Put Another Fart in the Jukebox, Baby E-Book

Donald Rump

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

When Brad Blemmings meets his blind date at Fifty Something, a retro shake and burger joint, he's not sure what to expect. But the goth beauty Maimah is quite a handful, and then there's the matter of the farting jukebox in the corner...

Approximately 3,100 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

Fart Lover Supreme

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)

Four Stinky Stories Vol. 3

Four Stinky Stories Vol. 4

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 Hairiest Butt

The Would Be Asstronaut (English, Spanish)

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

Weekend Getaway (English, Spanish)

© 2018 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 © Stanislav Rishnyak (#2567011). Fart drawings by Mel Casipit.

First Edition (v1.0)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Donald Rump

Copyright

Dedication

Put Another Fart in the Jukebox, Baby

My Two Cents

Product Description

About the Author

Ad 1: Till Death Do Us Fart

Ad 2: 20 Common Questions About Farts

Dedication

Put Another Fart in the Jukebox, Baby

She was a little goth around the edges: shoulder-length black hair with a hint of fire streaking through it, wild in some places, but largely well-kept. The black eyeliner was a dead give away, but I’d seen more liberal use before, particularly among Marilyn Manson groupies. A silver band with skulls and spikes adorned her wrist, but they were smallish, unthreatening; like me, I suppose. Decorative only, in a way it projected a hint of class. Her dress was a bit odd: mostly black and frayed around the edges, giving off an erratic vibe but again manageable, perhaps beautiful. The more you gazed into it, the more you lost yourself in its elusive pattern. Her earrings played tricks on me. Each was a quarter moon, slender and silver. Occasionally I’d look up, and one would be slightly larger than the other. A half moon? How could that be? But the crowning achievement was her bright pale porcelain skin which seemed to glow. My beautiful glow worm of a date, wrapped in yesterday’s trash. Clearly I was moving up in the world.

“I’ve never done this before,” I admitted.

“What, gone on a date?” She pulled her hair back in a small bun and tied it there, teasing strands falling down beside each cheek.

“Answering a Craigslist ad. Normally I meet people at work, or through friends or family or...”

“But that’s not going so well for you these days. Is it, Brad?” She raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, gazing at me with her striking green eyes. “Maimah.” She held out one hand, then retracted it before I could put mine in hers.

“Nice to meet you, Maimah.” I leaned back and smiled. Damn, she was gorgeous. An original, for sure. The more I stared at her, the more I liked what I saw.

“Now be a darling and put a dime in the jukebox, baby.” She chewed her gum and winked at me.

“A dime?” I felt around.

“A dime, a quarter. Whatever it goes for these days.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have any...”

Maimah frowned and shot me that same dirty look again. Clearly I was killing the mood, and that was already my second strike for the evening. One more and she’d grab her alligator skin purse—which was black, of course—and walk out the door.

Speaking of Craigslist, or her ad in particular, prompted an immediate eye roll. “I’m a beauty, divine, but not what you’d expect. Surprise me,” it read. By all accounts the ad was dead on, and I was afraid that I’d run into one of those 500-pound big beautiful women, or BBWs as they call them, and have to hightail it out of there before they rolled down the hill and made a pancake of me. To my surprise, Maimah was slender, well endowed in all the right places, even though she tried to hide it with that garbage bag of a dress.

“One quarter, coming right up.” I opened my wallet and fortunately found a single. I don’t always carry cash, but when I do, they’re typically twenty dollar bills or more. Somehow I managed to save one, and in that moment, I felt like the luckiest man in the world. Or was I? “And I’ll do you one better. I’ll get four.”

“Ooh. You’re making me wet already.” She gestured as if she were giving me a handjob. Although she didn’t say it, I could feel the word hanging on her lips: dork. I was being a total dork, and if I didn’t get my shit together, the evening would end abruptly. I could already see her eying the door. I had to act. Fast.

“Excuse me, can I get four quarters, please?” I asked a waiter passing by.

“What do I look like, a change machine? Try the one in the corner.” He pointed.

“Heh. Dork.” She finally said it, though for a moment I wasn’t sure if she meant him or me. If he was our waiter—no one had stopped by to take our drink order up to that point—then he clearly just screwed himself out of a tip.

Without reading too much into things, I smiled and said, “Be right back.” Thankfully, she stayed in her seat, and didn’t offer any further admonishments.

As I walked over to the jukebox in the corner, I took in the restaurant’s decor. Fifty Something seemed too bubblegum for Maimah’s goth getup. Pictures of Marilyn Monroe, Bettie Page, Frank Sinatra and even Elvis adorned the walls. Sure, the layout and decor was all fifties style, but the whole thing seemed like a celebration of pop culture throughout the ages, not necessarily focused on one decade in particular. The full length poster of Michael Jackson in his red and black Thriller outfit near the bathroom proved my theory.

Even more odd was how bright the whole place appeared. There were white walls, white counters, white tables, white crown molding, and even the servers wore white uniforms. The only thing that provided color were the various posters, some glass jars filled with candy and the glowing signs when you first came in. Sure, there were blood red seat cushions, but as a whole it seemed like the polar opposite of my brooding date. And how many goth chicks would put a coin in a jukebox that wasn’t preloaded with Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden and Metallica?

I inserted my bill into the machine without issue, and listened to the cool sound of change being dispensed. I hadn’t heard that sound since I visited the last arcade in operation on the west coast awhile back. Those neighborhood arcades brought with them lots of fevered fun, even though I was never particularly good at them. Perhaps Fifty Something wasn’t so bad after all.

“Pick a good one for me, dear.” Maimah was on her knees, turned around in the booth, watching my every move.

Others at nearby tables gawked at her, but she did not care. All that mattered was that she had called me “dear.”

I scooped up the four quarters with one hand, and stepped over to the jukebox. The first title I came across was the Beatle’s Twist and Shout. “Now there’s a beauty,” I said to myself and inserted a quarter. Clearly there wasn’t any heavy metal music to speak of, just timeless classics that fit well with the establishment.

I looked back and shot Maimah a grin, who was clearly annoying the couple seated next to us.

“Could you turn around and let us eat?” a lady in her late twenties said.

“You’ve gotta hear this first...” Maimah chewed her gum louder and louder.

When the music came on, it wasn’t music at all, but a belch of some sort—dare I say a fart? Had the jukebox just farted out a tune? Even I couldn’t be sure.

The discharge blasted the waiter passing by, drenching his pristine white uniform with a strawberry banana side-by-side. Benches jerked back, and customers sitting at the bar were knocked clear off their seats.

After a moment, the whole restaurant looked at me and began sharpening their knives. Everyone, it would seem, but Maimah.

“It wasn’t me.” I pointed at the jukebox and shrugged.

“Ha!” Maimah laughed, clapped her hands, and then ran over to me. “Don’t be such a pussy. Own it.” She grabbed my balls and squeezed. “Well, it’s good to know that you at least have some balls. Try using them sometimes, Cucky.”

“Cucky?” I noticed that the entire dining room was still staring at me. “Yeah, that’s me.” I straightened my shirt and puffed out my chest.

“I’m going to freshen up. Order something for me. And change your tampon while you’re at it.” Maimah patted me on the crotch and walked over to the ladies’ bathroom.

“But what do you want me to get you to eat?” I tugged Willy back into place so that he wasn’t poking out as the audience looked on.

“I don’t care. As long as it doesn’t crawl off my plate.” She walked through the door without looking back.

As I returned to the booth, things slowly went back to normal. “Hey, you might want to get that jukebox fixed,” I said to that strawberry-coated asshole of a waiter.

“Yeah, no shit.” He continued wiping himself off with napkins.

I was going to ask for a refund for the quarter I’d lost in the machine, but the night was already fucked. Besides, it was worth the price of admission to see that smug bastard fly across the room.

I eased back in my seat and opened the menu. They had a decent selection of burgers, and for shits and giggles, it was probably worth ordering a side-by-side strawberry banana milkshake just in the off chance that he might spill it all over himself again.

The more I thought about what had transpired, the more I suspected that Maimah knew what would happen once I fed the jukebox a quarter. Had she selected this place because she knew it was the only place that featured a constipated jukebox? That didn’t seem to jive no matter how much I wanted to believe it. And how did the employees not know about it? Most establishments would have thrown it to the curb after only a day of use, but clearly it had been here for a while. Perhaps it was the real draw of the establishment?

“What did you do to that machine?” the man seated behind me asked.

“Nothing. I just put my quarter in and selected Twist and Shout. Wasn’t that the shittiest rendition you’ve ever heard?” I laughed.

But the cheerless man simply glared and turned away.

“Yeah, it probably works fine now. Just needed to blow off some steam,” I added, but my words fell on deaf ears.

“So what did you get me?” Maimah plopped down in her seat.

“No one’s come by yet.” I shrugged.

“So...nothing?” She frowned. “Couldn’t you have just tackled a waiter or something?”

“I think I’ve done quite enough already.”

“Pussy boy strikes again.” Maimah rolled her eyes and chewed her gum some more. “Do you want to get their attention, along with mine?” She took my hand in hers. “Then put another quarter in the jukebox, baby!”

Wow, had this goddess really touched me? Put my hand in hers? For real?

“That would be improper.” I pulled away.

“Brad Blemmings, I’ll make a man out of you, yet.” She snapped her fingers.

Suddenly the change in my pocket began to jingle. Quarters rummaged around, bumping into each other. As they rubbed against one another, one burned white hot and scorched a hole through my trousers. It shot through the air, and into Maimah’s hand.

“What the hell?” I stamped out my flaming pocket with a fistful of napkins and locked eyes with her.

“It’s a shame, Brad, especially with all the naughty things I had in store for you. Don’t worry, I’ll drop it in on the way out.” She grabbed her purse and stood. “Have fun jacking off to yesterday’s porn at home.” She waved.

“No, wait.” I could not get the sensation of her bare skin against mine out of my head. I wanted more of it, all of it. And if I had to make a fool of myself or get in a fight with a hundred angry men, so be it. I simply didn’t care. “I’ve got this.” I snatched the quarter from her hand.

“Brad Blemmings.” Maimah slowly sat down and put her purse aside. “You surprise me.” A smile slowly crept on her face.

My pal down below couldn’t help but perk up as well.

“You really, really surprise me.” She noticed the bulge in my trousers.

I flipped the quarter in my hand as I approached the jukebox, cock-sure, knowing that I was definitely gonna get a piece of that heavenly goth pie tonight.

“You better not,” a customer piped up as I made the last few steps towards the jukebox.

But I didn’t care. It had been a good two years since I last got laid. Nothing was going to get between me and that almighty pie, even if Maimah refused to shave and called the carpet down below Cousin It.

“Yesss!” Maimah clapped her hands, realizing that I really was going to do it.

I stepped forward and scanned over the list of titles again. Perhaps I’d get a much better result if I selected something slower this time, like Elvis Presley’s Can’t Help Falling in Love. As I contemplated the perfect song for my bizarre date—They even had Ghostbusters, WTF?—someone grabbed my arm.

“Once is enough, don’t you think, pal?” A much larger man with a buzz cut and no neck gave my arm a good squeeze. He was built like a tank, and certainly a member of the armed services, perhaps the Marines. “My wife and I just want to finish our meal. Do whatever you want after we leave, but for now, show some respect.”

“Don’t be such a pussy!” Maimah hollered.

“Sorry, but the lady says otherwise,” I replied.

“Is that so?” The brute switched his hand from my arm to my neck, and pressed me up against the jukebox.

“Yesss!” Maimah squealed, and rubbed her hands together.

“Listen up, buddy, because I’m gonna play a tune on your head.” I slipped a quarter into the jukebox and pressed back, letting my butt make the selection. Because of my proximity to the machine, I absorbed the majority of the machine’s pungent outburst. I was thrust up into the air, and struck my head against the ceiling tiles taking my captor along for the ride. As we fell back to earth, mister buzz cut struck his head on a table. Landing on top of him provided the exclamation point.

Customers gasped, and a muscular lady, who looked just like him, helped him up and dragged him out of the diner.

Barely able to stand, I brushed the chalky dust from my hair, and staggered over to my date.

“You were awesome!” Maimah greeted me with a kiss. It was a small peck, hardly the exotic type, but it woke up the soldier underneath.

“Could we get some service over here?” I hollered. I glanced at the menu and threw it into the aisle. “What’s taking so fucking long?”

After a few moments, an older man with a mustache and a mostly bald head stepped over. “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to ask you two to leave.”

“What are you talking about? I just lost two quarters in that machine and no one has come by to take our order.”

“Tell him how it is, Cucky!” Maimah cheered me on.

“Oh, I’m a tellin’ him, all right!” I nodded, which drew a slight smirk from Maimah. “Look, man. All I did was put a quarter in the jukebox. If you want to hang onto your customers, fix that damn thing!” I pointed.

“Sir, our jukebox hasn’t been operational for the past few months. In fact, it’s not even plugged in,” said the manager.

“What?! That’s impossible! Didn’t you see me put a quarter into it?”

Maimah raised her eyebrows, feigning ignorance.

“So you just left it there to eat up people’s quarters?” I said. “I mean, why in the hell do you have a change dispenser?” I pointed again.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll give you a full refund. But you must go. Now.”

“Are you cool with this?” I turned to Maimah.

“I’m cool with anything.” A flash of excitement streaked through her eyes. She got up, careful not to tear her dress, and interlocked her hand with mine. “Before we go, there’s one last thing I’d like you to do...” she whispered into my ear, then bit it gently.

“Let me take a wild guess...” A smile came across my face.

“But this time, I want you to put two quarters in it.” Her breath caused the hair on my neck to stand up.

“Fuck that.” I said as the manager dug around his pocket and handed me a refund. “I’m slapping all four of these bad boys in there,” I whispered back.

“I love you, Brad. Even if you’re a total dork.” Maimah kissed me deeply.

“Well, then...” I caught my breath. “I guess we should be on our way.” I winked at the manager and walked in a straight line towards the jukebox with Maimah clinging tightly to my arm. I pumped in four straight quarters before anyone could move, and farted into the quarter slot when the last one had trouble going down. I quickly scanned over the list one last time. Dancing Queen by Abba? That certainly seemed appropriate, but somehow missed the mark. Hey Hey We’re The Monkees? Even I didn’t want to be tortured by that damn song. I thought back to one of the first things Maimah had said—something that mysteriously rung true.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see them, customers and employees converging on me as I punched in my final selection. It would not be long now, seconds only, before they ripped me away from the machine, and perhaps tore me limb-from-limb. All the while, Maimah held onto me, laughing all the way. “Put a quarter in the jukebox, baby,” the words echoed through my mind. Why was that so damn familiar? Didn’t that country western singer Buck Owens have a song by that name? No way you’d find that song here.

Then everything clicked once I stumbled across I Love Rock n’ Roll by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. “Put another dime in the jukebox, baby"—hadn’t Maimah asked me for a dime when all this began? Dime, quarter—I’d stick my fucking dick in there as long as the jukebox didn’t blow it off. Besides, when it came to dating, one always paid more than the advertised price. I punched in my selection, F13, and as I turned, I realized that I was standing outside of Fifty Something with Maimah by my side.

I looked at her, then the store. Before I could say anything, the entire building exploded in one foul burst of air. This one stank, big time, and I was covered in a hail of blood, glass, and partially digested food.

Maimah just stood there and laughed, unfazed by what had just transpired and impossibly immaculate from head to toe. “You’ve got to admit, that was an awesome first date!”

“Yeah, sure...” I plucked shards of glass from my skin and brains from my hair. After a few moments, what was left of Fifty Something caved in.

“Hey, would you like to grab a cup of coffee?” Maimah pulled me closer. “I hear the diner around the corner has a wicked expresso machine.” A flash of energy shot through her eyes.

THE END

My Two Cents

So what does it look like when you go on a date with the devil? Err... I mean, a woman. From one of those Craigslist ads, to be more specific. There are plenty of devilish types that skulk around there, don’t you think?

Well, I decided that I’d find out, without actually responding to an ad. That would require research, not to mention money, and I’m too much of a cheap bastard for that.

Once I entered the story, there she appeared in all her glory: Maimah of hell’s quarter. No, she doesn’t have a last name because that would require more brain power than I actually possess. So Maimah it is! The End.

The truth is I did know a Maimah in real life. She was a real hottie, but like most things, I fucked it up. Would she have been an absolute beast in bed? No doubt! But like the character in this story, I probably wouldn’t have survived long enough to find out.

Such is the dating scene these days...

So in a strange, twisted way this story is dedicated to the real Maimah. And like her, I really don’t know her last name. Why not? Well, I never asked. I was far too captivated by other parts of her. Two very pronounced parts...

Anyways, I wish I had another chance with that beautiful creature. But no, fuck it. I’m doomed for all eternity. Like someone else I know...

What’s the point of this story? Well, there is no point. It’s a dubious piece of fart fiction. Do I really have to go any further?

Will we see more of Maimah? Well, she is an awesome character, if not a bit cruel. Might I indulge in another fantasy? The wood in my pants seems to indicate, yes.

And do farting jukeboxes exist in the real world? That’s hard to say. But there are plenty of machines that eat your quarter and give nothing back, not even so much as a fart. Was this story written at least partially out of frustration of this epidemic? Perhaps. Or perhaps I just wanted to see what a farting jukebox would do if provoked.

So that’s it in a nutshell. Another crazy tale without rhyme or reason and plenty of farts thrown in for good measure. That’s just how it is in the world of fart fiction.

And if you come across a genuine farting jukebox, take a picture and send it in. Better yet, whip out your checkbook and buy it then and there. I’m sure it’ll be worth a million bucks (on eBay).

Oops. That’s nature calling. Stay away from demonic presences on Craigslist and all will bode well.

—Donald Rump, That Hard Up Fart Expert

Product Description

When Brad Blemmings meets his blind date at Fifty Something, a retro shake and burger joint, he’s not sure what to expect. But the goth beauty Maimah is quite a handful, and then there’s the matter of the farting jukebox in the corner...

Approximately 3,100 words.

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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