Predicaments of Percival Putter

Percival Putter awoke to the distinct feeling that the universe had, once again, rolled its cosmic dice and landed squarely on "Catastrophe." He tried to make coffee, but the machine spontaneously combusted, painting his kitchen ceiling with a fine mist of charred arabica. "Just a typical Tuesday," he sighed, reaching for the fire extinguisher which, naturally, was empty. Or rather, it contained glitter. Flaming, strangely adhesive glitter. Deciding a walk was in order, he stepped outside, only for a flock of migratory pigeons to mistake his head for a very tall, very unfortunate public lavatory. He ducked into an alley, seeking refuge, when a piano, mid-delivery by a remarkably careless moving crew, plummeted from a fourth-story window, narrowly missing him... only to perfectly crush his last surviving houseplant, which he'd been holding for comfort. Percival stared at the leafy pulp. "Well," he muttered to the movers, who were now arguing over who had suggested the 'rope-only' method, "at least it died a quick death." Just then, a rogue meteor, no larger than a grapefruit but traveling at an impressive velocity, streaked down from the heavens and disintegrated his left shoe, leaving his foot oddly pristine but quite vulnerable. Percival just shrugged, a single, solitary tear of glitter trailing down his cheek. He had a bus to catch, and he wasn't about to let the universe's increasingly *creative* attempts at homicide stop him. He just hoped the bus driver didn't have a history of competitive javelin throwing.