The Unbearable Lightness of Being Barry

Barry’s existence was a cosmic punchline. If misfortune were a competitive sport, he’d be the undisputed world champion, frequently breaking his own records for “Most Unlikely Calamities Before Noon.” His attempts at normalcy usually ended with him either in a full body cast or explaining to baffled emergency services why he was found entangled in a rogue hot air balloon after merely trying to tie his shoelace.

Today, Barry decided to tempt fate with a simple errand: mailing a letter. He clutched the envelope, addressed to his aunt (who, coincidentally, had once received a gift from Barry that spontaneously combusted mid-delivery), and approached the mailbox. It was a sturdy, red, unthreatening sentinel of civic duty. What could possibly go wrong?

As he reached for the slot, a sudden gust of wind—sourced, Barry suspected, from an interdimensional portal that only opened near him—wrested the letter from his grasp. It soared upwards, catching the thermal draft of a passing jet engine, and then, with the precision of a trained sniper, wedged itself into the ventilation system of a live broadcast news helicopter hovering overhead.

The news report, ironically, was about local infrastructure failing. Barry watched, expressionless, as the helicopter struggled, then spiraled gently into the nearby municipal fountain, sending up a geyser of chlorinated water and, presumably, a very wet letter to Aunt Mildred.

Barry sighed. “At least,” he muttered, “it wasn’t a bill.” Just then, a rogue goldfish, dislodged from the fountain's sudden upheaval, flopped onto his shoe. Barry looked at it. The goldfish looked back. It seemed to judge him. Barry nudged it gently with his foot. The goldfish promptly exploded.