They Call Me Vlad - Episode 1: Return of the Blech E-Book

Donald Rump

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

VLAD WIECKOWSKY has never smelled worse! Fresh off a plane from Honolulu, which surprisingly didn't crash, it doesn't take long before trouble finds him. But that's nothing a few, nice, timely, juicy air biscuits can't fix. Or not... Approximately 3,200 words.
NOTE: A special sneak preview of Episode 2 has been added to the end of the book.

Leseprobe

They Call Me Vlad

Episode 1: Return of the Blech

Donald Rump

Also by Donald Rump

20 Common Questions About Farts Vol. 1, 2

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 Gay Assteroid

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)

© 2023 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) © Kia Cheng Boon (#39558123) and Mel Casipit (fart drawings).

First Edition (v1.01)

Published on December 16, 2023

Last updated on August 18, 2025

ISBN-13: 9798223679912

ASIN: B0CQHPYN6L

Universal Book Link (UBL): https://books2read.com/u/3Go7xO

Table of Contents

Title Page

Also by Donald Rump

Copyright

Dedication

Episode 1: Return of the Blech

Chapter 1: Sneak Peek

Chapter 2: Happy Hour

Chapter 3: Alias

My Two Cents

SNEAK PREVIEW: Bunghole Royale

Chapter 1: High Roller

Product Description

About the Author

Ad 1: Bottling Farts

Ad 2: Bottling Farts, Inc. Season One

Ad 3: 20 Common Questions About Farts

Thank You!

To my dad, who can bust them out with the best of 'em...

Episode 1: Return of the Blech

“Old Mother Hubbard, please explain to the studio audience what happened on that fateful evening. Tell us the truth—the whole truth!” Dr. Flatus Cheeky adjusted the clip-on Lavalier microphone wired to his vest, and tried to get comfortable in the ornate, padded chair.

“Well, it was around Christmas, and I wanted to do something special for my Saint Bernard. I’d already had a hearty meal: rotisserie chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and the like. So I figured, why shouldn’t he? When I went to the cupboard, I...bent over... That’s when...” Tears began streaming down her cheeks.

Dr. Cheeky reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a white handkerchief. “Rover took over, didn’t he?” He offered it to her.

“Yes, Rover took over.” Old Mother Hubbard nodded slightly and wiped away the tears. “And then he gave me a bone of his own.” More tears.

The studio audience gasped.

“That’s why I named him Vlad, because I was glad it was all over. But who names a child Glad? So I chose the next closest name: Vlad. Oh, Vlad, if you only knew...” She blew her nose in the handkerchief until snot burst out the sides and started crying again.

“Thank goodness.” Dr. Cheeky exhaled and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Eh? What are you smiling about?!” The old bag tossed the handkerchief back at him.

“It’s settled, then. I’m not the father. Rover is.” He slid out a cigar from that same coat pocket, lit it up, and took a few puffs.

Chapter 1: Sneak Peek

Vlad Wieckowski was a mean, old, stinky bastard. So stinky, in fact, it was a goddamn miracle that his plane didn’t crash in the fucking ocean on his trip from Honolulu to the seedy (and sometimes stinky) Sarasota, Florida.

“What?!” He snapped at the guy in the urinal next to him. “I know I can’t aim for shit these days. The last time I busted a nut, I took out both of my girlfriend’s eyes, never mind the golden shower that followed. So what do you think? Wanna give me a hand?”

Oh, that nasty, revolting, absolutely disgusting old coot! Clearly that was entirely too much information for the average person to digest. For his mother, it was an impending heart attack whenever she listened in on one of his many dreadful conversations, though this one would put her down for the count.

(Indeed what did any woman see in that crinkly, unshaven ball sack of a man? He looked like all of D.C.’s homeless had rubbed their nuts against his face, flicked boogers in his hair, and taken a great, big dump on that bald dome of his in lieu of a toupee. Of course, that wouldn’t make much difference since he rarely showered and always looked and smelled terrible. This was the best he was going to look, period, no matter how much excrement that topped that ugly mug of his.

So how could those baby mamas, some of whom could be models, even think of putting their Botox-injected blow chops around that pathetic, little pecker of his? Clearly the old codger had something up his sleeve...if Webster defined a sleeve as a fifty-cent piece anal cavity permanently crusted over and gushing with certain death.)

Vlad couldn’t believe that the man next to him was trying to sneak a peek at Winky. I mean, what the actual fuck? “What do you want? An autograph? Stick around, pal, I’ll sign my name right across your fucking face.”

A reaction would have been great. Anger would have been preferable to the stupid look emanating from the baby-faced, curly-headed ninny in a refried beans-colored three-piece peeking over Vlad’s shoulder.

“What are you waiting around for? To exchange foreskin? I can arrange the meeting, but it sure as hell wouldn’t go the way you hoped, pal.”

Damn, Vlad peed a lot. If left unabated, he could fill up all the urinals himself. Then there was the issue of time, which... Oh, fuck it! It’s not like he had anything to do or anywhere to go. Any skills he might otherwise glean would be forgotten the next day. Luggage? He just walked around with the clothes on his back, and when he needed something, he took it. Laundry? The trash cans behind Goodwill worked just fine, thank you. Soap? He didn’t own any, so why in the fuck would he do any laundry? Or change clothes? Or...blech! At the end of the day, he just pissed it all away.

So Vlad being Vlad, he did something that he often did, particularly when he was alone in a public restroom. With his miniature Chihuahua going full blast, he switched urinals without missing a beat, never mind the mess. At least there was a whole urinal between him and the Peeping Tom now, not to mention the Jackson Pollock masterpiece that he left behind.

Vlad knew where this was going, though, and wasn’t the least bit surprised when the man stepped over, taking over his old urinal, creeping that much closer. Quite frankly, this was getting fucking old. Rather than floof out one of his world famous silent-but-deadly ghost turds, he instead aimed his rear cannon and power-bombed the fuck out of the mustachioed muchacho.

The man’s head slammed against the porcelain face of the urinal next to him, shattering it. But even that couldn’t fully stop his momentum. Not by a wide margin. He crashed through the tile wall, leaving a hole larger than his big, fat head. Twisted and reeling, he dangled upside down from the urinal, his ankle stuck between the partially exposed wall and handle that flushed down all things hideous, not unlike Vlad’s pungent perfume. Blood streaked down the man’s face. Chucks of drywall and other hideous debris, including short, curly, wiry hairs, fell from his open skull.

And that mean, old, stinky bastard?

Why, he kept on whizzing it out for a good ten minutes, playing all of his greatest hits to the urinals that could absorb him. Hell, he even humped a few just for good measure.

When the next gentleman came in and saw the mess of blood, bunk and sperm splattered across the bathroom floor and walls, he could do little more than drop his briefcase.

“Hey, shit happens.” Vlad patted the guy on the shoulder with an unwashed hand, and walked out the bathroom door.

Chapter 2: Happy Hour

Vlad’s thick bifocals were all gunked up, to such a degree it was hard to believe that the old bastard could see a damn thing let alone put one foot in front of the other. But he did not seem to notice as he stumbled around in circles trying to figure out what the fuck was wrong with him. Even after putting a thumb in his eye to move the dirt around, he did not seem aware of the faint misty glaze impairing his vision. Was it friendly fire from the bathroom down yonder? Or had one of his other adventures misfired all over his glasses? Either way, they were absolutely filthy, and the old prune did not seem to care one bit.

“How could I be so stupid?” The answer stared him right in the face. He made a beeline for Jack ‘n Jill, a popular airport hotspot with hot waitresses in high-cut skirts, blazing wings, and his very favorite: unique, craft beers.

He walked up to the bartender and said, “You’re giving me a six pack because I felt queer on the layover, having to settle for Bud Light when those bastards ran out of regular Bud.”

“Huh?” A bartender named Boyd looked up, his blond hair and trim physique a dead giveaway that he never went home alone at night.

“Am I speaking another fucking language here?” Vlad was already getting hot under the collar. “I asked for a Bud. I got a Bud Light. Now that other bartender’s shitting glass for the foreseeable future.”

“Glass?” Boyd seemed genuinely confused.

“Did your short-order cook put smegma in your spaghetti or somethin’?” Vlad slammed his fist down. “I want my six pack, and I want it now!”

When Boyd didn’t budge, that was the end of it. Vlad farted in his hand and stuck the timely toot straight up Boyd’s nose. A smile broke out over the bartender’s face, one that would ultimately prove difficult to remove.

“Are we clear now?” Vlad asked.

“Perfectly.” Boyd took a few steps, bent over, and opened the door to one of his many mini-fridges. He scooped up an armful of bottled beer, never mind the label, and dumped them on the bar before keeling over.

“Much obliged.” Vlad took possession of each and every one of them. He put three in each of his pockets, a pair down the front of his shirt that made him look like he had super-sized nipples. He even stuffed one down the back of his pants to cool off that main cannon of his. Besides, there was no telling how soon he might need to put it in service again. Or something like that.

With a beer in each hand, he walked through the Southwest terminal and downed swig after swig. He laughed out of both sides of his mouth at those who caught a whiff of him and gawked at the stink. It was truly outrageous, and attracted all sorts of attention, particularly the wrong type.

“Sir!” A security guard walked up behind him.

But Vlad didn’t notice, the bottles hidden in his torn clothes clinking together.

“Excuse me!” The guard finally cut him off. “There’s no drinking in the terminal.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t see any signs. Hell, that shitbird over there is chugging down a beer!” Vlad pointed back at the bar.

“Yeah, but he’s drinking within the confines of the establishment, sir, which is what you must do.” The guard glanced at the bar and forced a smile.

“Oh, my bad.” Vlad released a little stink his way, more than a biscuit, though less than a baker’s dozen.

The guard made a face, and whimpered, “Daddy, what’s that smell?” before hitting the floor.

Vlad shrugged and continued drinking beer. “Yeah, that’s right, ladies.” He gave them a big, toothless smile. “I work out... My backside, that is!” He took another sip. “Apparently, that’s all that counts. So whaddaya say?”

A parade of frowns greeted him, but fuck them! With a few farts, they’d eating out his bunghole with a yellow bag of snack mix.

“Vlad Wieckowski?” came a voice a few moments later.

“Oh, fuck. Now what?!” He stopped and turned.

“Special Agent Zion, F.B.I.” Zir Zion showed off his credentials. “Would you come with me?”

“Fuck no!” Vlad took a good, long swig and burped in the agent’s face.

“It would be in your best interest if you-”

“I don’t fucking care. Are you detaining me?” Vlad cracked open a beer on the outstretched teeth of one of the people gawking at him.

“Actually, I’m arresting you.”

“Get the fuck out of here. Really?” Vlad took an empty bottle, filled it with farts, and smashed it over the agent’s head. “All right. Now you can arrest me!”

“A GE-11.”

“Goddamn.” Vlad spit out his beer. “How in the fuck did I wind up with a bottle of Milwaukee’s Best? I thought they could only afford to put them in tin cans, not bottles.” He tossed it in the crowd like a grenade and slipped out another from his pocket. “Now what the fuck’s a G-11?”

“Gaseous Entity Number Eleven. It’s a felony to release dangerous, toxic agents, particularly in a public space like this,” said Agent Zion.

“Well, felony’s my middle name.” Vlad began filling up another empty bottle with farts.

“Do you want to do this the hard or easy way, Mr. Wieckowski?” Agent Zion removed his hair piece, revealing a metal cranium underneath.

“I’m all about all things hard, tin man. And it looks like you might know a thing or two about that as well.” Vlad polished off yet another beer and put a genie in the bottle. When he attempted to smash both bottles against the sides of the faux agent’s head, the cyborg seized his wrists and zip-tied them.

“Well, goddamn,” Vlad croaked as several agents posing as passengers ran over and tackled him.

Chapter 3: Alias

Vlad Weichowsky was decidedly disappointed. He’d seen most of the famous detective films, particularly ones that featured hard-boiled cops grilling less-than-forthcoming suspects. But this joint looked nothing like the movies. I mean, what the fuck?! Instead of a claustrophobic, featureless room with a single overhead light bearing down on him, the interrogation room resembled a church recreation area. The carpet was brownish-green, likely from all the coffee stains in it, and the overhead lights vomited a muddy, yellow cast over all. Instead of being devoid of items that he might arm himself with, there was shit all over the place: a stack of computers, two piles of brand new, bagged, white t-shirts, random paperclips and staplers strewn over mostly empty desks, stacks of paper on the floor, the occasional knocked over Styrofoam cup or crumpled up napkin, and even a pair of scissors.

“So I guess you heard I was a janitor and wanted me to clean this shit up?” Vlad took a good look before he sat down and was cuffed to the underside of one of the empty desks, the zip tie that bound him clipped away. “There are better ways, you know. If all of you chip in five bucks, you can get Merry Maids. They’ll even wipe your ass if you slip them another twenty under the table.”

“Do you remember why you’re here, Mr. Wieckowski?” Special Agent Zion put on his wig backwards at first, then readjusted it.

“Yeah, I stink,” said Vlad. “You can’t possibly think this is going to hold me. Do you, Twiki?”

“It will hold as long as we see fit. If not, we have other ways,” said Zion.

“Yeah, right. Just give me back the beer, and I’ll let you walk out of here with your motherboard intact. Otherwise, I’ll see to it that you don’t shit right again, regardless of whether or not you’re a robot.”

Zion ignored the comment and angled his head. “We’ve been tracking you for the past few months, Mr. Wieckowski, and you’ve made it easy for us. Even though you’ve been using different aliases, it hasn’t helped at all. Take, for instance, your latest handiwork: Buck Rogers. Really?”

“Hey, everyone likes Buck Rogers of the 25th Century. He gets shit done. Afterwards, he goes to the strip club and bangs all the babes. Like me. Besides, there are people living today named Buck Rogers—the perfect cover!” Vlad wormed his way out of the cuffs and cracked open a beer.

Agent Zion straightened his tie. “Where did that come from?” He pointed to the beer.

“What? I always have a beer. And a prison wallet.” Vlad took another swig. “Anyways, Buck Rogers is so bad ass, he literally shoots lasers out of his ass. What I do is one thing, but lasers? That’s someone you don’t fuck with.”

“That’s not the same Buck Rogers I’m familiar with, but no matter. You also traveled under additional aliases: Edward Scissorhands...”

“Another bad ass. I don’t know about the hair, though, but can you imagine his dick? That’s some fucked up shit right there.” Vlad gulped down his beer.

“Then the adult film star equivalent, Edward Penishands...”

“Who wouldn’t want penises for hands?” Vlad gestured.

“John Connor...”

“I’ll admit, he’s a bit of a pussy in Terminator 2. But Terminator: Salvation? He doesn’t need a gun. If I were him, I’d just swing around my dick until I fried all of the machines’ damn circuits. Then I’d bang them just for fun. But that’s just how I roll.”

“Vlad the Impaler...”

“Hey, that’s my real name. Or my nickname. Or whatever the fuck you call it. Just ask any chick in the red light district.”

“Ron Jeremy...”

“So you’ve seen my videos?” Vlad chuckled. “You know, I haven’t banged a tin man before, but I would fuck the hell out of that shaggy, little mop of yours.” He pointed. “Better staple it to your scalp. You never know what might happen to it.”

“And Darth Vader.”

“Fuck Skywalker. And who’s the bitch? Rey? Or Gay? I don’t fucking know. Completely forgettable. Darth Vader’s where it’s at. Someone fucks up while giving you a rim job? Crush their throat, I say!” Vlad felt around for another beer, then frowned when he found none. “What’s that, Han Solo? Skywalker blew up the Death Star? Fine, I’ll just build another one; bigger and better that can blast off your mama’s titties from a galaxy far, far away!” Vlad tossed aside the empty beer bottle to the sound of breaking glass. “So, is there a point to all of this?”

“You were too obvious. That’s what got you caught.” Agent Zion stepped closer.

“If you say so. So am I free to go?” Vlad shrugged.

“You’re under arrest. Assaulting a federal officer, resisting arrest, domestic terrorism...attempted murder of an undercover police officer.”

“Oh, so that was your dude back there? What the fuck are you teaching those guys? Compare cocks first, ask questions later???”

“We could charge you with any number of things...”

“But you haven’t. You haven’t even read me my Miranda rights. Which means all of this is voluntary. So let’s stop jerking each other off and...” Vlad snapped his fingers.

Abruptly a pocket of air broke, but not from Vlad’s backside. Instead, the crack erupted near Special Agent Zion’s face. He staggered for a moment, then shook it off.

Vlad snapped his fingers. Then again.

More pockets of air burst near Zion.

“How’s that for obvious?” Vlad snapped his fingers once more, collapsing a massive pocket of air, bringing Zion to his knees. “Didn’t know I could do that, did you? I’m like a Jedi when it comes to these things. Sure, that little bastard Henry Winkle stole my farts for a time, even made a profit off it. But it only made me more powerful. And now... There’s no stopping me!” He slammed his hands together in a thunderous clap, exploding all of the remaining silent-but-deadly air biscuits he floated while bullshitting with Special Agent Zion.

Sparks flew out of Zion’s eye sockets. Smoke steamed from his joints. He twitched, trying one final time to shrug it off, then crawled forward on his hands and knees. He made it a short distance before collapsing in a pile before Vlad.

“Heh. That’ll teach ya!” Vlad looked around for a beer.

Clap...clap...clap...

Applause came from a single pair of hands on the other side of the room.

A figure emerged from the shadows, which appeared more shark than human. “Mr. Wieckowski...” His voice was deep and calm, teeth like shiny, white Tic Tacs. “I’d like to offer you a job.”

“Well, if it includes free beer and unscrupulous women, count me in.” Vlad burped, farted, and then stuck a finger up his nose for good measure.

My Two Cents

I thought I’d written the last of Vlad Wieckowski. After writing several installments of Bottling Farts, Inc., my enthusiasm finally petered out, and I figured that was it. There would be no new adventures because the whole thing became so utterly ridiculous, and Vlad, the anti-hero from a landfill far, far away, was too nasty for words. He stank and drank all the time, and I began to question myself as a writer as I concocted new layers of filth to splash over him.

The time away from writing did a lot of good, though. And you know what? In a strange way I miss the cranky, old bastard who looks like that distant, perverted uncle you only see on holidays. Who would have thought?

Whenever your life sucks, think of Vlad.

No, seriously.

Sure, it would be cool to get any girl you want just by throwing a few farts in her face (provided it doesn’t kill her), but she’ll never truly love you. Are brain cells really required when it comes to female companionship, though? My characters don’t seem to think so. And according to Vlad, neither should you. So should one strive to be more like Vlad?

Hell no!

He sucks. His life sucks. And he’s only good at one thing: making farts—the stinkier the better.

Right. So why do I keep writing about him?

It’s a guilty pleasure, really. His level of suckage is, at times, poetic. Like you, I want to find out what happens next, hairy balls and all.

I literally had no idea what the fuck I was doing when I sat down and started writing. Not a clue. Suddenly the first few lines came to me. Really? We’re in a bathroom? This definitely is going to suck! But who’s the king of suck? Hmm... I noodled for a moment and had to admit, Vlad fit the bill. In fact, he’s too perfect a fit. A random guy trying to look at his pecker in a public bathroom? I could totally see that. But I don’t want to see that. Ever. Fuck. Why the hell did I write about it?

Anyways, once the beer got flowing, everything seemed back to normal. (Vlad’s normal, mind you...) He also seemed way more powerful, which began to build from one chapter to the next.

So this episode is barely over 3,000 words. Why so short?

Think of it as a teaser. (That’s also kinda, sorta how long these episodes usually run, though.) What would happen if Vlad was at full strength rather than barely scraping by, like he did throughout Bottling Farts, Inc.? It would be a very different adventure. Dare I say, it would read like a superhero story. With a little James Bond and Homelander and Mr. Hankey sprinkled in.

Suddenly this project seems that much more appealing. Disgusting Vlad with disgustingly powerful powers? Ok, sign me up. Like him, I don’t have a life, anyways. So against better judgment (which is always the case when it comes to these stories), let it rip!

And rip it shall!!!

—Donald Rump, Fart Expert

Chapter 1: High Roller

If Vlad Wieckowski were a wart that could be dispensed of with the commensurate amount of anal cream, one would need to purchase by the metric ton just to nuke that crinkly, old bastard off his backside. Now employed by the U.S. Government--a shady, off-the-books program with a scary name--there was no getting rid of him. At least, that’s what the unwashed butt plug thought...

“Hit me.” Vlad drew in a generous portion of smoke into his mouth until the cigar flared, and coughed it back out.

Surely the dealer thought about hitting him--right across that unshaven, crusty mug of his, but didn’t want to dirty his delicate hands. Then there was the smell. Oh God, the smell! It was nothing short of a miracle that he hadn’t passed out after dealing a few hands. At least the cigar smoke was competing with Vlad’s natural odor, and perhaps, for a short time, winning. But still, policies are policies... “There’s no smoking here, sir.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? This is a casino, is it not?” Ashes ticked off the end of Vlad’s cigar.

(Poor cigar! Even Michael Rowe, host of Dirty Jobs, would cringe at the trauma the little cigar that could had to endure. Hell, it was already burning from one end, a preferable plight than being gnawed at by what was left of Vlad’s wretched, decaying teeth. If only one had the brilliant idea to use it to plug Vlad’s opposing orifice; mankind just might stand a chance.)

“It certainly is a casino, sir. And no one is saying that you can’t have a cigar. Just not here, at the blackjack table. We have certain standards to uphold to ensure that the game is enjoyable for everyone.” The dealer pricked his fingers along the edge of a fresh deck of cards.

“Is that so?” Vlad farted into his hand and threw it in the dealer’s face like a custard pie.

“V... What the fuck are you doing?” came a voice in Vlad’s ear.

“What the fuck does it look like? I’m getting to the bottom of this,” Vlad whispered out of the side of his mouth. He adjusted his earpiece, and tried to shake off the crackling noises that stung his eardrum. He was a sensitive guy after all, if one bothered peeling back all the shit-stained layers that made him a walking biohazard.

“Stay on point!” the voice was deep and feisty, like what he imagined his wife would sound like in her old age if he ever found anyone dumb enough to marry him.

Vlad turned his head to one side as if in deep thought, a slight smile cracking across his face. “What are you talking about, dildo? I’m just having a cigar. Isn’t that right, Pierre?” He read off the dealer’s name tag.

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.” The dealer’s smile now matched his.

“Stop fucking around! You’re drawing unwanted attention to yourself,” the voice crackled in and out.

“But isn’t that the point, numb nuts? How else am I supposed to meet the high roller?” Vlad took another puff of his cigar and farted it out his backside. “Deal!”

People passed by and stared. Was that a tuxedo? Surely they’d seen a homeless man in a tuxedo before, or at very least a dog, like one of those many YouTube videos. He might as well have been wearing road kill, for that face and those threads did not match.

Or perhaps it was the smell? Vlad sniffed himself just to be sure. “Heck, I don’t smell too bad.” He shrugged. “Lucky bastards...” he thought to himself. He often smelled a helluva lot worse. (Unfortunately there are limits to the amount of stink a theoretical bar of soap can extract, particularly from crusty, Raisinet balls like his.)

So if it wasn’t his appearance or otherworldly aroma, what could it be? Such a mystery puzzled that un-brilliant mind of his. When one of the hot broads passing by lowered her eyes to the horrors below, it appeared that the mystery might never be solved.

“Speaking of nuts...” came the voice in his ear as loud as ever.

“What nuts?” Vlad spun around. After all, he was working up an appetite.

“Deez nuts.”

Vlad didn’t get the joke. Even another lungful from his cigar didn’t help.

“Your nuts!” the voice in his earpiece insisted.

Vlad looked down. “Aw, fuck!” The cigar fell from his lips. He fumbled with his zipper, but like many things in his pathetic life, he couldn’t get it up. He did manage to raise it a quarter inch or so, but it got stuck. Not on his dick, mind you. That pathetic, little creeper was fast asleep in a bundle of brown fabric that was surprisingly still unwashed. No, the zipper was stuck on the corner of his underwear, and when Vlad finally forced the zipper up, he ripped his underpants in two.

Vlad felt around and made a face. “Damn it all to hell! Guys... I think we have a situation here.” He tried re-situate the family jewels.

“Will you shut the fuck up and stop playing around?” said the voice.

“Abort mission. Abort!” Vlad gestured as if he were trying to cut off his own head.

“There’s no aborting at this stage, like your mother should have done with you.” The voice became more scrambled and distorted. “Besides, the target-”

“Jack of Spades and an Ace of Diamonds. Very impressive.” A man with a slight frame stepped up to the Blackjack table and watched the hand play out.

“Eh?” Vlad took a look at the guy and laughed. “Yeah, whatever.” He laughed it up some more.

“What do you find so amusing, sir? I am just admiring your hand.” His thin fingers twirled around the white rose boutonnière pinned to his tuxedo coat.

“I bet you are.” Vlad ignored him.

The man shrugged off the insult. “That was an easy $10,000.” He watched as the dealer cleared the cards.

“Holy shit! I’ve never seen more money in all my life! Except I have. A helluva lot more.” Vlad mocked him. He took the $10,000 chip in his hand and flipped it over his shoulder, not bothering to pick it up.

As with everything, a little green was only a fart away.

A little pussy? Well, that required more finesse, and a lot more farts.

The man reached into his pocket, pulled out a rectangular $100,000 poker chip, and placed it on the table before Vlad. “Next time, use this instead.” He turned and stepped on the discarded $10,000 chip with a crunch.

Apparently two brain cells collided in Vlad’s feeble, old head. He reacted as if he’d had a revelation. (Or perhaps he’d imagined being electrocuted...) “What did you say your name was?”

“Enis.” He said over his shoulder, still walking. “Enis Spunkmeister.”

“Penis spunk?” Vlad thought for a moment. Wasn’t that the, uh... “Oh yeah!” He stood up straight.

“He’s the target, you moron! THE TARGET!!!” the voice in his ear screeched.

Product Description

VLAD WIECKOWSKY has never smelled worse! Fresh off a plane from Honolulu, which surprisingly didn’t crash, it doesn’t take long before trouble finds him. But that’s nothing a few, nice, timely, juicy air biscuits can’t fix. Or not...

Approximately 3,200 words.

KEYWORDS: serial novel, fart, farts, fart fiction, bottling farts, gassy tales, crazy, humor, humorous, gas, criminal, flatulence, bodily humor, fun, funny, joke, jokes, comedy

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.

Bottling Farts

Could the greatest power...

The path to riches beyond our wildest imagination...