Arthur's Unfortunate Landing

Arthur Finch was a connoisseur of misfortune. His bad luck wasn't just a streak; it was a lifestyle, a cosmic commitment. He'd once won a raffle, only for the prize—a small goldfish—to leap out of its bowl and achieve terminal velocity into his morning coffee. Today, however, he had a plan to break the cycle. A definitive, foolproof plan.

He stood atop the city’s highest bridge, the wind whipping his threadbare coat. In his hand, a meticulously worded farewell note, explaining his permanent departure from the clutches of fate. Just as he took a deep, fortifying breath, a seagull, with impeccable aim and suspicious timing, swooped by and christened his note with a splat of avian artistry. The final paragraph, now an illegible, gooey mess, was ruined. Arthur sighed, crumpled the note, and tossed it into the wind. Typical.

With a shrug born of weary resignation, he climbed over the railing. He closed his eyes, imagined a peaceful plunge into the murky waters below, a silent, final defiance against his tormentor, Lady Luck. He pushed off.

But Arthur Finch wasn't destined for the water. Not today.

A sudden, freak updraft caught him, followed by a dizzying gust that spun him mid-air. He opened his eyes, braced for impact, but instead, felt a surprisingly soft thud. He’d landed, quite unceremoniously, on the upper deck of a passing tourist barge. Confetti exploded around him, balloons bobbed, and a small child in a party hat shrieked with delight, "He's here! The surprise clown!"

Arthur, dazed but miraculously unhurt, found himself face-to-face with a five-year-old demanding a magic trick. The entire party—a throng of jubilant toddlers and bewildered parents—erupted in applause for his "daring" entrance. The barge captain, mistaking him for the late entertainer, presented him with a novelty oversized check. "Congratulations!" he boomed, "You've won the grand prize for the birthday boy's party: a year's supply of free clown makeup and gig tickets for 'Happy Hippo Entertainments'!"

A year of forced smiles, balloon animals, and endless, manufactured joy. Arthur’s eyes widened in a horror far greater than any abyss. The birthday boy, beaming, then pressed a shiny, grime-covered object into his hand. "For good luck!" he squealed. It was a penny. A very, very old penny. Arthur Finch looked at the "lucky" penny, then at the awaiting children, then back at the river he’d so desperately wished to join. His bad luck hadn’t just foiled his escape; it had condemned him to a literal life of involuntary servitude to happiness. The universe, it seemed, wasn't done with him yet. Not by a long shot.