Disclaimer: not mine, but I really hope you knew that all ready.

Spoilers: season seven

Jim glanced over at the young CSI next to him. Sanders glared back at him, clearly in no mood to talk. His right eye was all ready turning a remarkable shade of purple. Greg was also covered in what appeared to be high velocity mud spatter, and there was a large hole in his brand jeans. Jim didn't comment that Greg also smelled like a combination of decomp and rotten garbage.

Brass shook his head. It seemed that lately, Greg had the worst luck in Vegas. It had been a very long shift. Brass fought back laughter as he thought about the evening's events.

"It's not funny." Greg announced. He thought about it for a second. "Well, maybe a little." Twisting his ankle on the way back to the car had been the last straw. Greg didn't know if he should laugh or cry. Either way, after they dropped off what evidence hadn't been contaminated by the mud, he needed a drink.

"For the record, that little old lady packed one hell of a punch." Jim said.

Greg nearly choked on his coffee, finding that maybe it was more then just a little funny,

Earlier that evening

Greg studied the scene. It wasn't a scene as much of a dumpster in an alley behind a seedy motel. At least I'm working solo now. He tried to stay positive. But that mean inner voice took over for a moment. Yep, you get to process a decomp in a dumpster all by yourself. Congratulations.

Capt. Brass interrupted his thoughts. "You waiting the body to climb out of the dumpster all by itself?"

"I'll settle for finding out how he got in." Greg said, grabbing his kit. He shook his head and climbed in.

Just as he was finishing up, the light drizzle that had been falling all day turned into rain.

"Might want to hurry up." Jim said. They both knew that they would lose evidence if Greg didn't work fast.

Then it happened. A huge pile of mud slid off the roof and into the dumpster, all over Greg and the evidence. It left him soaking wet and thoroughly confused. "What the hell…?"

Jim jogged over to him, having been questioning an elderly woman waking her Yorkshire terrier. The little ankle-biter was yapping and snarling continuously.

Brass peered into the dumpster to find a very muddy level one CSI staring at. Greg looked more surprised then anything. "That was unexpected."

Jim answered by helping Greg out of the dumpster. Hearing the commotion, the old lady's dog slipped out of its collar and went to see what all the noise was about.

Greg usually liked dogs, but this one was sniffing his leg and growling like it planned on tasting it. The dog snapped at his ankle.

Greg's quick reflexes stopped it from getting anything more then a good hold on his pant leg. Sanders tried to walk away, but tripped and the terrier somehow managed to tear a large hole from the seat of his pants before Greg could push the little dog away.

"What are you doing to my little angel?!" The dog's old lady was clearly pissed at him for some reason.

"Mam' …" Greg didn't bother mentioning that the dog had bitten him. The dog was smaller then most cats, and twice as mean as his next-door neighbor's Pit Bull.

The lady scooped up the animal, which was still carrying a piece of Greg's jeans as a trophy.

"Good girl, Muffin, Don't let that mean young man hurt you."

Greg rolled his eyes and climbed to his feet. The woman turned on him. "And if you ever touch my dog again, I'll" She slapped him. "Do that."

Brass told her to leave and threatened to arrest her for assaulting an officer. The woman left in huff, muttering something about animal cruelty.

Greg got up and limped toward the car. Brass walked over, trying to think of some sarcastic comment. Greg turned toward him, starting to say something, and not paying attention to where he was going when his sneakers found the edge of the sidewalk.

Greg tripped, twisting his ankle and landing in a puddle. Brass just shook his head. It reminded him of the case where an unfortunate series of events had left a young college student dead. Chaos theory was what Grissom had called it.

It sounded more like another name for having the worst luck in Vegas.

Greg got up, deciding that some days it was just better to stay in bed. Brass helped load the evidence into the back of the truck.

On the drive back to the lab, Brass switched on the radio, the first song they heard sounded like this.

Cause you had a bad day

You're taking one down

You sing a sad song just to turn it around

You say you don't know…

Greg turned it off before the verse ended. He and Jim looked at each for a moment, then burst into a fit of laughter.

They were still laughing when they reached the lab. Grissom was waiting for them in the parking lot. He saw Greg chuckling to himself about something.

"What's so funny?" Greg was covered in mud and looked as if he had lost a fight. Not the sort of thing that one would laugh about.

"Bad day." Greg smiled at him. "You don't want to know." He headed for the locker room.

Grissom at Brass, now very confused.

Brass shrugged. "Chaos theory."

Gil turned toward Greg to inquire further when he was treated to a nice of the former lab rat's Spongebob Squarepants boxers.

A/N: That was the most random thing I've written for a while. I got a vision of Greg getting slapped a mean old lady while I was bored at work. Please leave a review. Thanks, and if you like my writing I have a WIP called New York Times that no one wants to review. I am dying for feedback that story, and I hope you liked this one.

-Lefty