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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?Season One includes all nine episodes of Bottling Farts, Inc. plus the original short story that kicked off the series. Approximately 35,000 words in all.
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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
Bottling Farts, Inc.
Chapter 1: Disheveled
Chapter 2: Defiled
Chapter 3: Dismembered
Chapter 4: Disrespected
Chapter 5: Discombobulated
Chapter 6: Disguised
Chapter 7: Detained
Chapter 8: Disempowered
Chapter 9: Disillusioned
About the Author
Ad 1: 20 Common Questions About Farts
Ad 2: Till Death Do Us Fart
This book is dedicated to the original creator of the Eight Hour Fiction Challenge, Joe Konrath.
Henry Winkle wasn’t your ordinary pint-sized little bastard. He was an exceptionally evil turd who enjoyed taunting others, even giants that could crush his tiny Raisinet balls with ease. No wonder the miscreant was held back an entire year, and his parents had no choice but to send him to the Catholics after he was expelled from the public school across the street. Just two weeks at St. Agnes, he’d already pissed off most of the staff, notably the soft-spoken Father Amos (or was it Anus?) who embraced everyone, even demonically-possessed little shits who enjoyed super gluing nuns to chairs. When his parents received word of Henry’s latest exploits--swapping holy water with toilet water at the front of the church--they wondered if he might be better off at military school. Perhaps they should just load him into a cannon and fire in the direction that they thought Fork Union Military Academy was.
Hell, it was worth a shot.
So it was of no surprise that Henry found his nose again bloodied and tears streaming down his cheeks after getting knocked senseless by a child less than half his size. Perhaps he shouldn’t have told the second-degree black belt transgender student that she hit like a girl.
“Hey, little buddy. What’s wrong?” Vlad the ancient janitor mopped the floor.
Henry enjoyed talking to the old bag whenever he got in trouble, which was becoming a daily occurrence. Of course, Henry didn’t really like Vlad at all. That would imply that he was anything less than the antichrist. In truth, Henry liked poking fun at the geezer’s tacky plaid pants and man cleavage that bubbled out every time he bent over. Vlad’s hair looked like it had been spray-painted on with a can, his eyebrows coiled wildly like pubic hair, and his creaky, old boots belonged in a museum. And even though Vlad wore a pair of thick bifocals, Henry swore that the old man couldn’t find his dick. Curiously Henry confided in him, which made their relationship all the more peculiar.
“Come on, pal. You can tell me.” Vlad leaned on his mop.
“I got in a fight.” Henry shrugged.
“Again? That’s the fifth time this week.” The old man glanced at his watch. “You’ve got to cut that shit out.”
“Yeah, I know.” The boy continued walking.
“So where are you headed? Need to drop off the kids at the pool?” Vlad chuckled.
“Nah, I’ve got to see the principal.”
“Seriously? You can’t do that. They’ll kick you out this time for sure!”
“Yeah, well...I guess it isn’t any big loss.” He gazed at the dilapidated walls and black mold streaking across the ceiling. “What do you think I should do?”
“Well, for starters, you shouldn’t get in anymore fights.”
“But it wasn’t my fault! Leslie accused me of farting and stuck her finger up my ass.”
“Are you sure it was a finger?” Vlad set the mop aside. “Anyways, there are better ways of dealing with those shit-eating little bastards.”
“Oh yeah, like what?” Henry asked.
“Well, you could just bottle farts.” The old man grabbed a bottle of beer from his apron and cracked it open. He took a swig and burped loudly. “Now that’s got one helluva bite!”
“Are you crazy?” The boy looked around. “If anyone sees you drinking on the job, you’ll be fired.”
“Nah, nothing’s gonna happen to me.” Vlad chugged down more.
“Because I’ve been bottling farts, unlike you.” He finished his beer and farted into the empty bottle. He plugged it with his thumb and held it up. “See?”
Although the hallway was dim, Henry could still make out the green gas swirling around inside. “What the heck is that?”
“I already told you. Now take a whiff.” Vlad uncorked the bottle and held it under Henry’s nose.
“Good God!” Henry shrieked. In his brief existence, he’d never smelled anything quite so foul. He shook his head and slowly realized that he was crouched on all fours, drooling on the dirty floor. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened?” The janitor plugged the bottle with a snot rag from his back pocket and set it in the closet. He grabbed another beer stashed inside and swallowed down a mouthful.
“I don’t know. I was walking down the hall and-”
“And...I don’t remember. Wait, that’s right! I was on my way to the principal’s office.”
Vlad grabbed a penlight from his shirt pocket and shined it in the boy’s eyes. “Acute transient amnesia.” He stepped in the closet and scribbled ‘ATA’ on the label of his freshly bottled fart.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you lost your wits for a moment and fortunately got them back. As it turns out, a little gas can come in handy when you find yourself in a pickle. That’s why I bottle it.” Vlad continued drinking beer.
“Wait...what?!” Henry’s head spun. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Instead of letting people push you around, let them gag on one of your homemade air biscuits. Sure, finding the right recipe takes a little organization, experimentation and plenty of luck, but hell...look at me!” He polished off another beer and sunk a steamy squirrel in the bottle. “Oh, nice! Do you want to guess what this one is?” He sniffed and offered it to the child.
“Hell no!” Henry jumped back.
“Fine, your loss.” Vlad forced the aluminum cap back on the bottle. “But if you want to be successful like me, then you’ve gotta start bottling farts.”
“But you’re a fucking janitor!” Henry wiped his bloody nose.
“Just a janitor, eh? Is that all you see? Come here, you little prick. I’ve got something to show you.” He stepped over to a metal door and opened it.
Reluctantly, Henry followed him through.
“Hey, Betty. You’re looking mighty fine today.” Vlad ambushed the secretary, releasing a puff of his ghastly ghoul in her face.
The blond bombshell made a face, and smiled back. “Aren’t you the sexiest thing I’ve seen all day?” She tossed her typewriter aside, crawled atop the desk, and licked her lips.
“Keep it classy, honey. I’ll deal with you later.” He peeked at her healthy cleavage and then pulled Henry into an office. “Sit!” He pointed to an empty chair.
“What are you doing? And what’s wrong with her?” Henry glanced at Betty, who looked like she was about to tear her clothes off.
“Haven’t you been listening to a damn word I said?” The old man closed the door and took a seat.
“You can’t sit there. That’s the principal’s chair.”
“Well, I’m in charge now.” Vlad rolled his chair to the far corner and opened the closet door. A lean man with a mustache and a three-piece suit stood in the closet, holding a case of beer. “Thanks, Mr. Withersby.” He grabbed a bottle and shut the door.
“I think I’m going to need one of those.” Henry swiped the janitor’s beer and gulped it down.
“Now is all of this sinking into that tiny brain of yours?” Vlad grabbed another beer from the closet. “It’s all about farts, Henry. The whole world revolves around farts. With the right gaseous emission, you can get away with just about anything. Why do you think so many attractive women want to jump my bones? Is it my irresistible odor? Even the word ‘cologne’ is just a pretty word for a fart. You got that?” Vlad slammed down his beer, spilling it on the desk.
“Uh-huh.” The kid inhaled more beer.
“People are often influenced by external forces beyond their control--things that infiltrate and manipulate the environment. Every moment, we’re breathing in some kind of toxic fume, from the paint on the walls to the exhaust of a diesel engine that smells like somebody set a dinosaur’s ass on fire. These emissions have troubling, and at times, permanent psychological effects. You following me, son?”
“Right on, daddio.” The boy burped.
“My good friend Cooper taught me that there’s one for everything, until he accidentally spontaneously combusted while lighting farts in the back of his pickup truck one night. Although bottling farts is potentially dangerous, it is rewarding. Just be careful what you brew or it can backfire on you. Big time.
“Once you’ve got a grasp on basic Fartology, you’ll discover that there are farts that can erase people’s memories and cause them to fall in love with you. There are farts of folly that induce gas in others and make their minds pliable and open to suggestion. If you’re lucky, you might even squeeze off a few recreational farts that make people giggle for hours--no alcohol required. Hell, a fart can even provoke nuclear war if you’re not too careful!
“See that up there?” Vlad pointed to a series of vials on the shelves behind him. “That’s my personal stash, assembled over many painstaking years--what I like to call a field set. But what you see here is only a fraction of my collection. The majority is at home under lock and key. These are just the basics: confusion, mind control, memory wipes, binding suggestions, social stimulus, fear, drowsiness, animus, truth serums, sexual aggression, and...death. There are limitless classes and combinations. Eventually, you get so good at identifying them you can smell them right through the glass--no need for a label! Don’t get too close, though, or you’ll get snockered by your own creation.”
“So is that how you took over the school?” Henry’s head throbbed.
“Shh...that’s our little secret.” Vlad grabbed his beer and kicked back.
Suddenly a teacher burst through the door. She saw the beer and gasped.
“Hey, Mrs. Hudgens. What brings you to my office?” Vlad sat up straight.
“I was wondering why it was taking Henry so long to return to class. Now I know why. Is that beer you’re serving him?”
“Root beer,” Vlad replied.
“Bullshit!” She ripped the bottle out of the Henry’s hand and sniffed.
“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.” The old man waved his hand.
“What?” said Mrs. Hudgens.
Vlad farted into his hands, stood up, and released it in the teacher’s face.
“Yes...root beer...How could I be so foolish?” She took a sip. “Say, handsome, what are you doing after work tonight?”
“A little indoor spackling, my dear, if you know what I mean.” He pointed to the secretary who blew a kiss back.
“Perhaps another time, then?” Mrs. Hudgens winked.
“Yeah, whatever.” Vlad shoved her out of the office and slammed the door. “See what I mean? If you play your cards right, even a lowly janitor can aspire to bigger and better things if he just bottles a few farts. I bet I could even become the President of the United States if I tried.” He walked back to his desk.
These words of wisdom seemed to sober up the troubled youth. “So now what?”
“Now you go back to class and stop acting like a royal shithead.”
“Wait, you can’t send me back there unarmed. Those guys are gonna kill me! Please, let me have some of your gas to protect myself. After all, you did say that the best way to get what you want is by bottling farts. Well, I don’t want to get my ass kicked. Could you at least give me a bottle or two?”
The old man scratched his square jaw. “Kind of like a sampler?”
“I don’t know about that.” Vlad crossed his arms. “Oh, all right. Here, take this. It will make even the toughest guy cry like a baby.” He handed the boy a bottle from his desk drawer.
“So it’s kind of like tear gas?” said Henry.
“I guess you could put it that way.”
“But that doesn’t help me at all. What happens when I run out? They’ll still kick my ass! You’re just delaying the inevitable.”
“Well, then perhaps you shouldn’t make so many enemies.”
“Please, sir. You’re the only hope I’ve got.”
“Look, the whole idea is for you to bottle your own creations and figure out how to use them. It doesn’t make sense for me to share my farts.”
“But I’ve got thousands of enemies. By the time I’ve bottled enough farts and figured out the right combinations, I’ll be dead!”
Vlad finished his beer and pondered for a moment. “All right, fine.” He stood. “But I’m only giving you a little, so use it wisely.” He took a vial from the top shelf, uncorked it, and transferred a portion to the empty beer bottle. “You can use this to reprogram anyone who’s mad at you. Hell, you might even convince them that you’re a swell guy.” He grabbed an extra cork lying around and sealed it. “Now be careful. This is powerful stuff.” He handed it to the boy.
“Oh, gee...thank you.” The child took the bottle and embraced the old man. “You’re my savior! How can I ever repay you?”
“Aw, it’s no big deal.” The affection embarrassed Vlad. “If there’s anything else you need, anything at all, just holler and I’ll hook you up.” He patted Henry on the shoulder.
“Well, there is one more thing,” Henry said coyly.
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” said Vlad.
“Come closer. Let me whisper it in your ear.” The boy gestured.
“All right.” Vlad bent over.
Henry smashed the bottle over Vlad’s head, sending the mind-altering fumes surging up the old man’s nostrils. “Now I’m in charge.” He grinned.
Kenneth Price knew from the horrid stench that death was lurking just around the corner. “Please come in, Mr...uh...” Ken coughed the fetid odor from his lungs.
“Wieckowski, but you can call me Vlad.” An old man with thick bifocals stepped in the office. He wore a pair of torn jeans with a hole in the crotch, and a tattered Redskins jersey with faded letters that barely spelled the name RIGGINS. Although Vlad looked as if he’d slept with Oscar the Grouch, he was quite fortunate. A good Samaritan had donated the clothes for his job interview; otherwise, Vlad would be interviewing in his underwear.
“You do realize this is an interview, don’t you, Mr. Wieckowski?” Ken closed the door and sat down.
“Oh yeah, sorry about that. You called for the interview so quickly I didn’t have time to get my clothes from the wash.”
“I called last week.”
“Yeah, but I had shit to do.” Like pick a wedgie from his unwashed crack or wake up from a coma-inducing air biscuit that had been unleashed on him by a certain pint-sized little bastard.
“I hope you take your job seriously, because this doesn’t look so good.” Ken fidgeted with his Rolex.
“Yeah, yeah. I get where you’re coming from, pal.” Vlad sat up and combed what little hair he had with his fingers.
“So tell me, why are you interested in getting a job here at Tringle and Associates?”
“Well, to be quite honest, I need a job.”
“And a shower. And a fucking brain,” Ken thought to himself and brushed his blond bangs from his eyes. “It says here on your application that you started out as a janitor and worked your way up to become the principal of Riverside Elementary? That’s quite a leap. At first I didn’t believe it, but then I made a few calls and lo and behold, you’re telling the truth. Could you tell me more about this?”
“Well, you know...I waxed a few floors, got lucky--if you know what I mean--and before I knew it I was sitting in the principal’s chair.”
“Do you have any college experience that I’m not aware of? Only a GED is listed as your highest level of education.”
“Oh, that. I just threw that in there so that you wouldn’t think I was a total fucking moron.” Vlad grabbed a beer from his back pocket and cracked it open.
“Is that beer?” Ken asked.
“Uh...no.” Vlad looked around and took a swig.
“I can smell the alcohol from here.”
“Really? Oh yeah, I got drunk the other night and puked all over my shoes. You’re probably smelling that.” He gulped down another mouthful and set the bottle next to him.
“Great,” Ken sighed. He doubted Vlad owned a pair of shoes, but he hadn’t really noticed since he had been overwhelmed by the vagrant’s pungent odor. “Mr. Wieckowski, perhaps it’s best that we don’t do this now.”
“Have you taken a look at yourself in the mirror?”
“I don’t own a mirror.”
“Precisely. You need to pull yourself together and come back for another interview. I’m even willing to forget that you stepped foot in this office and give you another opportunity to knock my socks off. While it’s true that we need a janitor, we don’t need one that bad.”
“Oh, come on, man. Don’t do this to me. I’m really trying here. You’re the best shot I’ve got at putting my life back together.” Tears filled Vlad’s eyes.
“Well, you’re going to have to try a lot harder than that.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Vlad shook his head, trying to hold himself together.
“What don’t I understand?” Ken sat back in his chair. “All right, forget about the job for a moment. Let’s talk candidly, one man to another. What happened to you? By all accounts you seemed to be doing well. Did you do something illegal and get thrown in jail? Hopefully you didn’t rape one of those poor kids.”
“Nothing of the sort. That little bastard raped me!”
“What?!” Ken nearly fell out of his chair.
“A little kid robbed me blind. Stole every last fart I had.” Vlad clenched his fists.
“Pardon? Did you say ‘fart?’”
“Yeah, he used my secret weapon against me, and then put me in a coma until I woke up a few months ago. He wiped out my life savings, and after I was released from the hospital I found out that my lender had foreclosed on my house and changed the locks. Everything I owned was gone in a flash. Now I’m homeless, wandering around, and trying to make sense of all this. But I’m not the begging type. When I realized that I wouldn’t last long on the streets, I applied for a job--any job--just to put food in my stomach. On top of that, I lost the one talent I had.”
“What’s that?” Ken stared at him intently.
“You know how singers occasionally lose their voice?”
“It’s kind of like that.”
“Oh, do you mean like that homeless guy with the golden voice? Didn’t he work for a radio station or something?”
“Yeah, something like that.” Vlad took a sip of beer.
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