The Immaculate Demise of Arthur Pimple
Arthur Pimple was a man who didn’t just live life on the edge; he lived it approximately seventeen miles *away* from the edge, encased in a bespoke, lead-lined, anti-allergy bubble. He considered crossing the road an extreme sport, and once spent three days meticulously calculating the probability of a rogue pigeon-related concussion before stepping outside. His diet consisted exclusively of vacuum-sealed, nutrient-paste tubes, and his furniture was bolted to the floor, just in case of an unexpected seismic jiggle from a butterfly flapping its wings too vigorously in Brazil.
Arthur’s life was a testament to the fact that you can, indeed, anticipate every single catastrophic possibility, and then invent a few more just to be safe. He spent 70 years constructing the perfect fortress against the cruel whims of fate, culminating in his personal, subterranean "Safe-Zone," complete with a seven-stage air filtration system, a self-sterilizing surface on every surface, and a panic room within the panic room (just in case the first panic room had a panic attack).
His final moments were, in a way, entirely predictable yet utterly ironic. Having successfully outmaneuvered airborne pathogens, asteroid fragments, spontaneous combustion, and the existential dread of undercooked broccoli, Arthur met his maker. He choked. Not on an ill-chewed nutrient paste or a stray thought of mortal folly, but on a single, perfectly spherical, infinitesimally small particle of dust. A particle that, despite his hyper-vigilant defenses, had found its way past layers of filtration, past his oral hygiene routine, and settled with malicious intent directly into his windpipe.
The coroner, a man who had seen it all, merely shrugged. "Some things," he mused, adjusting his mask (a habit Arthur would have admired), "just *are*." Arthur Pimple, forever remembered as the man who died of too much caution, finally became one with the very elements he so diligently tried to keep at bay. Dust to dust, indeed.