The Perilous Path of Arthur Pumble
Arthur Pumble awoke to the distinct aroma of scorched opportunity. His toast, like most things in his life, had managed to achieve a state of charred futility. It was Mildred’s 40th birthday, and Arthur, despite an almost supernatural ability to attract misfortune, was determined to make it.
His car keys, eager to join the rebellion against his happiness, snapped in the ignition, leaving a jagged metal shard mocking him. “Fine,” Arthur muttered, “a walk will do me good.”
He chose a shortcut through Elmwood Park. Barely had he entered when a streak of fire graced the morning sky. Arthur, mid-step, paused to tie a shoelace, an act that saved his life. A meteor, no bigger than a microwave oven, detonated precisely where his head would have been a second prior, leaving a smoking crater and a distinct smell of burnt toast (again). Arthur, spluttering dust and a few stray pebbles, sighed. "Close one," he mumbled, brushing what looked suspiciously like extraterrestrial ash from his hair.
Further on, a frantic man on a unicycle, pursued by a flock of disgruntled pigeons and a small but determined brass band, crashed into a hot dog stand. Arthur, attempting to offer assistance, slipped on a rogue mustard packet. His flailing arm somehow triggered a contraption involving a bungee cord, a bucket of water, and a particularly grumpy squirrel, which resulted in the unicyclist being launched into a nearby bell tower. The bell chimed mournfully, once. Arthur merely wiped mustard from his chin. "You know," he pondered aloud, "I think that was the third time this month."
Finally, disheveled and smelling faintly of ozone and lukewarm frankfurter, Arthur arrived at Mildred's meticulously planned garden party. He clutched her gift – a rare, vintage gnome – with the desperate tenacity of a man who'd wrestled a badger for it (he had, last Tuesday). As he stepped through the gate, a sudden, cacophonous groan ripped through the air. The grand gazebo, the buffet table, the meticulously arranged flowerbeds, and indeed, Mildred herself, were swallowed by a sudden, spectacular sinkhole. Dust plumed skyward, then settled, revealing only a gaping maw where merriment had been.
Arthur stood at the edge, the gnome still firmly in hand. He stared into the abyss, a single tear threatening to form, not for Mildred, but for the irony. "Honestly, Mildred," he mumbled to the vacant air, "you always *did* have the worst timing." Then, a tiny pebble, dislodged by the tremor, rolled past his foot. He instinctively recoiled, stepping back so quickly he tripped over his own feet, landing squarely on the only remaining untouched plate of mini quiches. "Oh, for heaven's sake!" he exclaimed, finally annoyed. The quiches, tragically, were now one with his trousers.