Pedo Flambé E-Book

Donald Rump

• Herausgeber: Publisher s21000
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

When an old man hobbles into the Palazzio and demands his favorite dish, the peculiar Pedo Flambé, the wait staff isn't sure what to make of it.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we don't have such a thing on our menu." His baby-faced waiter Zach Spitz frowns.

"You sure about that?" The old man slaps down a $100 bill.

"Of course, sir. Right away, sir!" Zach's manager snatches up the bill and runs back to the kitchen.

Approximately 4,000 words.

Leseprobe

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

Don't Count Your Chicken Farts Before They Hatch

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)

Pedo Flambé

Put Another Fart in the Jukebox, Baby

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)

© 2019 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 © Sergiy Tryapitsyn (#60340227). Fart drawings by Mel Casipit.

First Edition (v1.0)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Donald Rump

Copyright

Dedication

Pedo Flambé

My Two Cents

Product Description

About the Author

Ad 1: Till Death Do Us Fart

Ad 2: 20 Common Questions About Farts

Dedication

Pedo Flambé

Peebles Mason pushed through the gray double doors of the kitchen, entered the dining room, and fixed his black tuxedo. “How’s it going, Zach?” He primed his thin, oily mustache with two fingers and felt around to make sure that none of his matted down curly hair was out of place.

“How do you think? Shitty as usual.” Zachery Spitz looked around the empty restaurant. The light classical music playing in the background made it as appealing as a morgue. And the vomit green decor spread throughout the restaurant? At least the owners weren’t hiding how the patrons might feel after they visited their fine establishment.

“Well, it’s a good thing that I sent Sarah home,” said Peebles.

“Why? Now the two of us have to play hostess,” Zach whined.

“Stop bitching. You’ll still get 100% of the tables.”

“Yeah, but 100% of jack shit is still jack shit.”

“It’ll pick up eventually.”

“Right. Yesterday, I only had one table, and this evening, not a single one. Unlike you, I only make $5.25 an hour. I can’t pay the bills with this crap. And surely I wouldn’t dare get an employee meal here. Not with that dildo in the back.”

“Yeah, well, all restaurants go through rough patches. Hang in there, pal.” Peebles slapped Zach on the shoulder and walked away.

“Perhaps you should lower your prices,” Zach hollered as Peebles returned to the kitchen.

And he wasn’t kidding!

The Palazzio was one of the most expensive restaurants in town, and didn’t have the clientele to show for it. A hamburger was a mere $29, and if you wanted to add bacon or sauteed onions or (gasp) cheese, it was another $5. Of course, it didn’t come with fries. None of the items on the menu did. The Palazzio nickled and dimed customers for every little thing, and it was a wonder that anyone bothered to show their ugly mugs there.

Aside from typical American fare like buffalo wings, hamburger sliders and nachos, the Palazzio offered fresh sushi, crêpes, Mexican food, and signature pasta dishes. Of course, you could buy a better burrito from Chipotle just around the corner, and if you really liked the thin fries that they served, you’d find better quality at McDonald’s. In six months The Palazzio would likely no longer exist, but none of the management cared. They were just doing what they were told, and it wasn’t their restaurant, anyways. If the owner wanted to price himself out of the market, so be it. Management was simply collecting an easy paycheck which suited them just fine.

Zach polished the last of the knives and grabbed a handful of forks. Before he dipped them in the bucket of steaming hot water, something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. “Ooh.” He quickly wiped his hands with a linen napkin and stepped out from behind the waiter’s station. By the grace of God, the restaurant had a customer! “Good evening, sir, and welcome to The Palazzio.” Zach stepped up and grabbed a menu from the hostess stand.

The old man hobbled forward, a pair of skin-tight dingy jeans adorning his saggy buttocks. An oversized, short-sleeve yellow shirt with an alligator hung over it, which he didn’t bother tucking in. It had been years since Zach had seen one of those tacky shirts, and he contemplated which thrift store the old buzzard had picked it up from. Perhaps Goodwill? Salvation Army? Although the stranger didn’t come close to complying with the dress code, management wasn’t anxious to enforce it. Even if he dressed up in a diaper and had a bare titty hanging out of his mouth, as long as the geezer paid there wouldn’t be a problem.

“It’s just myself.” The man looked around. “Damn, it looks like I have the entire restaurant to myself.”

“Lucky you. And we’re certainly lucky to have you.” Zach flashed his used-car-salesman-by-day smile. “Right this way.” He led him deeper into the restaurant.

“Ooh, can I have a booth by the window?” the man hollered.

“Sit wherever you like, sir.” He handed him a menu. “I’ll go grab a glass of water. On the rocks, young man?” The same weasely smile returned to his face.

“Hell yeah! It’ll match the rocks in my head.” The old man smirked and plopped down in the booth. He opened the menu and read through each item on the menu, pronouncing them under his breath with a trembling finger.

“Is there anything else I can get you to drink? A glass of Burgundy? A piss-warm beer? A shot of tequila?” Zach set down the glass of ice water.

“Oh, I’m good with just water.” The man continued reading through the menu, line-by-line.

“Damn cheapskate,” Zach thought to himself. He shook it off and forced a smile. “In that case, can I start you off with an appetizer? Our potstickers are really swell.”

“Swell? Do people still say that these days?” An uneasy silence ensued. “I’ll skip right to the main course.” He turned a page.

Zach snatched the menu from him and put it right side up. “There. That’ll read much better. Take your time, sir. I’ll be back in a few moments.” He turned to leave.

“No, wait!” The man glanced at the back of the menu and set it aside. “Do you have any specials?”

“Specials? Hmm... No, not really. But we can make a special order if you’d like. What do you have in mind?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I was just expecting more exotic things on the menu.”

“Really? Well, we can do exotic. In fact, quite a few of the tragedies on our menu are borderline exotic. Oops, I mean... Well, you’ll know soon enough.” Zach picked up the menu and pointed out a few things that he thought the customer might like.

“No, I mean nude skydiving exotic. Really far out there.”

“By all means, give me a clue. What are you in the mood for?”

“Well...” The old man scratched his chinny chin chin.

“Just lay it on me, pops, and I’ll get the cook to whip it up, even if I have to break his legs...or other appendages...” Another weasely smile adorned the waiter’s face.

“Ok, well... Can you do a Pedo Flambé?”

“A pedo what?” Zach did a double take.

“Gosh, I haven’t had one of those in ages. I’m willing to pay extra if you can cook one up for me.” He reached into his backpocket and whipped out a hundred dollar bill. “Call me Buck.”

“Well Buck, I’m not sure we...” Zach crossed his arms. Still, that was the most money he’d seen in a week. “Let me check with my mana-”

Suddenly Peebles came running and snatched up the $100 bill. “Of course we can, sir. No problem.”

“Really?” Buck’s eyes lit up, hinting at the possibility that he might have a wit more than shit for brains upstairs.

“Sure thing, pal. I’ve got you covered.” Peebles pocketed the bill and ran off.

“Hey, what in the fuck are you doing?” Zach followed Peebles into the kitchen.

“Shh... The customer can hear us.” Peebles pulled Zach deeper into the kitchen. “Don’t worry, you’ll get your cut. One of the restaurant owners told me about this guy. He comes in restaurants and drops thousands of dollars on odd things. Apparently he won the billion dollar lottery but prefers to sleep in his clothes. He’s completely harmless and tips well. So what did he ask for?”

“Give me the hundred and I’ll tell you,” Zach countered.

“Well, if that’s how you want to play it...” Peebles went back to the table. “I’m sorry, sir.” He approached the scraggly, old man. But it appears that we’re all out of... I’m sorry, what was it again?”

“Pedo Flambé, you bastard!” The old coot pounded his fist on the table. “And if you don’t have any, find some.” Buck slapped down another $100 on the table.

Peebles was quick to snap it up. “Right away, sir. “Just give me a moment to talk to the chef.” He dragged Zach into the kitchen before he had a chance to speak.

“What in the hell are you doing out there?” Zach stomped into the kitchen.

“Making your sorry ass money.” Peebles handed him one of the hundred dollar bills. “This guy is a headcase, but if you know how to work him, you can pump thousands of dollars out of him. Just follow my lead and you’ll leave here tonight a very rich man. But first, we need to figure out how to make Pedo-fucking-Flambé. Gaston?”

“What?!” The angry French chef peered between the shelves and stacks of plates. Like the baby-faced priss waiter, he was clean shaven and freshly showered--quite a sight to behold for a Frenchman.

“What are you doing back there, jacking off in the fryer?” Peebles asked.

“Huh? Fryer” Gaston looked around.

“Oh, nothing. Look, I have a project for you. A customer is wondering if we can make him Pedo Flambé. Do you know what the fuck that is?”

Suddenly a plate flew through the air. Peebles ducked, the plate shooting past him and smashing against Zach’s head. Instantly Zach fell over, the floor waking him back up as he bounced his head against it.

“Hey, what the hell was that for?” Zach rubbed his head, then ducked a second and third plate.

“Is this some kind of joke, ta de merde?” Gaston screamed.

“What’s gotten into you, Gaston? Did someone put too much Viagra in your French Onion Soup or something?” said Peebles.

“I have food to prep. If you enjoy toilet humor so much, throw a party in the bathroom.”

“Huh?” said Peebles.

“Pedo Flambé, do you know what it is?”

Peebles looked at Zach who was now standing and shrugged. “No...”

“It means a flame-broiled fart! So screw you, monsieur. I have real work to do!” Gaston gave them the finger, grabbed a plastic tub of butter, and stepped into the walk-in cooler.

“This must be some sort of mistake. He did say Pedo Flambé, didn’t he?” Peebles turned.

“Well, if you give me the other $100...” Zach held out his hand.

Peebles shook his head and walked back to the table. “Excuse me, sir. Sorry to interrupt, but you did say Pedo Flambé, correct?”

“Yeah, so? Is there a problem?” said Buck.

“Not at all, sir. It’s just that my chef is having a hard to finding a suitable recipe. There are several interpretations, in fact. Have we made this for you before?” Peebles leaned closer.

“No, numb nuts. Like I told you, this is my first time here.” Buck glared at him and fumbled in his back pocket for his cell phone.

“But the main ingredient for that dish is... Well, dear me... Oh, I’ll just come out and say it. It’s a charbroiled fart, is it not?”

“That’s the one! So could you hurry it up, pal? I’m starving.” Buck slapped down a third $100 bill.

“Lickety split, with a healthy handful of nuts on top, sir.” Peebles swiped the bill and hauled ass back to the kitchen.

“Hey, no nuts!” The geezer hollered as Peebles made his way back to the kitchen.

“What the fuck, man?” Zach was on him the moment he stepped in.

“Really, I don’t have time for your shit now. It’ll all work out, you’ll see. But first, we’ve got to throw this Pedo Flambé on the grill. Gaston!” Peebles called.

“What?!” The irritable Frenchman wobbled around the corner.

“We need a Pedo Flambé, on the fly.” Peebles snapped his fingers.

“Fuck you, ta de merde!” Gaston walked away.

“No, I’m serious.”

“Me too.” Gaston reminded him of a certain finger, above all else.

“I don’t think you understand. A customer has placed an order for it.”

“Eh? But it is not on our menu.”

“Yeah, but you’re the chef. And you can make anything, even a flame-broiled fart.”

“You Americans are out of your minds!” Gaston gestured yet again.

Peebles shook his head and reluctantly slipped him a $100 bill.

Dumbfounded, a smile splintered across the bastard chef's face. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” He grabbed a sauce pan and put it on the burner.

“Hey, that was for me!” Zach followed Peebles back to the waiter’s station.

“Stop being a bitch and following me around. Let’s face it--the only way that geezer is going to get his charbroiled fart is if we work as a team, and that means forking over some dough to Chef Maricon back there.” Peebles pointed with his eyes.

“But I’m the waiter. Without tips, I don’t make shit. At least you two have a decent hourly wage.”

“Is that what this is all about? Fine, take it.” He handed Zach the last remaining $100 bill. “If you think you can do it all by yourself, then knock yourself out. But don’t come crawling back to me if the customer has a problem. And good luck getting Gaston to cook your precious Pedo Flambé.” Peebles stomped off.

“Good. That’s how it should be!” Zach hollered, pocketed the $100 bill, and fixed his bow tie. He licked his dry lips, grabbed a basket of rolls and honey butter and headed back to his favorite client.

“Is my Pedo Flambé ready yet?” The old man grumbled.

“Certainly. Coming right up, sir. In the meantime, I thought you could use some warm sourdough rolls. We bake them here on the premises each day, and they’re compliments of the house, of course.” He set down the basket carefully in the center of the table.

“I don’t need no stinkin’ rolls.” Buck tossed the basket on the next table over. “Bring me my Pedo Flambé. NOW!” He slammed down another bill on the table.

Without looking at it, Zach scooped it up and hurried back to the kitchen. Only after he slipped through the double doors did he notice what the old coot had slipped him. “One dollar?” He looked at the bill, then at Peebles, who acted like he was busy doing paperwork. Zach shrugged and pocketed the bill. “Gaston?” He looked around. He got on his tip toes and looked over the counter just in time to catch a glimpse of the chef's bare buttocks trying to squeeze one out into a plate of beef tips shaped into a house. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing, ta de merde? Ze pedo must come from somewhere!” Gaston shook his fist.

“And what is a pedo again?” Zach asked.

“A fart, you fool! A FART!!!” Gaston ripped off a good one. He turned around quickly, sealed the fart into the meat house with a sirloin slab door, and threw it on the grill.

“Gaston, you’re a genius. Or the sickest, meanest, crusty-assed Frenchman this side of the Atlantic.” Zach shook his head.

“Speak for yourself, ta de merde.” Gaston turned the beef house over so that he could singe each side. Suddenly it exploded, sending the Frenchman flying across the kitchen. He got up on those stubby legs of his and ran in circles, his chef's hat and apron in flames.

“Oh shit. Peebles!” Zach cried.

“Eh?” Peebles didn’t even bother looking over.

Unable to muster anything else, Zach simply pointed at the flaming Frenchman.

“Spit it out, Zach. I’ve got a pile of unpaid bills to sort through.” Peebles finally looked up.

“Quick, do something!” Zach pointed.

“It’s your show now, Zach. Hopefully the customer won’t have to wait too much longer.” Peebles returned to his paperwork in that tiny damn office of his.

Zach looked at Peebles, then the partially-charbroiled feisty Frenchman.

“Hey, what the fuck?” Peebles squawked as Zach tossed the flaming chef into his cramped office and shut the door. After several screams and the ruffling of papers, Peebles emerged from the office, his mustache singed, a scowl permanently carved into his face. Behind, the roasted tenderloin Gaston was a steaming mess, his white uniform burnt in blotches, a large section gone from backside, exposing two cherry red, once hairy, medium rare flank steaks.

“Ehm...!” Gaston shook his head, too angry for words. “Ta de merde!” was all he could come up with.

“Yeah, yeah...” Zach waved him off. “Do you know what’s truly pathetic? I’m not a chef and even I know how to make Pedo Flambé!”

“Eh?” Gaston leaned closer.

“You do...?” said Peebles.

“Sure. You’ve got to trap the fart first, then build a house of meat around it. Like this.” Zach farted into his hand, ran behind the line, and returned with a plate in hand. “See? Mine’s shaped like a castle, made of premium Angus beef, of course!” Zach showed off the meat tower that he’d concocted on the fly, bringing a smile to his face.

“Are you out of your mind? You cannot make Pedo Flambé out of hamburger beef, you swine!” Gaston tried to swat the meat tower into the next century and missed.

“Why not? Meat is meat is meat--said every Taco Bell, ever. Besides, how is our customer going to tell the difference?” said Zach.

“Because sirloin is not ground beef!” Gaston grumbled.

“Sirloin, Angus... What moron orders Pedo Flambé in the first place?” Zach clenched his fists.

“It’s fine.” Peebles stepped in between the two before they came to blows and checked the plate over. “Yeah, that’ll work. Now, how do we go about cooking it?”

“Well, if you cook it for too long, it’ll explode,” said Zach.

“You think...?” Peebles glanced at the kitchen door, hoping to return to the dining room and snag another Benjamin from the brain-dead customer.

“Merde!” Gaston threw up his hands in disgust.

“The key is to lightly sear it around the edges and let it cook from the inside right front of the customer,” said Zach.

“And how do we do that?” Peebles turned to Gaston.

“Don’t look at me, he’s head chef.” Gaston pointed with a certain digit and tore off his apron.

“Come on, Peebles. Haven’t you ever been to a Chinese restaurant?” Zach doused the meat tower with a bottle of rum that he’d found in Peebles’ office the week before--one that sent that pencil mustachio cucknutio running in circles and digging through the garbage out back before he finally gave up his search. Before he could protest, Zach handed Peebles the bottle, slipped out a lighter from his backpocket, and set the meat house afire. “Wallah! Pedo Flambé...” He held the plate out for his manager to see.

“Don’t look at me. I don’t want it.” Peebles pushed the plate back like a game of hot potato.

“I thought you were now serving our customer. So serve him!” Zach pushed the plate right back.

Torn between the ticking time bomb in his hands and the need to pay for laser surgery to remove some troublesome hair from his testicles, Peebles hesitated, took such a deep breath that it made his steaming mustache curl, and hurried into the dining room. “Yes, here you are. Pedo Flambé, as requested.”

“Hot damn!” Buck’s eyes nearly popped out of his head when the flaming tower was laid upon him.

“Is there anything else I can get for you? Some cheap prostitutes? A couple pounds of crack?” Beads of sweat poured down Peebles’ face.

“Hmmpt. Well, let me have some of that... Oh, what do you call it?” The old man scratched his chin.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll chuck a bottle your way.” Peebles hurried off, hoping to put at least twenty feet between the two of them before that damn thing exploded. “A1 is it?” He peeked out from behind the server station. Before Buck could answer, he tossed a bottle, bouncing it off his head.

“Nope. What I was really thinking of was, err... Dagnabbit!” He scratched his chin some more.

“Ketchup?” Peebles missed him by a mile, sending the errant bottling crashing through the window next to him.

“Dang it, it’s right on the tip of my tongue. Don’t you hate it when that happens?” Buck was mesmerized by the flaming tower of farts before him.

“Allow me, sir...” Zach emerged from the kitchen with a squeaky rolling cart and white linen draped over it.

“What you are you doing...?” Peebles said under his breath.

“Saving my tip!” Zach whispered back and shrugged him off.

Zach did not think that the flames engulfing the meat tower would ever be sufficient to properly cook it, much less ignite the bomb he’d laid at its core, so he took his time and parked the creaky cart right next to the customer. “Sir?” He threw off the white linen. “Would you like me to pass you the Grey Poupon?”

Peebles smacked the side of his head. Of course! What else could possibly go with Pedo-fucking-Flambé? Now Zach had staked his claim to the lion’s share of the forthcoming tip--for time and time again, Zach had provided a solution, however ridiculous it seemed at the time.

The expression on the old man’s face sealed the deal. “That’s exactly what I was thinking of! How'd you guess?” He reached for the jar.

“Oh, allow me, sir.” Zach smirked as he expertly opened the jar with his white gloves and set it on a plate with a liner underneath, eyeing Peebles all the while.

But had Zach miscalculated? Was a certain meathouse-marinated fart about to go off? Even Peebles could not bear to look.

As Zach creaked away, the old man tossed a dollop of that dainty, old mustard on top and cut into the smoldering smokehouse delicacy of the ages. Almost instantly the damn thing exploded, sending the old man flying through the window. Zach fared little better, colliding with Peebles as he flew across the restaurant and sending the both of them through the double doors of the kitchen.

“Ta de merde!” Gaston hurried over to check out what was left of the dining room. Tables and chairs were turned over and split in half. Pieces of china littered the tile floor and half the windows were blown out, or at very least, cracked. “I told you not to make that foolish dish!” He turned up his nose and walked away.

“Oh, shit...” Zach raised his head an assessed the damage, covered with Grey Poupon.

“Did we kill him...?” Peebles brushed off his tuxedo off and got to his feet. He was too afraid to investigate what had happened to the old coot, and stopped in the middle of the dining room floor to ponder.

“Well, I’ve gotta tell ya...” The old man reemerged through the front door of the restaurant. “That was the best damn Pedo Flambé I’ve ever had!” Most of his hair had been burnt off and splashes of Grey Poupon were permanently burned to his skin. He reached into his pocket, handed Peebles a thousand dollar bill, and headed back out the door. “See ya next week.” He waved and hobbled off.

By now a crowd was gathering. Curious passersby peeked through the broken windows and bravely stepped through the double doors.

“Whoa! Can I have what he had?” A lady pointed to the steaming pile of beef with flames spreading up the wall.

“I’m afraid we’re all out of Pedo Flambé.” Zach shook his head.

“Not a single one left, ta de merde!” Gaston stepped out of the kitchen, wiping his hands with a napkin.

But that wasn’t enough to deter the crowd from getting their greedy, little paws on the neighborhood’s hottest new dish.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” A lady unbuttoned the top button of her blouse.

“As will I.” Her boyfriend opened his wallet and held out a handsome lump sum of at least $5,000.

“One Pedo Flambé coming right up!” Peebles snatched the wad from his outstretched hand.

“All right. That’s it!” Zach struck Peebles across the face.

“No, it’s mine!” Peebles struck him back.

Such passion was not lost on the crowd, and soon everyone was trading blows and smashing whatever they could find over one another’s heads, oblivious of the spreading flames, for when it came to Pedo Flambé, it was only a matter of time before something or someone exploded.

THE END

My Two Cents

Now that was painful.

No, seriously. I mean, what the fuck?

Work started on this back in May 2014, nearly five years ago. Originally I wrote down the first 1,000 words or so and moved on. What was Pedo Flambé? I hadn’t a clue, and if I wanted to find out more, I’d have to write about it. Meh...

Unsurprisingly, a year went by before I found myself picking away at the story again, contemplating flaming farts. (Doesn’t everyone these days?) So I added a bit more drama between the waiter, manager and chef, and made sure I blew off the Frenchman’s derrière. Done!

But I still didn’t have an ending...

The rest of the time went as follows: I’d stumble across it again, pick at it some more, and add another paragraph or two before stopping.

Finally, I’d had enough! If I was going to serve up the elusive and abysmal Pedo Flambé, I’d need to do it now.

So I wrote a sentence and stopped. (Oh, this will never get done... At least I compared the Frenchman’s buttocks to flank steak.) In trying again some 30 minutes later, the rest of it started coming out of me, to such a degree that I did not allow myself to stop or move onto anything else until I’d reached the end.

Amidst all of the absurdity, I’d reached a logical end--and managed not to blow up the entire restaurant in the process. Kinda. (I’d already done that with Till Death Do Us Fart, so that trick was already well worn. Might I do it again and risk repeating myself? Nah, I’d just have everyone beat the crap out of each other and call it a day.)

So here it is in all of its madness, and I’m happy that I finally found an end to it. There were many, many days when I figured that this story would never be finished. It was too ridiculous, and besides, how many of us want to learn how to flame broil a fart? (And not those Whoppers you can find at Burger King.) I gaped at it more times than I care to reveal, saying to myself, “What the fuck?” before moving on to more important works. (Is there such a thing?)

But doesn’t every story attempted deserve an ending, even if publication is not the intention? With so much up front investment, why do so many stories sit unfulfilled, mine or otherwise? It’s a shame, even if the story was a bad idea to begin with. (Which is my case just about every time.) Just go with it and see where it takes you. You can always shoot yourself later.

All joking aside, I’m truly thankful for the ability to share my stories and make people laugh. If you remember anything from this story, well...remember not to fart too close to a stove or open fire! (Explaining to your mom why you need an ass transplant is no fun, let me tell you. Finding a donor is even worse!)

There, I’ve said my bit, and perhaps saved a few hairy bungholes in the process.

Never settle for anything less than what you truly desire, and if you find the menu lacking, serve up your very own Pedo Flambé.

--Donald Rump, Florida’s Finest Fart Expert

Product Description

When an old man hobbles into the Palazzio and demands his favorite dish, the peculiar Pedo Flambé, the wait staff isn’t sure what to make of it.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have such a thing on our menu.” His baby-faced waiter Zach Spitz frowns.

“You sure about that?” The old man slaps down a $100 bill.

“Of course, sir. Right away, sir!” Zach’s manager snatches up the bill and runs back to the kitchen.

Approximately 4,000 words.

WARNING: It stinks!

KEYWORDS:

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.

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