Captive Audience E-Book

Donald Rump

• Herausgeber: Donald Rump
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Three men, one blonde secretary, a jammed up elevator, and a series of ghastly, deadly farts. What could possibly go wrong? Intended for mature (and not so mature) audiences. Approximately 3,600 words.

Leseprobe

Captive Audience

Donald Rump

Also by Donald Rump

20 Common Questions About Farts

Bottling Farts (English, Spanish, Italian)

Crazy Authors Vol. 1

Finding Floofy (English, Spanish)

Four Stinky Stories Vol. 1 (English, Spanish)

Four Stinky Stories Vol. 2 (English, Spanish)

Five Reasons Why Dating Hot Chicks Is A Bad Idea

Gastrointestinal Blues

Going Dutch (English, Spanish)

Marriage Stinks (English, Spanish)

Ten Stinky Stories Vol. 1

The $500 Question (English, Spanish)

The Chapped-Ass Critic (English, Spanish)

The Would Be Asstronaut (English, Spanish)

Till Death Do Us Fart (English, Dutch, Spanish)

Weekend Getaway (English, Spanish)

© 2015 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.

Written, edited and produced in the United States of America.

Image(s) licensed by DepositPhotos.com and © Noppadol Anaporn (#47736927). Fart drawings by Mel Casipit.

First Edition (v1.0)

Published on December 19, 2015

Last updated on April 8, 2016

ISBN-13: 9781311578570

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Donald Rump

Copyright

Opening Quote

Captive Audience

My Two Cents

About the Author

More Crazy Books

Thank You!

Women are evil. It's just a fact of life.

Captive Audience

“You can’t be serious,” Barton Rinway lowered his Monday paper. “Well, it wasn’t me.” He shrugged and began reading again.

There was another floof, followed by the collective groan of the other three passengers in the elevator.

“If it was me, I’d have to be a world class ventriloquist—out of my ass! Clearly the sound came from the opposite side of the elevator.” He gave an evil eye to the young, blonde receptionist who had recently started working at Rincon Enterprises a few weeks before. Maybeleine, he thought her name was.

“You aren’t seriously going to blame me, are you?” Maybeliene glanced at the three men in the elevator.

“Well, who else could it be? Oh dear...” Barton fanned the stench away with his newspaper. “Women are always the last to admit when they’ve broken wind. Over the years, they’ve brainwashed the masses to believe that they don’t fart because they’re women. But when you’re lying awake at night next to your new bride, the ugly truth toots out of her like smoke signals over your grave. Isn’t that right, Jack?” Barton read off his shiny, gold name tag.

Of all of the people in the world, good old Jack would understand. With this blue overalls, he was obviously a working class man, and a janitor to boot. No doubt he’d mopped many a woman’s stall, and gagged at the odors left behind. “Wasn’t me,” was all he offered.

A gentleman on the other side of Barton, a lean, clean cut, sugar daddy with a black suit and tie, shrugged his shoulders and continued pounding keys on his cellphone.

“Well, that’s the end of it. Give it up so that you may clear your conscience and still have a productive day.” Barton folded his newspaper and tucked it neatly under his arm.

“But it wasn’t me,” said Maybeleine.

“Perhaps it could have been,” said Barton.

“It most definitely was not!” Her eyes filled with daggers.

Right then and there all three gentlemen thought the young lady was winding up so that she could hit the middle-aged man with all her might, but instead another air biscuit popped out, and choked the crowd.

Abruptly, the elevator stopped. The gears above squeaked, shaking the entire cabin before grinding to a halt.

“See what you did?” Barton squealed. “The power of a female fart is unequaled. You could kill someone with those, even in your sleep! Unfortunately, when one comes barreling out, there’s little you can do. You just have to batten down the hatches and hope for the best.”

Another rabid air biscuit tainted the air.

“Would you stop that already? It’s not like there’s much air in here,” said Barton.

“Yeah, come on. You’re killing us in here,” said Jack.

“Fine, it was me. Are you happy?” Maybeleine glared at each of them.

“Of course I’m not happy. You took out the damn elevator with that thing,” said Barton.

“Help!” Jack cried and pounded his fists on the walls.

“Relax, guys. I’ve already e-mailed security. They’ll get us out of here as soon as possible,” said the man in the black suit.

“E-mail? That’s it? What if they don’t check their e-mail for a few hours? We could be dead by then with all of these frequent outbursts.”

“I said it wasn’t me,” said Maybeleine.

“Wait...what?! You just admitted it,” said Barton.

“I didn’t admit to anything. I just said that to shut you up.” Maybeleine crossed her arms.

“So then it wasn’t you?”

“No!”

“Then who was it? David Copperfield? Mutants from outer space? Fucking Quigley down under?” Barton covered his mouth, embarrassed that he’d resorted to profanity.

“I don’t know, I-”

The air broke again, causing all four to cover their noses.

“Good grief! It smells like something died in here,” said Maybeliene.

“Is that the female mating call? Exactly which hole did it come out of?” said Barton.

“You can’t be serious. That wasn’t me.” She cowered in the corner of the elevator.

“Maybe she’s right,” said Jack.

“Right? Has the stench fogged your brain, old man? She’s a woman. They’re always wrong.”

“What?!”

“And they’d rather die than admitting that they cut the cheese. Isn’t that right, my friend?” said Barton.

“Well.” Jack scratched his head.

“Well, what?” said Barton.

“You know that smell when you’ve accidentally stepped in dog poop in the backyard?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, it kinda smells like that.”

“Are you suggesting that she has a dead animal up there?” Barton exclaimed. “I wouldn’t put it past her, actually.”

Another broken air biscuit sent Barton’s mind spinning.

“If you want to clear your name, young lady, you’ll have to offer further proof. Hike up that little skirt of yours. Let’s make sure that there aren’t any other house pets onboard.”

“What?! No way!” Maybeleine shook her head.

Yet another breaking of wind made their situation that more dire.

“We’re losing air, quickly.” The man in the black suit looked around. “We better put a cork in it now, otherwise, we’ll-”

Suddenly Jack dropped to his knees. He wheezed in and out, gasping for air, before falling over in a pile.

“Jack!” Barton shook him. As he took in a breath of noxious fumes, he could tell the air was getting thinner. “Murderer!” He gazed at Maybeleine. As he stepped back, he stumbled into the elevator wall.

“It’s better if we don’t talk anymore. There’s too much carbon in the air. You know that it leads to global warming and all that,” said the man in the black suit.

Another fart brought a deeper scowl to Barton’s maniacal face. “And what are those composed of? What poisonous substance is she releasing into the air?”

“I don’t know. It could be anything. It depends on which hole it came out of.”

“Quiet!” Maybeleine screamed. “Like you said, it’s better if we all just shut up.”

“But a man is dying here.” Barton knelt over and checked Jack’s vitals. “Shouldn’t we call 911?”

“Already did. I texted them,” said the mysterious man.

“I didn’t realize you could text them.”

“Please, save some oxygen for the rest of us.”

“Right.” Barton glanced at the newspaper again. He scanned over the headline and immediately shook his head. “Black Hole Discovered in Justin Bieber’s Anus’—why did he even bother reading the tabloids these days? “You work in finance, don’t you?”

He nodded and said, “Shh!”

Barton scanned the ceiling. “Chief Financial Manager, are you not?”

“Yep.” He used as little oxygen as possible.

Barton shook his head. It was that greedy, little bastard Ray Wilbourne. Until now, he’d only known him from his e-mails, which were frequent and quite detailed. In order to save the company money, he elected to cut all heat and air conditioning from 6:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. Needless to say, it was cold as balls when Barton rolled in at 6:45 in the morning. Even worse, their demise might be brought about because of a cost cutting initiative. “So why did you do it?” Barton asked.

“Do what?” said Ray.

“What, you’re blaming him now?” said Maybeleine.

“Yes, for cutting the fans in the elevator. He’s cut everything else down to the bone. Why not cut off the air as well? Employees can hold their breath while using the elevator. No big deal,” said Barton.

“I did no such thing,” Ray fired back.

Another fart rocked the elevator, causing it to shake.

“So what else did you skimp on? Maintenance? Repairs?”

“A little of both. But it was with the best of intentions.” Ray glanced at his cellphone and nodded solemnly.

“Will you shut the fuck up? We’re running out of air,” said Maybeleine.

“No thanks to you,” Barton fired back. “And if this bean counter hadn’t stiffed the maintenance crew, we might have a working fan in this piece of shit. Give me that!” Barton swiped the cell phone from Ray’s hand. “Let’s get a human on the other end of the line for a change.”

“No, save your air!” Ray pounced on him.

Barton turned and threw his fist upwards, connecting with Ray’s jaw and sending him crashing to the floor. He crumbled against the elevator wall and nodded off, the blow separating him from his consciousness. “Take a nap, and let the big boys solve this.”

“Oh my goodness! I think you killed him,” Maybeleine gasped.

Another raucous fart ensued, fogging the air and sending the old man stumbling in circles. “Can’t you hold it until the rescuers get here?” Barton coughed.

“For once, can you admit that it isn’t me?” Maybeleine cried. “My God, we’re all going to die in here!”

Barton labored for air, his lungs burning with every breath. “Not if I can do something about it.” He took off his jacket and tossed it on the floor. The elevator car was hazy, and although the ceiling was only a couple feet away, he could barely see it. “We need to get that fan running, whatever the cost.” He pointed.

Not that she could see a damn thing. In a moment, his words would fall on deaf ears.

“No, we should just wait for the ressscuuueerrrsss...” Maybeleine passed out on the floor.

“No, stay with me.” He shook her, but to no avail. As she slumped over, another fart greeted him. For the first time in this ordeal, Barton considered that the fart might not have come from her, but from up above.

The lights flickered on and off. Was it Barton’s consciousness or the elevator lights? He could barely tell. But it was obvious that the end was near, and he would be damned if he didn’t go out swinging.

He stepped over to the elevator doors and pried them open with his fingers. He grunted, pulling with all his might, the lights flickering as he did so. Finally he caught a glimpse of the steel wall on the other side of the doors. He was stuck between floors and what little space between the door and wall offered a faint whiff of...

Could it be?

Although the air reeked of rat droppings mixed with decomposed trash and dirty laundry, it smelled considerably better than the Dutch oven he was in. “Thank God!” He stuck his face through and caught a lungful of the otherworldly odor. It wasn’t all sugarplums and roses by any means, but it sure beat the hell out of that shithole elevator.

Caught up in the euphoria of oxygen to his brain, Barton’s fingers accidentally slipped off the doors, causing them to snap shut and nearly taking off his nose. “Damn you!” He jolted back, and shook his fist at the elevator doors.

Exhausted, Barton took off his shoe and threw it at the ceiling-mounted fan. The shoe bounced off harmlessly, moving neither the fan nor the elevator car. Quickly the fetid odor began to overrun his lungs, with another burst of breaking wind providing the exclamation point.

“I will not go quietly into the fart-infested night!” He took off his other shoe and tossed it as well.

In the end, there was only one conclusion that he could possibly come to. The elevator—it was alive!

It had to be! Didn’t it just try to bite off his nose?

And then there was the matter of all that flatulence. Perhaps the bean counter had made a pact with the devil and fed that damned thing human flesh!

How had Ray risen so fast in his position, anyways? Wasn’t there a different financial manager a few short months ago? Perhaps he fed that poor, old bastard to the elevator in order to skyrocket up the ladder.

“No, it doesn’t make sense...” Barton held his throbbing head. If the elevator indeed ate the employees, why was the janitor still alive? Wouldn’t he be the first to go? And why did it hesitate to make a meal of them now, even if one were its master?

“I’m too young to die!” Barton shrieked. “I can’t. I won’t!!!” He jumped up and down. The elevator car shook as he bounded off the floor. A loud thud ensued, followed by the elevator falling a few feet.

Suddenly the fan clicked on, catching on something large and soft. Its gears groaned. Bits of flesh and a gush of blood sprayed all over the inside of the car, sending Barton screaming once more. “Oh my God. Oh my God! It’s alive!!!” He rushed to the door and tried once again to pry them open.

The elevator fell another ten feet, and then finally for good, the cables snapping in succession—snap, snap, snap, snap! Finally the ghastly air overtook Barton’s lungs as the elevator plummeted ten stories and crashed in the concrete basement below.

* * *

“What the hell happened here?” Detective Finks ducked under the yellow tape and stepped over to a wooden table filled with bagged wreckage and body parts that was in the process of being catalogued.

Lew Crowley, a technician for the local Crime Scene Unit, grabbed a bag and tossed it to Finks.

Finks caught it midair and frowned. “What do I look like, Davey fucking Crockett?” He tossed the striped tail on the floor.

“It looks like a raccoon chewed through the elevator cables and accidentally got stuck in the fan. The car probably had been rubbing up against the shaft until it got stuck and the cables gave out.

“That would explain the smell.” The detective tried to waft it away with his hands. “So those poor schmucks got a lungful of that rotting ‘coon?”

“Yeah, a captive audience.”

“Damn, that’s the worst way to go.” Finks shook his head. “Any survivors?”

“One.” Lewis nodded at the blonde down the hall.

Finks and Maybeleine locked eyes, causing her to rise from her chair.

“Poor gal. She keeps blaming herself for all of this,” said Lewis.

“Did you tell her about the ‘coon?” Finks asked.

“No.” Lewis stepped over and scooped up the bag.

“Perfect. I’ll take her in the back room and grill her myself.” Finks adjusted his tie.

“But she’s not a suspect, and this hasn’t been ruled a homicide.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t know that.” Detective Finks’ brown eyes twinkled. He walked to the other side of the lobby and extended his hand. “Hello, miss. I’m Detective Finks. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions...”

* * *

“So am I off the hook, detective?” Maybeleine took a drag of her cigarette, the bed sheet draped over her naked body. She leaned back on the pillow, blew rings into the air, and slowly closed her eyes.

“Yeah, sure.” Finks caught his breath, still in disbelief. The young broad was a wild animal in bed. Surely he’d blown a gasket or two during their frenzied lovemaking.

“I guess I can cross falling from an elevator off my To Do list.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well?” she smiled.

“Well, what?”

“Are you ready for another round?”

“Seriously? You know, I think I threw out my...”

Before he could say another word, Maybeleine grabbed him and thrust his head between her legs. As he took a face full of her sweaty pie, she released a silent but deadly assassin out the other hole.

Finks gagged, and tried to come up for air, but Maybeleine held him there and pulled the sheets over him. “Perhaps I’m guilty after all.” She put out her cigarette on the top of his balled head and blasted him again for good measure.

THE END!

My Two Cents

I can’t believe I found this!

Awhile back, I wrote this piece of shit, and then filed it away for later. Since I hadn’t done any editing on it, the story didn’t stick with me. So I forgot about it, and it took me awhile before I stumbled across it again.

That’s the crazy thing about being an author. You’d think we’d remember everything little detail about what we write, but the truth is, if I write quickly and move on to something else, it’s easy to forget unless I do extensive editing and reread it several times.

When I came across Captive Audience, which didn’t even have a title at the time, I had no idea what the story was about or how it was going to end. It was funny enough, even in its crude form, and there were fewer mistakes than I would have thought for a first draft. But I very much didn’t know what was going to happen from one sentence to the next, and it was awesome to discover that not only did it have a beginning and a middle, but it actually had an end, too.

Too many times I start a story, realize that it’s a much longer work, and stop cold. There’s only so much time, and up until now, if I didn’t write it in one sitting or at least on the same day, I’d likely never finish it. That’s not the story now, and I was fully prepared to do whatever it took to finish off the humorous story. It was an absolute bonus that it did have an ending—one that I have no intention of changing.

But that’s not how I felt when I initially read the second scene between the detective and crime scene unit investigator. I thought it should have ended when Finks adjusted his tie and walked over to the secretary to talk about the accident. I had no idea of the twist that was about to unfold. In fact, I told myself that I should have simply cut it there, and gawked when I found another scene and the eventual ending.

And it was more awesome than I ever imagined.

All women are evil, of course, and their farts are the spawn of Satan!

So what was a complete story, that required little revising, doing on my hard drive? Usually I’m pretty good when it comes to these things, which is the reason why I’ve published so many stories under the Donald Rump brand name. It’s a real shame that I didn’t do anything with it sooner, and I won’t make that mistake again.

Seriously, am I losing my mind? How many other stories are out there? It’s one thing to have a story fragment, even a couple of scenes. But if you have a complete story—beginning, middle, end—there really isn’t a reason not to publish it. (Unless you hate it, of course, and it totally sucks balls.) Editing doesn’t take as long as you think when you roll up your sleeves, and creating a cover and the associated e-book are trivial matters.

There’s really no excuse, and the truth is, I don’t know what happened. It just got lost in the mix.

I suspect there are others, which is why I’m going to take some time and go through everything I’ve written up to this point. Yes, it’s a tremendous task, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I found another story tucked away in a journal or with some notes.

Actually, that’s exactly what happened with this story. The document began as a series of reminders, and then a story without a title followed. I must have thought this was another journal entry and bypassed it, but today I was actually reading through my journal one entry at a time.

The best part about this is that it feels like found treasure. I love this crazy, little story, and it certainly isn’t shy about what it is. It’s humorous, ridiculous, and completely absurd—just like any other Donald Rump story.

What else is out there waiting to be discovered? That is the question of the hour, and I know about as much as you do. It’s time to take an inventory and see what I come up with. No doubt more Donald Rump stories are on the way, and they’ll likely arrive sooner than you expect.

Keep it crazy and fart on,

Donald Rump Fart Expert

P.S. It’s strange timing finding this little gem. I’m undergoing a bit of a renaissance, and am producing more than I ever have. I’d just completed two new projects, Floofed at 40,000 Feet and What to Say to Ugly Chicks on a First Date as well as writing a number of author’s notes for my previous works when I found this. Suddenly I have tens of thousands of new words, and they all need editing.

Needless to say, this is the first time it’s happened. Typically I work on one story at a time, and when it’s finished, I immediately put it up in the store. There are times before leaving work when I can squeeze in some extra writing time, so that’s probably what happened here. I was probably also distracted by something in my personal life, making it all the more likely to be forgotten.

But I am getting my act together, and will do an inventory to see exactly what I’ve got. There are a number of stories that have good beginnings but no endings. Stories like That Lovin’ Feeling and Detention Always Stinks. Yes, I absolutely will finish these off, and I’ll also put aside some time to write Top Prize, which has been circling my toilet bowl for a brain for the past three years (at least).

Everything that should get done will get done as long as I’m aware of it. Now I just need to determine the scope of what I’m trying to accomplish. It’ll be a lot of work, but I’m excited to finally get these stories out the door.

Work, it seems, isn’t the problem. Organization apparently is.

Stumbling across stories like this makes my job easy, and I hope there are more. If so, keep your eyes peeled. I will get my house in order, or my name isn’t Dingleberry...err, I mean, Donald Rump!

About the Author

When he's not writing about old, crusty farts, Donald Rump writes about actual farts—the stinkier the better. He is also an advocate of the No Fart Left Behind program and marriage equality for all gaseous entities great and small. Apparently, he also gives dating advice.

Mr. Rump lives in Southern Maryland with his pet fart Floofy.

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