It’s the job of us writers to explore facets of life that are too taboo, awkward, or uncomfortable to bring up in everyday conversation. That being said, there is such a thing as a Breakup Fart. Anyone who’s been in a relationship knows exactly what I’m talking about. (Which is why I prefer single moms; they’ve seen a freaky little spawn emerge from their body amidst a horrid gush of slime and goo, AND they’ve dealt with the Animal Planet shit that goes along with raising an infant, so they can easily handle my Man Child proclivities)
Anyways, being a bachelor has its perks. Along with being able to subsist solely on protein bars should the mood strike me, I also enjoy humming catchy jingles (I harbor great love for the one about Chili’s baby back ribs) for hours on end without anyone telling me to shut the hell up, and of course: the ability to let loose a withering barrage of skin-scalding methane without killing anyone or ruining a relationship. Thank God I’m immune to my own brand.
I’ll spare you the details, but right now I’m comfortably ensconced in my personal cloud of death, reveling in a biological security system that’s ridiculously superior to an alligator-filled moat or laser-riddled fortress. Ah, bachelorhood!
At that moment, Rush Limbaugh and Gary Busey wander past my window, dressed in nothing but tightey whiteys. They open the door and smile. I can only surmise they’re able to withstand my death-cloud because these two are impeccable Masters of Gross.
“Hey Kent!” Gary exclaims. “Figure we’ll add our Breakup Farts to yours!”
“NO!” I bolt up in bed, my hand stretched out in a halting gesture. “I’m not as gross as you two; I can’t withstand your—”
Too late. They clench their fists and squinch their eyes shut. A great and terrible thunder shakes the air—it’s like when Gimli blew the horn in Helms Deep combined with a billions-strong chorus of shrieking gargoyles—and I clasp my hands over my ears, screaming in agony. My terror-stricken wail is lost in the bone-rattling cacophony; I see trees outside wither and catch flame, and a giant evil face forms in the sky, laughing at the demise of us humans, for Ragnarok is nigh. The earth crumbles and I see the depths of Hell open below me. Demons and fiends are crawling up the sides of the pit, clutching red-lit daggers between sharpened fangs.
Only one option left. I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
A hundred yards outside my window, I see a twinkling portal open in the air. I burst out my door and start running toward it, trying to see as best I can to see through a miasmic haze of brown death. I feel my lungs twitching and spasming; tears flow freely from my eyes as Gary and Rush’s blast of ass expands and grows, ripping through the neighborhood. In the melted glass of car windows and rearviews, I see a whirlwind made of phantom skulls form from the ruins of my apartment, tearing across the ground and sky, reducing everything to a husk of its former self.
As I close with the portal, an errant blast of Breakup Fart envelops my right arm. I scream in agony as my arm wrinkles, dries, and shrinks to a brittle skeleton. As I brush against a crumbling pillar it breaks completely off, but I don’t feel a thing; the Breakup Fart has destroyed all the nerve endings and cauterized the stump. I run up the rusted corpse of a flaming car and leap off the hood, cycling my legs to max my distance. I reach the portal and—
—find myself riding on the back of a pterodactyl. My right arm has been restored; my new body is that of a barbarian warrior. Below me lie the verdant ranges of the Enchanted Booty Forest.
Whew! Note to self: never, EVER disregard the power of a Breakup Fart!
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