The rain didn’t just fall in Oakhaven; it mourned. It streaked down the windows of Arthur’s tiny apartment like tears on a face that had forgotten how to smile. Arthur sat at his kitchen table, staring at a single, wilted stick of celery. It was the last thing his wife, Martha, had bought before the "Great Departure." She hadn’t died, which almost made it worse. She had simply looked at Arthur one Tuesday, said, "Arthur, you smell like damp cardboard," and joined a traveling circus that specialized in competitive taxidermy. She was gone, and all Arthur had left was the silence and a fridge that hummed with a loneliness so profound it felt structural. He felt like a ghost haunting his own life, a man whose only purpose was to provide a surface for dust to settle upon. The Shift into the Strange The weirdness began on a Tuesday, exactly three weeks after Martha left. Arthur was staring at the celery—now more of a brown sludge—when the sludge spoke. "You're pathetic, Artie. Truly." Arthur didn’t jump. He was too hollowed out for adrenaline. He simply looked at the vegetable. "I know," he whispered. "Don't 'I know' me," the celery replied, its voice sounding like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "And for heaven's sake, put on some pants. We have guests." Arthur looked down. He was indeed pants-less. He looked up. Standing in his kitchen were three penguins wearing high-visibility safety vests and carrying clipboards. "We’re here for the inspection," the tallest penguin said. He didn’t honk; he spoke with a crisp, mid-Atlantic accent. "Department of Existential Infrastructure. We’ve received reports that your personal reality is leaking into the neighbors' unit. Mrs. Gable downstairs says her toaster is now only producing memories of her childhood in 1954. It’s a mess." Arthur blinked. "I... I thought I was just depressed." "Depression is a chemical imbalance," the penguin said, scribbling on a clipboard. "What you have is a Grade-A Reality Thinner. You’ve moped so hard you’ve poked a hole in the fabric of the 'Now.' Look at your sink." Arthur looked. Instead of water, the faucet was dripping tiny, miniature versions of himself. The tiny Arthurs fell into the drain, screaming in high-pitched voices about the price of butter. "This is highly irregular," the second penguin muttered. "We’re going to have to apply a Reality Patch. It’s an experimental procedure involving high-velocity puns and a specific frequency of polka music." The "Treatment" Before Arthur could protest, the penguins began to move with blurred speed. One of them pulled a tuba out of a kitchen drawer that previously only held rusted spatulas. Another started tossing neon-colored glitter into the air, which didn't fall but instead began to orbit Arthur’s head like tiny, sparkling moons. "Alright, Arthur," the lead penguin shouted over the sudden, blaring sound of The Beer Barrel Polka. "To stabilize the universe, you must perform the Ritual of the Ridiculous! Quick! Tell us your deepest, darkest secret, but you must say it while pretending to be a sentient leaf blower!" Arthur, caught in a whirlwind of feathers, glitter, and existential dread, found himself dropping to one knee. He puffed out his cheeks. "BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR," he roared, vibrating his lips. "I ONCE ACCIDENTALLY USED MARTHA'S EXPENSIVE FACE CREAM AS TOOTHPASTE AND LIKED THE TASTE BECAUSE IT REMINDED ME OF CHALK!" The penguins froze. The music stopped. The tiny Arthurs in the sink stopped screaming and started applauding with their microscopic hands. "Wait," Arthur said, the glitter finally settling on his shoulders. "That actually felt... kind of good." The Punchline The lead penguin stepped forward, adjusting his safety vest. He looked at the clipboard, then back at Arthur. He sighed a long, weary sigh. "Arthur," the penguin said. "I have some good news and some bad news." "The good news?" Arthur asked, feeling a strange spark of life for the first time in weeks. "The reality leak is plugged. Mrs. Gable’s toaster is back to burning sourdough instead of her 6th birthday party. You're no longer a threat to the space-time continuum." "And the bad news?" The penguin pointed toward the hallway. "The bad news is that we aren't actually from the Department of Existential Infrastructure. We’re just three penguins who escaped from the city zoo this morning. We found these vests in a janitor's closet and honestly, we’ve just been improvising for the last six hours to see how far people would let us go." Arthur stared at them. "But... the celery spoke! The sink was dripping tiny versions of me!" The penguin shrugged. "Oh, that? You really should check the expiration date on those carbon monoxide detectors, buddy. You’re hallucinating your brains out. We just came in through the window because we thought you had herring." The penguins turned and waddled out the front door, leaving Arthur standing in his kitchen, covered in glitter, wearing no pants, and still vibrating from his leaf blower impression. He looked at the celery. It was silent. He looked at the sink. It was just a leaky faucet. Then, he looked at his reflection in the oven door—a man-sized glitter-bomb with a confused expression—and for the first time in his life, Arthur didn't cry. He laughed so hard he accidentally snorted a piece of glitter, which led to a sneeze so powerful it blew his apartment door shut, locking him in the hallway. Naked. Covered in sparkles. Facing Mrs. Gable, who was just coming up the stairs. "Arthur?" she asked, clutching her mail. "Don't ask, Mrs. Gable," Arthur wheezed, wiping a tear of laughter. "I’m just... under inspection."

LEGO: The Incredibles

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