Floofed at 40,000 Feet E-Book

Donald Rump

• Herausgeber: Publisher s21000
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

It's a swell day aboard Crampton Airways Flight 007 until a passenger decides to follow his heart (and nose) out the airplane by cracking open the emergency door. Before long, others follow, chasing their dreams to certain death.What exactly has gotten into them?The hell if Captain Marlow knows, who's still waiting for the busty stewardess to deliver a much needed shot of vodka.Approximately 3,200 words.Note: This is a companion piece to the original Finding Floofy.

Leseprobe

Floofed at 40,000 Feet

Donald Rump

Also by Donald Rump

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)

Captive Audience

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)

Gastrointestinal Blues

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 © Dawn Hudson. Fart drawings by Mel Casipit.

Background image © Dawn Hudson and used in accordance with the CC0 Public Domain license(s) described on the following page:http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=204107&picture=beach-wave

First Edition (v1.0)

Published on June 29, 2017

Last updated on November 12, 2017

ISBN-13: 9781540193261

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Donald Rump

Copyright

Dedication

Floofed at 40,000 Feet

My Two Cents

Product Description

About the Author

Ad 1: Till Death Do Us Fart

Ad 2: 20 Common Questions About Farts

Ad 3: Four Stinky Stories, Vol. 1

Thank You!

To my precious Floofy once again.

Oh, the crazy things I do for you...

Floofed at 40,000 Feet

“Sir...?” said Emily Larson, a shapely young stewardess for Crampton Airways. She tapped the man lightly on the shoulder and angled her head. “I’m sorry, sir, but you’re going to have to get back to your seat. The seatbelt sign is still on.” She pointed to a display above one of the seats. Suddenly, the plane hit a pocket of air, causing it to dip sharply before leveling out. “See what I mean?”

The man stared at the windows, and then gazed at Emily with crazed eyes. “Floofy.”

“Excuse me?” She shook her head slightly.

The man nodded, and slowly ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “It’s you. It really is you!” He nodded, as if agreeing with himself.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you’re going to have to get back in your seat.” She grabbed a blanket from the overhead bin and helped tuck in one of the passengers.

“Could you drop me off here?” The man said with a straight face, a peculiar energy running through him.

“Huh?”

“I really need to get off here.”

“Don’t we all?” said Benny Butz, an old shoe salesman who was listening to the conversation.

“No, I need get out of here RIGHT NOW!” The man shoved the stewardess aside and walked briskly down the aisle.

“Hey, where are you going?” Emily chased after him. “Hank, could I get some help here?” she yelled at the air marshall, an onboard deputy who was making himself coffee in the kitchenette at the front of the plane. “Hank?” she yelled, though she knew he and the rest of the aging crew, who had a hard on for her the moment she stepped on the plane, were hard of hearing. Apparently they could see just fine, especially the oversized pillows she holstered in her bra.

“This is for you, Floofy! May we never be parted again.” The man pulled the handle on the emergency door. Instantly he was sucked out, and launched into the world below.

“Oh my God!” one of the passengers screamed.

“Well, I guess you really should have found a parachute first,” Benny laughed and watched the crazed passenger fall to the world below.

The open door served as a high octane vacuum cleaner, instantly sucking out various pieces of luggage, and even a man who was unfortunate enough to be walking towards the bathroom at that particular moment.

Emily had been fortunate, though. When she saw the man reach for the lever on the emergency door, she knew it was already too late to react. It wasn’t as if a child could pull the lever and doom the flight. Turning the lever on this old bird took physical strength--the strength of a man, no less. In fact, this particular airliner had nearly failed inspection because the emergency door tended to get stuck every now and then. While this posed a problem in the event of an emergency, like being able to escape a fire when the plane was grounded, it didn’t have any trouble keeping the passengers inside mid-flight.

The fact that the man had opened the door so easily surprised her, and she retreated into the kitchenette and grabbed hold of something--anything--when the escape hatch burst open.

Instantly the alarms blared. Many did not notice the oxygen masks fall down from the compartments above their seats, and instead screamed and pointed at the open door.

“What the fuck is going on?” a businessman who went by the name of Fritz hollered.

“I think the captain wanted us to get some fresh air,” Benny quipped.

“Seriously? Now?” Fritz shot him a dirty look.

“Hell, I don’t know. I’m just sitting here like you. Do you mind if I have a sip of your martini?” Benny pointed to a clear plastic cup on Fritz's tray that miraculously hadn’t slipped off yet.

“Fuck, I don’t care. Knock yourself out.” Fritz pushed it toward him.

As Benny reached for it, it was sucked out of the plane. “Dagnabbit!” He cursed as the cup and its contents flew out the door.

“Do something!” Emily punched a button on the intercom, holding onto the partition that walled off the kitchenette from the rest of the plane.

“Hey, what’s going on back there? And where’s my drink? You know that I have a shot of vodka once we go on autopilot,” Captain Marlow’s voice crackled through the intercom.

“Land the plane, you dildo!” Emily punched the intercom again. “Someone opened the emergency door and-” The partition cracked, causing her to lose grip and be sucked out the door. “Aaaaahhhhhhhhh!” She fell to her death.

But like the strange man, she saw something in the clouds.

“Phil? Is that you?” she said, staring at a large shape in the clouds below. It was a shape that she knew all to well: long and firm that sent tingles through her whenever she stuck it deep inside her and flicked the power on. Although she had called the captain a dildo, and rightfully so, she did not expect her beloved sex toy to materialize in the pillowy sky, which she tenderly named Phil. It set her at ease knowing that although she didn’t have much time, and life as she knew it was reaching its climactic end, that she would not go out alone. “Take me, Phil,” she murmured, and fell through the phallic-shaped bed of clouds.

“Sorry, you’re breaking up.” Captain Marlow chewed on a bag of honey roasted peanuts and belched. “What was that about an emergency whore? You know...I could use one myself. It gets lonely up here, especially when your copilot happens to be a fag.”

“Screw you!” Edward Slutlivan worked the controls.

“If you can offer any of those emergency services, please hit me back. And by the way,” he whispered, “I’m not wearing any underwear.”

“Big surprise there.” Edward rolled his eyes.

“Oh yeah? How would you know?” Captain Marlow fired back.

“Because you’ve only mentioned it a thousand times.” Edward rolled his eyes again. “Hey, this plane really is flying all fucked up, and for once I don’t think your frequent erectile dysfunction is to blame.”

“Huh? Yeah, whatever. Just give her a few minutes. She’ll be fine. Good thing you sucked off that safety inspector or we never would have gotten off the ground.”

“Yeah, you owe me.”

“And what exactly do I owe you?” Captain Marlow shook his head “no” to the forthcoming question.

“You know, a little...” Edward gazed into the clouds and squealed. “Cock!”

“You know that’s never going to happen. Keep your head in the clouds, Edward.” The captain shook off the repulsive image that flashed through his wee brain.

“No, look, a cock!” He pointed. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

“What the hell are you yammering about?”

“There, in the clouds. Don’t you see it?” Edward eagerly pointed.

“What?”

“A cock!”

“Have you lost your goddamn mind? I’m not going to search for a cock in the clouds. Besides, you have one of your own, don’t you? If you really want to see one, just unzip your pants.”

“But this is the biggest one I’ve seen thus far. It’s truly...epic...I have to get a closer look!” Edward unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the cabin door. “Woah!” The suction from the open door sent Edward tumbling down the aisle.

But he did little to resist.

When he reached the door, he propelled himself out, swan diving into cock heaven. And was that a butt? He truly was in heaven, and dove right through its angelic bunghole.

“What the fuck’s going on here?” Captain Marlow grabbed the controls. The plane dipped abruptly before he was able to correct it. “Hank, could you see what the disturbance is all about?” he said over the general intercom.

“Who’s Hank?” the passengers said amongst themselves, at least the ones that weren’t screaming their heads off or being sucked out of the plane.

“Sure thing, once I find me some sugar,” Hank said to himself. Hank Mulligan was a retired Green Beret, with seven Purple Hearts and a titanium plate screwed in his damn head. Nothing fazed him these days, not even an aircraft falling out of the sky. But he was forgetful, and certainly wasn’t shit without his coffee in the morning. “Damn.” He looked around, but there weren’t any condiments anywhere, let alone napkins. It was as if something had swiped them when he wasn’t looking. He still had his coffee in hand, which fortunately hadn’t gotten away from him--it had merely spilled all over his shirt and arm. “I guess I’ll have to go to the kitchenette in the back,” he grumbled, and walked around the corner.

He barely noticed the commotion as he made his way down the aisle. As passengers’ seats broke free, and they were sucked out the door, Hank was kind enough to give them a departing wave and said, “Thank you for flying Crampton Airways.”

When he got to the rear kitchenette, there wasn’t much left. In fact, it was difficult to call it a kitchenette at all. The cabinets and mini refrigerators had been sucked out along with the microwave, which he cleverly referred to as a “quick oven,” all the food, drinks, and most of all, sugar.

“Drat!” He stood in the aisle, screaming passengers flying by. A suitcase clipped him on the back of the head as it exited the plane, though he hardly noticed. Nothing could knock Hank the Tank out, and if his bad knees weren’t holding him back, he’d sign a contract with the UFC tomorrow and take out their current champion.

Without sugar, the coffee was truly awful. He took a sip and winced. “Now that’s one craptastic cup of dookies.” He stirred it with his finger, but it didn’t improve the flavor. Stirring around a steaming pile of shit left him with a slightly less steamy pile of shit.

And Hank knew it.

Heck, the coffee manufacturer knew it, and probably designed it that way.

But most of all, struggling authors like his pops back home knew it, especially retirees on tight budgets.

If only Hank could find a packet or two of sugar...

He peeked out the open door to see what all of the fuss was about, and then pulled his head back in. “Wait a minute.” He did a double take and stared into the clouds. Off in the distance appeared to be a great mountain of sugar. “Jackpot!” He stepped off the plane.

But he was only partially correct.

Indeed it was a mountain--the tip of Mount McKinley--but the sugar was actually snow, tucked in a blanket of clouds.

Onward Hank fell, crapping his pants like he did in the military and wondering why it had taken so long before he’d jumped out of another plane. Since his parachute rarely opened, it wasn’t such a big deal that he hadn’t taken one with him. He was going to find a little sugar for his coffee, even if it killed him!

“How'd he do that?” Benny held on tight as the plane continued to disintegrate.

“Do what?” Fritz's face was pale with fright. He knew the end was in sight, and there was no way he could wheel and deal his way out of this one.

“That man, he just walked over and looked outside. I don’t think he was sucked out. He jumped--of his own free will!”

“I wonder what he saw. Perhaps we’re the ones who are missing out on something.” Fritz glanced out the window.

“This is your captain speaking,” a voice came over the intercom. “Apparently some asshole decided to open the emergency door. Perhaps he needed to rub one out and all the bathrooms were taken. Who knows? But don’t panic. We’re almost to our destination. Have a cocktail and make yourself comfortable before we land. And please note that I’ve turned on the Fasten Seatbelt sign. Thank you for flying Crampton Airways. Staff please prepare for final descent,” his voice turned to static and cut off.

“So what do you think’s going on out there?” Fritz directed his attention back to the open door.

“Why, were you hoping to sneak in a game of air hockey?” said Benny.

“No, I’m serious. Something’s drawing the passengers outside. I’m gonna find out.” Fritz unbuckled his seatbelt.

“What, are you crazy?!” Benny held onto him for dear life.

“Don’t worry, I’m a lawyer. Best in the business, actually. Just in case you ever need one,” Fritz handed Benny his card, “I’m just a call away.”

“A lawyer, eh? All right, you can go.” Benny released him.

“Gee, thanks.”

Indeed Frank “Fritz” Tidewater didn’t have much to live for. He was a schmuck who was used to screwing people out of their valuables and considerable fortunes. Sure, he was a brilliant defense attorney, but he wasn’t worth a fraction of what he charged. He milked his clients through multiple layers of billing, never fully disclosing his fees, and forcing his clients to eventually barter services, such as free food and sex.

As a result, he’d built his own little west coast empire. He’d acquired a Mongolian Grill from an Asian businessman who desperately wanted to stay out of jail due to health violations that resulted in three customers’ deaths. Then there were brand new cars and eventually an entire dealership that he pried away from a bankrupt athlete as collateral for his services. Now he was headed to Alaska to work a different angle--to get a cut of the seafood industry. A few sailors had died due to bad weather and horrible working conditions--a common occurrence in this line of work--but apparently the owner had gone a bit too far to cut costs. Now Fritz saw an irresistible opportunity that promised to set him up with all-you-can-eat crab legs for life.

As he neared the door, he peeked out a window and gasped. There, in the clouds, was a sight that gave even his limp loin a jolt. Though he loved cracking Alaskan snow crab legs more than sex itself, there was one thing he liked even more--the tender meat inside. Sure, cracking open shells was dull work after a while, a necessary inconvenience to get at the sweet, lump meat. Although it was tiring, especially after cracking open several pounds of crab legs, his full stomach always told him that it was worth whatever con job he’d contrived to stuff his greedy paunch.

When he saw what appeared to be lump crab meat piled high atop the cloud deck below, he didn’t hesitate for a second. He jumped head first into the pile of faux crab meat, overjoyed that he and the scavengers at the bottom of the ocean would finally be reunited, forever.

“Holy crap, these people are sick!” Benny watched helplessly as passengers undid their seat belts and allowed themselves to be sucked out the plane door. Though he hated to admit it, there was something intriguing going on outside. He’d already seen dozens of people jump to their deaths. What was so irresistible that he’d consider doing the same?

He thought long and hard--as much as his pea brain would allow--but it shouldn’t have taken so long. Like most men, Benny was a pervert, and he liked a nice pair of jugs as much as the next guy. But Benny was now an old man, and it had been awhile nice he’d fondled an appreciable rack. Most of the boobs he’d seen were pathetic, droopy things that had seen better days and now dangled like pair of shriveled bananas. What he would give to see a shapely pair of hooters!

Though it was difficult, he undid his seatbelt and slid a seat over. Then again. Carefully he put his new seatbelt on and waited so that he wouldn’t abruptly be sucked out the door. He had worked his way from the aisle seat to the left window seat and slowly peered out.

Staring out the window was like peeking into the ladies’ bathroom. There were boobs everywhere, in every cloud. There was nothing else feminine about the scene before him, not even a face to go with the boobs. There was just an endless array of the boobs from his flights of fantasy: large, round, and most definitely, juicy.

Though the side of the plane was collapsing and would have spit him out anyways, to say he went willingly would be an understatement. He did not have to undo his seatbelt--the wooden weasel that popped up in his pants did it for him. In his wildest dreams, he never imagined dying in a land of boobs, but there they were, lying all around him in the clouds, waiting to be suckled. And he had to admit, it was awesome. Boobs, boobs, and more boobs! Benny finally could let go of life and all of the problems that came with it and die a happy boob of a man.

It wasn’t long before every last passenger had exited the plane, willing or otherwise, and Captain Marlow found himself alone in the cockpit. “Uh, hello?” his tinny voice crackled through the shambled remains of the airplane. It was amazing that the wings were still attached, let alone the tail.

What had gotten into everyone? Even from his obstructed vantage point, he had seen passengers jump out, one after another. What had beckoned them from their seats and promised something better than survival? He didn’t understand it, and racked what little brain he had for an answer.

If anything enticed him, it was being a spy. Although he wasn’t clever enough or in shape to be a modern day James Bond, that didn’t mean that he didn’t fantasize about it. Bond could do everything--fly planes, drive fast cars, and always got the woman, and thus, the big boobs, in the end. In fact, he wondered if that was why he became a pilot in the first place.

Like Bond, he was always looking for adventure and hot women, but instead got a meager pension and cramped bathroom blow jobs from the occasionally perky staff.

Of course, he could always be Bond’s nemesis, just like in the movies. Although there were a number of lame copycats, there was only one James Bond. So if you couldn’t beat him, why not kill him? No one deserved all the hot action and scrumptious hair pie like Bond did.

So like any mischievous super villain, Captain Marlow began to surmise his own devilish plans. Up ahead, in the clouds, he saw his answer. It wasn’t just a mountain, but a mountain fortress. The mountain fortress to rule them all! He didn’t care about the raw sewage seeping into the nearby bay that ultimately condensed into clouds and soiled the shores of Russia. Through that stink he could see what appeared to be a landing strip carved into the mountain. The clouds gave the illusion of a secret door that opened to an air field where he could park his dilapidated Boeing 737 and stage his devious plans.

“You don’t got shit on me, Mr. Bond.” He engaged the thrusters, streaking full speed ahead into the side of the mountain.

THE END.

My Two Cents

Holy crap, I can’t believe I did it! What was mentioned as a passing joke in one of the previous installments of My Two Cents actually came to fruition. The side story to Finding Floofy is now done.

WTF?! I’m in total shock, and suspect I’ll need an oxygen mask as well.

If there’s any story that wouldn’t or probably shouldn’t have been written, this is it. Although I had an inkling of an idea (What really happened aboard the fateful flight from Finding Floofy?), I had no idea about its execution or what awaited me when I began putting down words.

And Floofed at 40,000 Feet is truly a work of wonders. It may be one of the more complicated short stories I’ve written thus far. Typically my stories are no more than a few characters, typically two or three, and rarely more. Any additional characters are usually window dressing and disposed of rather quickly.

But not this story.

I’m genuinely surprised that it happened at all, let alone the complexity.

And I’m completely in love with how it all turned out.

In hopes that I might be able to repeat this process, let me briefly explain what I did. Just the day before, I jokingly said that I’d write a sequel of sorts to Finding Floofy, and then outlined what the story might be about. The story would start off with a stewardess begging a man not to jump out of the plane. In time, everyone onboard would see something in the clouds and eventually jump out as well.

What would they see? I had no idea, but it would be the same hair trigger reaction as the main character of Finding Floofy. Eventually everyone finds something irresistible in the clouds that they don’t mind dying for. In the grand scheme of things, somehow it’s all worth it. Eventually, only the captain is left, who decides, what the heck? And follows suit as well.

That’s all I had--the gist of the story, and I wasn’t all that serious about writing it. Perhaps by disarming myself and lowering my expectations, I helped myself write the story. All I know is that there absolutely wasn’t any pressure. I simply took a shot at it, and if it worked out, it worked out. If not, no big deal. (Seriously, how many partially completed stories do I have already?)

So I just told myself to take a chance, and persist to the end. To my surprise, that’s exactly what I did.

But I should take another step back and explain. Throughout my brief writing career, that’s been going on for roughly nine years (I’ve only been publishing the last four), I’ve never had any real discipline. I’ve only written when I found the time. Writing, as you can see, wasn’t the main priority, and it wasn’t getting done with any consistency.

So I promised myself that I would change that and start waking up at five o'clock in the morning and write before work. I was amazed when I set a goal of writing a minimum of 3,015 words every morning (at a rate of 1.1 million words per year) and smashed right through it. It takes me a little less than three hours, and by doing it first, I’m free to do all of the other things that I need to in order to survive (like work).

Yes, it sucks going to bed early, and it sucks even harder waking up in the dark of night, but you know what? It’s sucking less and less each day. And I find that I do not mind making the sacrifice if it means that my writing gets done.

No bullshit, just write. Then go about the rest of your day as usual.

By putting writing first, I’m finding that there is plenty of time to do all of the other things that need to get done throughout the day. If I respect my writing time, everything else falls into place. No joke!

So I guess I really shouldn’t be surprised when things like this happen, seemingly out of thin air. I’m at the computer now, every morning at the exact same time writing no less than 3,015 words. Surely there will be days when I feel like I’m off, but who’s to say that most days won’t be like today--productive and truly amazing?

When you succeed on this level, especially now, it makes you want to work that much harder, and not give up your discipline for anything.

So no more staying up late to watch the Golden State crush the Cavaliers or watch Ronda Rousey’s head get kicked into the fifth row. This is more important.

And by surveying a story in advance, even jokingly, and putting it in your head, you can comfortably iterate from the beginning to the end and realize your germ of an idea (and sneeze it back out accordingly).

I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to find the same success tomorrow, but I’m going to find out, and if you see scores of new titles pop up under my pen name, you’ll know what happened.

I finally got my act together. Imagine that!

--Donald Rump, Fart Expert

P.S. One of the blogs that I currently follow is Dean Wesley Smith’s New World of Publishing. He’s one of the few prolific individuals that I know of who blogs every day and shares the secrets behind his incredible output. Obviously one of the first is to establish discipline and write consistently, but it’s quite another thing when you’re able to do it. By following this simple advice (in theory, anyways), it’s a great way to expand your perceptions and show what is possible.

He also describes a technique called cycling in which he produces a draft that he essentially polishes as he goes by cycling back. That’s not exactly the method that I use, but I am using a variant of it. I typically write a draft from start to finish and don’t cycle back until I reach the end. I only work in wholes--whole chapters and whole stories and will not consider anything until it’s all out of me.

If a rewrite is necessary, I do it, but my method is a bit different than others--I actually retype in every last word and make corrections and expand upon original ideas as I go, very much getting back into the rhythm that I used to write the story. This results in a larger draft (usually twenty percent or more) and better writing, but it’s not always necessary. Sometimes a story only needs minor corrections before it is published. It all depends on the story.

Of course, Mr. Smith abhors the use of rewrites, and it’s worth your time to read what he has to say about the issue. I know that for me, personally, his ideas have helped a great deal, even though I don’t always agree with him.

It’s good food for thought for those who are struggling or just trying to complete a story.

Don’t give up. Stories are worth seeing through to the end--even the stinky ones.

Product Description

It’s a swell day aboard Crampton Airways Flight 007 until a passenger decides to follow his heart (and nose) out the airplane by cracking open the emergency door. Before long, others follow, chasing their dreams to certain death.

What exactly has gotten into them?

The hell if Captain Marlow knows, who’s still waiting for the busty stewardess to deliver a much needed shot of vodka.

Approximately 3,200 words.

Note: This is a companion piece to the original Finding Floofy.

WARNING: Brain freeze ahead.

KEYWORDS: humor, humorous, comedy, farts, fart fiction, fun, funny, gas

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.

Till Death Do Us Fart

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20 Common Questions About Farts

Think you know everything there is to know about mankind's favorite green gas? Well, Donald Rump has something in store for you!

Inside, you'll finally get to the bottom of many age-old questions, including:

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