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20 Common Questions About Farts
A Lonely, Wayward Fart Named Steve (Episode 1)
Date Like A Scoundrel: 10 Things to Tell Ugly Chicks on a First Date
Bottling Farts (English, Spanish, Italian)
Bottling Farts, Inc. Season 1 (Episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9)
Crazy Authors Volume 1
Finding Floofy (English, Spanish)
Five Reasons Why Dating Hot Chicks is a Bad Idea
Floofed at 40,000 Feet
Four Stinky Stories Vol. 1 (English, Spanish)
Four Stinky Stories Vol. 2 (English, Spanish)
Going Dutch (English, Spanish)
Keeping Wind Laten and the Fate of the World at Bay
Marriage Stinks (English, Spanish, Dutch)
The $500 Question (English, Spanish)
The Chapped-Ass Critic (English, Spanish)
The Would Be Asstronaut (English, Spanish)
Till Death Do Us Fart (English, Spanish, Dutch)
Weekend Getaway (English, Spanish)
© 2017 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 7: Detained
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.
Honorable Judge Polk Peabody was a cranky, old bastard, and Vlad Wiechowski, an unlucky, constipated vagrant on the run, knew him well. “What in the fuck you are you doing in my courtroom, boy?” Peabody yammered.
“Uh...I don’t know.” Vlad shrugged.
“Yes, your honor?” The incredible, bra-busting Sally Shaw turned and smiled.
“I don’t have him on my docket. Did you let this miserable bastard in?”
“No, your honor.” She ran her fingers through her silky, blond mane.
“And bailiff?” Judge Peabody gestured.
“Yes?” The top button of her shirt came undone, offering a glimpse of the delicious cleavage underneath.
Though she knew better--buttons typically popped off when she leaned over to pick up spare change at her part time job at the nudie bar--the bald-headed bastard thanked her nonetheless. “Much better.”
“Your honor?” Officer Struthers stood and licked his fingers.
“What the fuck do you want, Anus?”
“It’s Amos, sir.”
“Big fucking difference! How many times have I told you not to bring those goddamn donuts in here?”
“But it’s a maple log, sir.”