The Paper Cut Apocalypse

Bartholomew 'Barty' Butterfield was a man of exquisite sensibilities, which meant his internal alarm system was set to 'apocalypse' for even the slightest inconvenience. One Tuesday morning, while wrestling a particularly stubborn utility bill from its envelope, he committed the ultimate act of self-harm: a paper cut. A tiny, almost invisible sliver of paper had sliced the pad of his index finger.

Barty didn't gasp; he *keened*. A sound usually reserved for medieval lamentations or the discovery of a vanished continent. He clutched his hand, not gently, but with the fervent grip of a man trying to stop a geyser. 'My God!' he shrieked, collapsing onto his chaise longue, 'I'm bleeding out! Call for medical intervention! Bring me the finest liniment, a tourniquet, and perhaps a small, comforting harpist to play me into the sweet oblivion!'

His cat, Chairman Meow, merely blinked, then resumed meticulously licking a particularly fascinating dust bunny. Barty's wife, Agnes, entered, attracted by the dramatic wails. She surveyed the scene: Barty, pale and trembling, finger held aloft like a sacred artifact, and a single, minuscule drop of crimson forming a bead.

'Barty,' she said, completely unfazed, 'that's not a wound; it's a suggestion. I'll get you a plaster. The one with the cartoon ducks.'

Barty, however, was already dictating his last will and testament into his phone, pausing only to ensure the paramedics understood the urgency of his 'life-threatening laceration.' He was certain his obituary would read, 'Died heroically, battling the postal service one envelope at a time.'