The $500 Question E-Book

Donald Rump

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

Beschreibung

Perkins Deadwood can't believe his ears. His twelve-year-old son just asked for a pet fart for Christmas. And not just any fart, a Spanish fart. ¡Ay, caramba! Can the used car salesman talk his son out of it? Or is this Christmas really going to stink? For mature (and not so mature) audiences. Approximately 2,100 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

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)

© 2014 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 © Dennis Cox (#28418341) and Matthew Britton (#13570860). Fart drawings by Mel Casipit.

First Edition (v1.3)

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Donald Rump

Copyright

Dedication

The $500 Question

My Two Cents

About the Author

Ad 1: Till Death Do Us Fart

Ad 2: 20 Common Questions About Farts

This book is dedicated to Squeaky.

The $500 Question

“So son, what would you like for Christmas?” Perkins Deadwood flashed his million-dollar smile. The Thanksgiving holiday had been good to him, enabling Bottom Dollar Buick to sell half of its fleet of used cars.

“Well,” his twelve-year-old son Nelson scratched his head, “I’d really like a pet pedo for Christmas.”

Perkins angled his head, his smile melting away. “A pedo? What’s that?”

“Oh, that’s Spanish for fart.” Nelson smiled.

“So you want a fart for Christmas?”

“Yes, sir! But not just any fart. A Spanish fart.”

“What’s so special about Spanish farts?” Perkins tried to hide the horror creeping onto his face.

“I don’t know. They’re just spicier, like Jennifer Lopez. Didn’t you say that you like your food and women spicy?”

“Yeah, but... I was just trying to make your mother laugh, and get some, well... You know...” Perkins winked.

Even though Perkins was borderline retarded in just about every conceivable area, he certainly had a talent when it came to the ladies. And when Felice Belassi came into his life, he really hit the jackpot. Felice was a Colombian bombshell with incredible curves, a voracious appetite for sex and fiery personality. She even cooked and cleaned, a bonus considering low Perkins had set the bar.

“You’re joking, right? Trying to catch me off guard? Well you’re quite good at it, you little rascal. You really had me going for a second there. Heck, I might have a job for you one day if you play your cards right.” The smile returned to Perkins’ face.

“No, seriously. I want a pet fart! They’re all the rage these days.” Nelson continued playing his Playstation Vita.

Perkins couldn’t believe his ears. “So what are you going to do with a pet fart, anyways?”

“Oh, lots of things.” Nelson glanced at his father briefly. “Farts are fully trainable and can even speak multiple languages. They make good lifelong friends and are great at keeping the riff raff away. Besides, didn’t you say that you wanted me to learn Spanish so that I could speak to mom in her native language?”

“Yeah, but...”

“Well, here’s the opportunity.”

“So let me get this straight. You want me to buy you a pet fart so that you can learn Spanish?” Perkins asked.

“Among other things...”

“And where would I buy such a thing? Food Lion? Or perhaps you saw one on the Home Shopping Network for $19.95?”

“Oh, no. You have to buy them directly from a breeder. Luckily we have one near the mall.”

“Breeder? You can’t be serious!”

“Sure am! But you can’t just buy a Spanish fart on any street corner, you know. They take years to perfect,” Nelson replied.

“So what is it going to set me back? $5?” Perkins couldn’t believe that he was considering such an idea.

“$500,” Nelson replied.

“$500?” Perkins squealed. “What in the hell do you get for $500?”

“A Spanish fart.”

“Oh yeah? Well, what’s wrong with American farts?”

“Nothing, I suppose.”

“Great! Then I’ll make one for you right now, free of change. And I won’t even have to break the bank to do it, just my ass.” Perkins bent over. “Say hello to my little friend, Squeaky.” He stuck out his rump and farted in his son’s face. “Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas! Are you feeling the holiday spirit now?” He added another for good measure.

“No, dad. That’s not how it works.” Nelson wafted the ghastly cloud away with his hand.

“What do you mean? That was some of my best work. Just ask your mom,” said Perkins.

“These aren’t just ordinary farts. They’re self-aware. Alive! And they can do things that most people can’t.”

“Oh yeah, like what?” Perkins crossed his arms.

“They can penetrate walls,” said Nelson.

“I can penetrate things, too. Isn’t that right, Felice?”

“And they’re strong.”

“How so?”

“You know, their smell.”

“I guess you’ve never smelled my armpits, have you, son?” Perkins offered a sample.

Nelson shrugged him off. “And they’re practically indestructible.”

“Just wait until they get married. Women have a unique gift for destroying everything.”

“Dad, what if I told you that I could sell every car on your lot just by bringing along my pet fart?” said Nelson.

“Stop kidding around, son. Once customers get a whiff of him, they’ll run for the hills and I won’t make a dime.” Perkins was quickly running out of patience.

“Not if signing the paperwork means the difference between life and death.”

The father scratched his head for a moment and pondered. “Go on...”

“If you threw a big sale and attracted lots of people, my gaseous anomaly could encircle them and force them to make a purchase or else. You’d have a 100% success rate.”

“Hmm... You might be on to something, son.” Perkins nearly fell over when the stench hit his nostrils. Even he couldn’t stand the smell of his own farts.

“So does that mean that you’ll give me $500 to buy one?”

“$500?” Perkins choked. It seemed like an exorbitant amount of money, even for an advertising budget. In the past, he’d never spent that much money on such a thing, relying on word-of-mouth instead. Occasionally, he spent $5-$10 on promotion, giving the money to crackheads or homeless folks who could barely hold a sign. He indulged in free publicity whenever possible: Craig’s List, Facebook, Youtube, and that pain-in-the-ass website called Twitter that he still couldn’t figure out. “There are lots of things you could buy with $500. Aren’t there any cheaper alternatives?”

“No, dad. That’s the going rate.”

“For a fart?”

“A Spanish fart.”

“Right. Well, if you want a Spanish fart so bad why don’t you ask your mother to float a premium roasted fluffy bunny your way?”

“Oh, no. That’s a bad idea.” Nelson frowned.

“Hey, honey?” Perkins called.

“No, dad. Just...never mind. Forget I said anything!”

“What is it, baby?” Felice stepped into the room, kissed Perkins gently on the lips and then smacked him across the face. She had a deep tan and curly blond highlights that gave many a used car salesman a rise.

“Your son has a special request for Christmas.” Perkins rubbed his cheek.

“Sure, anything. What would you like, Nellie?” She kissed him on the forehead.

“Go ahead, tell her, son.” Perkins grinned.

“Well...” Nelson looked away. “I’d like El Gran Apestoso.”

“¿Qué?”

“You know...a Spanish fart.” Nelson gestured.

Felice looked at her son carefully and then burst into laughter. “You loco, Nellie?”

“Yeah, what the hell’s wrong with you, son?” Perkins smacked him upside the head.

“Hey, I’ll handle this.” Felice pushed Perkins aside. “Is this really what you want for Christmas? Un pedo?”

“Not just any pedo. A Spanish pedo. They make great house pets.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’ve heard that line before. Are you using drugs?” Perkins raised his hand again to the child.

“I said I’ll deal with this!” Felice shot her husband a dirty look. “Honey, why can’t you be normal like other kids?”

“But you encouraged me to be different.” Tears filled the boy’s eyes.

“Yeah, but not like this. You can do better, baby. Look at you. Your hair’s getting so long you look like a girl. Are you sure I can’t interest you in something else, like a haircut? Or perhaps we could get you a car?”

“But I’m too young to drive,” said Nelson.

“A toy car, you knucklehead!” Perkins screamed.

“Quiet! Or you’ll be setting off fireworks alone tonight.” Felice gestured with her hand.

“Dag nabbit!” Perkins shut his yapper.

“How about a cell phone? Perhaps it’s time you got your own.” Felice turned back to Nelson.

“Can they help me communicate with a fart?” he asked.

“Nelson, you’re impossible.” Felice shook her pretty head. “I know you’re under a lot of stress lately with school and puberty and all those things that little boys do after school. Have you had sex yet?”

“Who, me? No!”

“Would you like to? I have some girlfriends in Colombia who could help you out with that sort of thing. They’re a little older than you—early twenties—but they’d be happy to show you the ropes. And they’d help you forget all about those nasty, little pedos.”

“Hmm... Nope, I’d really prefer a pet fart instead. Can we call him Ernesto? And if it’s a girl, how about Esmeralda?” said Nelson.

“Cabron! You’d turn down a beautiful woman for a fart?” Fire flashed in Felice’s dark brown eyes.

“Hey, I’m down if Nelson isn’t up for it.” Perkins raised his hand.

“Uh!” Felice shook her head and stormed out of the room. A moment later she returned, slapped Perkins across the face, and then left.

“See what you did! You’re tearing this family apart. All of this nonsense just because of your infatuation with farts. I mean, what the hell?” Perkins held his face.

“I’m sorry, father. So sorry...” Nelson sobbed.

“Why, I ought to take you over my knee and spank your sorry, little ass. But as a used car salesman, I have a reputation to uphold.” Perkins straightened his tie. “I’ll just trade you in for a few gallons of gas.”

“Hold me, daddy.” Nelson embraced Perkins, causing him to accidentally let loose a stinker that he was saving for his wife.

Unsure what to do with the unexpected affection, Perkins slowly patted his son on the head. “For the life of me, I can’t understand why you’re fascinated with such things. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Nelson hesitated, but did not reply.

Still, his father could tell that something was eating him up inside and it wasn’t the 99-cent burrito he had for lunch. “Come on, son. Let it all out. We’re all men here.”

“Well...”

“Yes?”

“There’s this kid at school...”

“Mmm hmm...”

“He calls himself Sampson because he’s so strong. He doesn’t like Mexican food.”

“Uh, ok.”

“He’s been beating me up on the way to school. Sometimes when I come back, too. Momma’s seen the cuts and bruises and probably thinks it’s you.”

“You bastard! No wonder she didn’t give me any nookie for the past week!” Perkins wanted to ring his scrawny neck and super suplex him off the top rope.

“If I get a pet fart, Sampson won’t go anywhere near me. You see, farts are good for one thing and one thing only: revenge. That’s why I need to have one. My life depends on it.” Nelson wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Oh, son. Why didn’t you tell me?” Perkins embraced his son for several long moments. “Here, go buy yourself whatever you want.” Perkins pulled out a roll of $500 from his pocket.

“Really? Where did you get that?” Nelson took the money in his hands.

“Oh, I found it in your mom’s jewelry box.” Perkins grinned.

“But that’s where mom keeps the money for the rent.”

“Well, I don’t really like it here. Do you?”

The two watched a cockroach scuttle across the floor.

“But they’ll evict us.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll work out just fine.” Perkins waved off the ridiculous notion.

Nelson put the money in his pocket and looked deep into his father’s eyes. “Thanks, dad!”

With that, the little boy ran out the front door, jumped on his dirt bike and headed towards the mall. Halfway there, someone kicked his bike from behind, sending him flying over the handlebars.

“Where are you going, dipshit?” Sampson pulled Nelson up by his underwear.

“Uh, nowhere.” The little boy rubbed his throbbing head.

“You got that right,” the bully sneered. “Hey, what’s this?” He searched Nelson’s pockets and discovered the wad of cash. “Paydirt!”

“Hey, give that back!” Nelson cried.

“Fat chance. See ya later, douchebag.” Sampson turned.

After taking a few steps, a rusty, old Buick LaCrosse with a black door that did not match its faded gold exterior plowed right over the bully. Perkins rolled down the window and nodded. “Well hello, mister. As I understand it, you’ve recently come into a small fortune and I was wondering if I could interest you in a used car? I’ll give you a good price on this beauty. Promise.”

Nelson got to his feet and brushed off his clothes.

“So what’ll it be, son?” Perkins grinned.

“I don’t know...” Nelson looked in the direction of the mall, then back at the dilapidated gold Buick. “All I’ve got is...” He picked up the pile of bills lying on the ground and counted them to make sure it was all there. “$500.”

“Sold! Now hop in.” Perkins scooted into the passenger seat.

Nelson tossed his bike in the back and jumped behind the wheel. “Wow, really?” He revved the engine.

“Really.” Perkins winked at him.

“I love you, dad.”

“I love you too, son. Merry Christmas.” He strapped on his seatbelt. “Now floor it!”

With a loud crunch, Nelson stepped on the gas and tore through the neighborhood, forgetting all about the ridiculous idea of owning a own pet fart, at least for another Christmas.

THE END

My Two Cents

It was a dark, dreary night and FUCK! I was tired, cranky, and most of all, horny. Although I had done a little writing—a nonsensical post for my blog—I really hadn’t done anything of value for the day. I hadn’t created a new work of fiction, which I prize above all else, and although I had plenty of time to write it, I found other things to do instead.

So I sat back in my chair and thought for a moment. “Oh, what the hell?” I let out a stinker, nearly splitting the chair in half. “Let’s write a brand new Donald Rump story!” (Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time...)

What was I going to write about? That’s always the question. Like many times before, I simply started typing. I wanted my fingers to tell me the story, even though I didn’t have the vaguest idea what I was writing about. Unsurprisingly, the story started with a fart, and not just any fart, a Spanish fart—¡Ay Caramba!

Once I knew that my story featured Spanish farts (I guess I was all out of French and English farts at the time), I knew that I was on to something. Literary awards be damned—this is what I was going to write! It was going to be an instant classic for sure, at least in the annals of fart fiction.

And so began another wacky adventure of a middle aged con man, a sexy sidekick, a typical loser, and good, old fashioned Spanish farts. A potential smash hit in the making? You bet! The story devolved quickly into a commentary about bullying, which was unexpected, but yeah sure, why not? (I didn’t really have anything else to write about, right?) After cracking a few skulls, the spirited writing session came to an end, and I was thrilled at what I’d accomplished. I had a complete story, not just an opening chapter for a novel (which happens more often than I care to admit).

After a hard day’s work, I finally had something to be proud of. But what was I going to call it? The title didn’t just pop in my mind like it usually does when I pose the question to the universe. Instead, my mind was silent, which I can assure you happens infrequently, if ever. I couldn’t even think of a horrible title that might lead to a better one later on down the line. I was grasping at air, and not the type that causes my characters to make funny faces and jump out of airplanes.

So I pushed the question to the back of my mind and started editing immediately. Since it was a simple tale, no more than two scenes, I could get away with doing a light edit, and largely use the original draft. As expected, I caught quite a few errors—missing words, phrases that didn’t quite make sense, garbage that needed to be cut, and, of course, holes that needed filling.

Heh.

Missing words always surprise me, though. In my mind, the sentence seems perfect, and I’m completely unaware that my mind is filling in the blanks. Sometimes it takes as many as three or four passes before I can actually see them. It’s totally crazy (relatively speaking, of course). I should be able to notice them the first time through, right? Sometimes I don’t notice them unless I’m interrupted, and then start rereading in the middle of a sentence. For some reason, reading a fragment helps reveal errors. Go figure!

Anyways, I wound up reading over the story twice, and wanted to read it again but it was getting very late, and dagnabbit! I still didn’t have a clue what the title was. Spanish Farts for Christmas? No, I couldn’t use that since the boy never actually purchases a fart.

And don’t you hate misleading titles? It’s like the Desolation of Smaug. You know, the second of three films in The Hobbit trilogy that really should’ve only been two. In that film, you never get to see Smaug blow those dirty bastard fishermen to smithereens. You just see the dragon fly off into the distance. Yeah, so he’s about to tear the tear the town a new asshole, and then...CUT! End credits. WTF?!

I wasn’t about to do that to my readers! If I tease that my character is going to buy a Spanish fart in the title, then that’s what they’re going to get, even if I have to change the ending.

Of course, I liked the ending, and certainly didn’t want to change it. “What’s the title of this crazy tale?” I said aloud. “Well, that’s the $500 question!”

I stopped right there, dumbfounded. Had I really just found my title? The $500 Question. Hmm...it wasn’t the most spectacular title, but it was serviceable. Ultimately, the story is about what a child wants for Christmas (which is a scary predicament in itself, and I can only imagine what kind of deranged play things those tyrannical tots want these days—good thing I don’t have kids...er, uh...wait a minute...), and that he’s getting an allowance of sorts to buy whatever his heart desires.

Wait. Why am I telling you this? You already read the damn story!

So that’s how it became The $500 Question, and I find it ironic that I didn’t have a clue where the story was going to be until I was in the physical act of farting, I mean writing, and the title largely followed suit. It’s one of those miracles that happened on the page. Who knows what illogical part of me it came from? It just came about by sheer chance (or stupidity), and I’m proud of it, regardless of what anyone says.

It’s even more ironic that Christmas is only two weeks away as I’m writing this, and I myself am wondering what to buy my family. No, I’m certainly not buying my son a Spanish fart for Christmas, not even if he threatens to cut off my balls and hang them on the tree. And there’s no way in hell I’m spending $500 on that little bastard. After all of the public humiliation, ridicule, back talk and general torture that I’ve endured throughout the year, he’ll be lucky if I spend $5 on him. (Can’t I just give him a few coins for the gum ball machine instead?)

In short, enjoy the holidays, and try not to make Christmas stink.

Donald Rump Fart Expert

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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