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THE F**KING IDIOT . . .Vlad Wieckowski has seen better days. With only the clothes on his back, he's out of money, out of luck, and out of gas.CONFRONTS THE EVIL PINT-SIZED BASTARD . . .That little sh*t Henry Winkle is at it again, and this time he's got warehouses full of toxic gas at his disposal. Can anyone stop his evil plot to gas the world?AND GETS F**KED OVER BY A MYSTERIOUS DIPSH*T AGENT . . .By his letter he is known.W.W for Wacky. W for Wicked. W for WTF?!WILL THE INDELIBLE SH*THEAD GET HIS REVENGE?Or is mankind totally f**ked?Dismembered is the third episode of an ongoing serial, created specifically for the Eight Hour Fiction Challenge. Each installment is approximately 3,000-4,000 words.
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© 2014 Donald Rump. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form (electronic, mechanical or otherwise) without the express written consent of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
E-book layout, formatting and design by Donald Rump.
Image(s) licensed by DepositPhotos.com and © Valentyn Pidburtnyi (#40453309). Fart drawings by Mel Casipit.
First Edition (v1.0)
Also by Donald Rump
Episode 3: Dismembered
My Two Cents
About the Author
Ad 1: Bottling Farts, Inc. Season One
Ad 2: 20 Common Questions About Farts
This book is dedicated to the original creator of the Eight Hour Fiction Challenge, Joe Konrath.
The old man pounded on the dark green door until someone answered.
“Yeeesssss?” A man with mischievous green eyes and bushy, brown hair cracked open the door a sliver.
“You gotta help me, doc.” Vlad forced his way in. He hurried over to the leather couch, tossed aside his gray sack with everything dear he owned in the world, plopped down and groaned. He looked every bit the part of a vagabond, with a bright pink Barbie jacket three sizes too small that he stole off a mannequin in the Sears children’s department and frayed plaid slacks that looked like a cross between pajamas and long underwear. The smell of alcohol was unmistakable as long as one could get past the stench of other bodily fluids plastered to him.
Slowly Vlad opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling until an ancient air biscuit rumbling around his lower intestine made a mad scramble out his rear end. Abruptly, the fart came up short, fizzling on its way out the back door. “Whew!” Vlad wiped his brow and eased back on the couch.
“I’m sorry, sir, but do you have an appointment?” The man closed the door and brushed his long, frizzy hair with his fingers.
“Afraid not. But it’s urgent, doc, I promise you. An absolute emergency,” Vlad replied.
“Well, I’m sorry. This office is currently closed right now, Mr. um...”
“Wieckowski. Vlad Wieckowski.” The old man adjusted his bifocals.
“Well, Mr. Wieckowski. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said with a slight Austrian accent.
“Not until you hear what I have to say. Come on, it’s important.”
“Mr. Wieckowski...” The bushy-haired man shook his head.
“I think I may have killed a man.”
“And I may have inadvertently killed his coworker, too.”
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