The Immaculate Demise of Bartholomew Buttercup

Bartholomew "Barty" Buttercup considered himself a champion of self-preservation. While lesser mortals scoffed at his triple-layered face masks, his organic-only, air-purified apartment, and his refusal to shake hands even with his own reflection, Barty knew better. He was a sentinel against the invisible armies of germs, toxins, and general human carelessness. He outlived three doctors who told him to "relax," and saw off countless friends who’d dared to eat street food or, heavens forbid, use public restrooms.

By 87, Barty was a picture of pristine, albeit slightly translucent, health. Not a sniffle, not a twinge, not a single rogue cell had dared breach his fortress of sterile living. His lungs were pure, his arteries unclogged, his immune system a well-oiled, germ-annihilating machine. He decided, in a rare moment of proactive rather than reactive health, to undergo a full-body MRI. "Just a preventative measure," he told his bewildered nephew, "to confirm the perfection."

Lying cocooned in the humming chamber, Barty felt a smug satisfaction. He'd beaten the odds, evaded the reaper, and was now just getting official validation. Suddenly, the machine emitted a particularly aggressive, mechanical shriek. Startled, Barty, who hadn't made a sudden movement in decades, bolted upright. His perfectly preserved skull made intimate, rather forceful contact with the ceiling of the MRI tunnel.

The medical report read: "Cause of Death: Accidental Blunt Force Trauma to the Cranium. Contributing Factors: None. Patient was otherwise in exemplary health." Barty, the man who’d dodged every bullet life could throw, succumbed not to a disease, nor an accident of the world, but to the sheer irony of a diagnostic tool designed to celebrate his triumph. He was, in the end, killed by the confirmation of his own immaculate, disease-free existence.