The Apex of Prudence

Bartholomew "Barty" Buttercup was a connoisseur of caution. He considered "risk assessment" a sacred art, "contingency planning" his daily prayer. His apartment, a fortress of filtered air and reinforced titanium, contained more safety features than a nuclear submarine. Barty wore a helmet to bed (a rogue ceiling fan, you understand), had every meal pre-screened by a panel of worried microbiologists, and his outdoor excursions required a full hazmat suit, complete with an oxygen tank for "unforeseen atmospheric unpleasantries." His greatest fear? A meaningless death. A slip on a banana peel. A falling piano. He wanted his demise to be *earned*, perhaps sacrificing himself to save a rare breed of artisanal cheese, or at least a highly dramatic, slow-motion bullet-dodging ballet.

One Tuesday, Barty was in his pristine kitchen, diligently sterilizing his already sterile spoon collection. He'd just finished drafting a 700-page addendum to his "Comprehensive Guide to Terrestrial Catastrophe Aversion." He paused, admiring the gleam on a particularly resilient spork, and thought, "Finally, I am truly prepared."

At that precise, utterly unpreventable moment, a meteor—no larger than a particularly grumpy golf ball, but traveling with the enthusiasm of a jilted ex-lover—ripped through Earth's atmosphere. It bypassed satellites, dodged commercial aircraft, and plunged through Barty's reinforced titanium roof like it was spun sugar. It ricocheted off his vintage taxidermy badger (a surprisingly robust specimen named Reginald), and with a soft, almost apologetic *thwack*, struck Barty directly on his meticulously protected forehead.

Barty, the man who had bullet-proofed his curtains and insured his shadow, expired instantly. The official cause of death: "Act of God (specifically, a small, unremarked bit of space debris)." His last thought, had he possessed the time for one, would likely have been: "But... I covered everything *on Earth*."