Applied Flatulence
Marty opened his eyes, disoriented. The first thing he saw was a fresh pint of lager that stood on the night table beside the bed he was lying in. The pint was accompanied by a cigarette and some salty biscuits with Cheddar cheese. Marty scratched the back of his head, but welcomed the free beer and smoke with open arms. He did however leave the biscuits untouched. The pint disappeared down his throat in a matter of seconds. Lighting his smoke, he inspected the room.
The room was pleasantly decorated and sparsely illuminated. Outside the wind was howling mercilessly, a snowstorm brewing. The old man got up and staggered towards the door in his usual meandering way, his gait being incurably crippled from decades of hard drinking. He actually felt that home in that place that he let a loud fart. It sounded as if a gun went off. The stench afterwards was so foul that Marty nodded giggling of approval over his superior skills as a master of farts. Flatulence was indeed a most noble science.
"All I need now is another pint and a newspaper," he murmured while walking across a semi-dark hallway. He entered a living room that was just as pleasantly decorated. There, on the living room table, was another pint (but no newspaper). Still, Marty stared with big eyes on this mysterious convenience. - "Well, I'll be damned! There you are, little fellow! Come to good, old Marty..."
He grasped the pint and goffled it so fast that he nearly swallowed the glass as well. No matter where he was, he could tell that he was the guest of civilized people - people that even put out beers for him to drink. Deciding to wait for the owner of the house to return from wherever he was, Marty opened the fridge and dropped his jaw. The fridge was crammed with beer cans, there had to be at least fifty of them.
"Good Lord, Marty!" he exclaimed. - "This miracle calls for a celebration!" He also noticed that there was an abundance of eggs, bacon and tomato beans in the fridge, and bread in the bread box. - "I think I'll make myself an English breakfast while I wait!"
To inaugurate the kitchen, he released a chain of thundering little farts that sounded just like slap bass riffs. He giggled crazily over the odd sounds coming from his old, frail body. He opened another can of beer and drank from it vigorously, before melting butter in the frying pan. While the bacon was sizzling along with the butter, he opened a can of tomato beans and poured into another pan. He then cracked five eggs into the frying pan while humming merrily. The pleasant smell of food finally managed to overpower the awful, sulfurous odor of an old man's flatulence.
Afterwards Marty descended on the food like a starving wolf - he had not eaten in at least 24 hours. He munched, snarfed and moaned while enjoying his food. Sets of long and loud farts protruded through his sphincter every five seconds - he burst into giggle fits of their sound, their wet quality and the ghastly smell they generated.
"Enjoying my food, Marty?" a voice suddenly sounded. Marty, eating with his hands like a savage, nearly bit his fingers off. He turned around with his face covered with food and stared at a woman. She appeared to be around 40, was tall and very fat, and with gigantic boobs - she had to weigh at least 150 kilos.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!" Marty exclaimed, wiping the food off his face. - "I woke up here, I saw pints appearing in the strangest places, and I simply forgot my manners!"
"It's OK, Marty," the woman said with a pleasant voice. - "The food and the beer is meant for you."
"Where am I?" Marty asked, finishing the dismal vestiges of a once consummate meal.
"You're on Kate's island," the woman said. - "I am Kate, and this is my island."
"How do you know my name?"
"I know you, Marty. Your reputation has finally caught up with you."
Marty's blank stare indicated that he understood nothing.
"Isle of Man, 1970," Kate said. Those ominous words sent shivers down Marty's communist spine. Now he understood everything. - "You had your way with an underage girl, impregnated her and was put behind bars. You escaped from prison and went to Norway hiding as a stowaway on a tug boat. Fast-forward 39 years. A social worker is lured by your charm, but very disappointed of your sexual performance, or lack thereof. She discovers your dark past and intricate tax evasion. Once again you escape from the authorities. But now, Marty, in 2010, 40 years after you thought you could get away, you have met your Nemesis."
All those words she said with the same pleasant tone in her voice. The pleasantness could however not soften the harsh truth of her utterings.
"Oh my dear Lord...!" Marty muttered, feeling like crawling into a dark corner and snuff it. - "W-what are you going to do? Are you gonna turn me in?"
"Why would I do that, Marty?" Kate asked with a wide smile on her obese face. - "You're already in prison, Marty! Here, with me, on my island! For the rest of your life!"
Marty let out an odd gulping sound as the horrible truth came to him. There was a horrible storm outside, he was marrooned on an island with an obese, insane woman - and nobody knew where he was, himself included.
--
The sudden onset of a snowstorm made it impossible to locate anyone or anything. Not even being able to locate their own hands, Nigel, Ayn and the police officer could do nothing but call of the search and return to the village. The three entered the tavern with sad faces. The ancient bartender and the few patrons of the tavern immediately understood what the outcome of the search was.
"Nobody can survive outside in such foul weather," the police officer said. - "Your friend is long dead now." After giving the surprisingly blunt matter-of-fact delivery, the police officer then left the tavern, taking with him two small bags of crisps.
"Well, then, Nigel, then all we can do is wait," Ayn said and sat down by the bar counter. - "Wait and hope."
"Yeah..." Nigel said. - "Two pints of lager while we wait, please."
The ancient bartender, still surprised over the obvious act of theft from the police officer, tapped two pints of lovely, refreshing and invigorating lager and handed them over, along with a small bowl of complimentary crisps.
Suddenly the weather took a nasty turn for the worse. The wind hit the building with such force that the door was flung wide-open. The bartender huffed and puffed while creaking his way over to the wind-hole. With all of his strength he managed to lock the doors safely.
"I'd better go and check on my boat," Nigel said, getting up.
"No!" the bartender said. - "You can't go outside in this awful snowstorm! You'll be blown to bits and pieces!"
"But so will my boat, if I don't fasten it tighter!" Nigel cried.
"Your boat ain't going nowhere, and neither are you," the bartender said. - "We've already lost one soul here today, and that's enough for such a small village."
"But..." Nigel said.
"The beer's on the house," the bartender promptly said. - "As long as you promise not to go outside."
Nigel went back to the bar counter like a tethered ball bouncing back to its pole. Taking his lager, he downed it in less than ten seconds.
"Hand me another free beer, please," Nigel said.
"What? B-but... I only meant the first beer, not all the beer!" the bartender cried.
"When referring to 'the beer' it's ambiguous whether you mean the substance or a unit of beer," Nigel said with the stoic appearance of an educated man - after all, he used to be a professor in history at the University of Leeds until he lost his marbles. - "You clearly said that the beer is on the house, and I'm taking advantage of that ambiguity. If you however say 'THAT beer is on the house', you would be absolutely sure that nobody interprets otherwise than you giving only one beer away for free."
The bartender stood there with an empty stare for a few seconds, before letting out a deep sigh. The professor had, not surprisingly, beaten the bartender in a battle of applied science - and linguistics was, after all, science.
"You win," the older-than-time man said and started tapping the second in a long line of free beers to Nigel - and Ayn too, since the bartender did not specify that the beer was free only for Nigel.
--
Having suffered a textbook example of humiliation, The One was finally allowed back into his room again for the evening. The mocking laughter of Clara followed him all the way to his room. He landed in his bed and fell asleep, completely exhausted. As soon as he fell asleep, he entered the frightening abyss of his own mind. In all the horror, anguish, lust and anger there arose an angel in silver lining, bearing an eerie resemblance to a female version of Director.
"Huh?" The One muttered.
"One..." the dickless, divine Director-angel said, the words floating mid-air. - "You must come back to my house in the village... I am deeply troubled... I'm in pain... They're trying to kill me... Ireeene is already dead..."
"Huh?" The One muttered again, not understanding squat.
"She's forever encapsuled in concreeeete..."
"Huh?"
"She will be perfectly preserved even after one million years have passed byyy..."
"What the Hell are you talking about? What's happened to Irene? And what's happened to YOU, you irresistible hermaphrodite?"
"I'm inside your dream, Ony..."
The One paused for a moment. Then a wide smile formed on his face.
"Now I know what this is! It's a lucid dream! I can do whatever I want without consequences!"
"What? No, you need to listen to me, One! This isn't the time for pleasure! This is the time for listening! You must come to my aid at once!"
Sadly, the Director angel spoke to deaf ears, as The One had already got his big man hands on a pint of cool, premium lager, perfect as only a fantasy can be. Laughing crazily he snapped his fingers, and Director's own mother suddenly appeared naked on the floor, spreading her legs, lying giggling on her back.
"H-how dare you, One?" Director cried. - "My own mother!"
"As if you hadn't been there already, you vile, perverted swine..." The One said with a cold voice, before penetrating the very same opening into which Director last emptied his near-bursting tanks.
"Wait a minute..." Director suddenly thought. - "This isn't The One's dream! How could it be? He doesn't know what's happened lately! He's been away for quite some time!" An awful revelation came to him. - "That means... That means that this is MY dream! And The One is having his way with my mother... But... Hold on... If this is a lucid dream, then I myself can do whatever I want!"
Filled with feelings that had been mercilessly repressed for months, he approached his now lonely mother. His cock stood out, straight as an arrow, and slightly curved upwards. Floating through the air he finally entered the woman that no other woman could hold a candle to.
His own mother.
The room was pleasantly decorated and sparsely illuminated. Outside the wind was howling mercilessly, a snowstorm brewing. The old man got up and staggered towards the door in his usual meandering way, his gait being incurably crippled from decades of hard drinking. He actually felt that home in that place that he let a loud fart. It sounded as if a gun went off. The stench afterwards was so foul that Marty nodded giggling of approval over his superior skills as a master of farts. Flatulence was indeed a most noble science.
"All I need now is another pint and a newspaper," he murmured while walking across a semi-dark hallway. He entered a living room that was just as pleasantly decorated. There, on the living room table, was another pint (but no newspaper). Still, Marty stared with big eyes on this mysterious convenience. - "Well, I'll be damned! There you are, little fellow! Come to good, old Marty..."
He grasped the pint and goffled it so fast that he nearly swallowed the glass as well. No matter where he was, he could tell that he was the guest of civilized people - people that even put out beers for him to drink. Deciding to wait for the owner of the house to return from wherever he was, Marty opened the fridge and dropped his jaw. The fridge was crammed with beer cans, there had to be at least fifty of them.
"Good Lord, Marty!" he exclaimed. - "This miracle calls for a celebration!" He also noticed that there was an abundance of eggs, bacon and tomato beans in the fridge, and bread in the bread box. - "I think I'll make myself an English breakfast while I wait!"
To inaugurate the kitchen, he released a chain of thundering little farts that sounded just like slap bass riffs. He giggled crazily over the odd sounds coming from his old, frail body. He opened another can of beer and drank from it vigorously, before melting butter in the frying pan. While the bacon was sizzling along with the butter, he opened a can of tomato beans and poured into another pan. He then cracked five eggs into the frying pan while humming merrily. The pleasant smell of food finally managed to overpower the awful, sulfurous odor of an old man's flatulence.
Afterwards Marty descended on the food like a starving wolf - he had not eaten in at least 24 hours. He munched, snarfed and moaned while enjoying his food. Sets of long and loud farts protruded through his sphincter every five seconds - he burst into giggle fits of their sound, their wet quality and the ghastly smell they generated.
"Enjoying my food, Marty?" a voice suddenly sounded. Marty, eating with his hands like a savage, nearly bit his fingers off. He turned around with his face covered with food and stared at a woman. She appeared to be around 40, was tall and very fat, and with gigantic boobs - she had to weigh at least 150 kilos.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!" Marty exclaimed, wiping the food off his face. - "I woke up here, I saw pints appearing in the strangest places, and I simply forgot my manners!"
"It's OK, Marty," the woman said with a pleasant voice. - "The food and the beer is meant for you."
"Where am I?" Marty asked, finishing the dismal vestiges of a once consummate meal.
"You're on Kate's island," the woman said. - "I am Kate, and this is my island."
"How do you know my name?"
"I know you, Marty. Your reputation has finally caught up with you."
Marty's blank stare indicated that he understood nothing.
"Isle of Man, 1970," Kate said. Those ominous words sent shivers down Marty's communist spine. Now he understood everything. - "You had your way with an underage girl, impregnated her and was put behind bars. You escaped from prison and went to Norway hiding as a stowaway on a tug boat. Fast-forward 39 years. A social worker is lured by your charm, but very disappointed of your sexual performance, or lack thereof. She discovers your dark past and intricate tax evasion. Once again you escape from the authorities. But now, Marty, in 2010, 40 years after you thought you could get away, you have met your Nemesis."
All those words she said with the same pleasant tone in her voice. The pleasantness could however not soften the harsh truth of her utterings.
"Oh my dear Lord...!" Marty muttered, feeling like crawling into a dark corner and snuff it. - "W-what are you going to do? Are you gonna turn me in?"
"Why would I do that, Marty?" Kate asked with a wide smile on her obese face. - "You're already in prison, Marty! Here, with me, on my island! For the rest of your life!"
Marty let out an odd gulping sound as the horrible truth came to him. There was a horrible storm outside, he was marrooned on an island with an obese, insane woman - and nobody knew where he was, himself included.
--
The sudden onset of a snowstorm made it impossible to locate anyone or anything. Not even being able to locate their own hands, Nigel, Ayn and the police officer could do nothing but call of the search and return to the village. The three entered the tavern with sad faces. The ancient bartender and the few patrons of the tavern immediately understood what the outcome of the search was.
"Nobody can survive outside in such foul weather," the police officer said. - "Your friend is long dead now." After giving the surprisingly blunt matter-of-fact delivery, the police officer then left the tavern, taking with him two small bags of crisps.
"Well, then, Nigel, then all we can do is wait," Ayn said and sat down by the bar counter. - "Wait and hope."
"Yeah..." Nigel said. - "Two pints of lager while we wait, please."
The ancient bartender, still surprised over the obvious act of theft from the police officer, tapped two pints of lovely, refreshing and invigorating lager and handed them over, along with a small bowl of complimentary crisps.
Suddenly the weather took a nasty turn for the worse. The wind hit the building with such force that the door was flung wide-open. The bartender huffed and puffed while creaking his way over to the wind-hole. With all of his strength he managed to lock the doors safely.
"I'd better go and check on my boat," Nigel said, getting up.
"No!" the bartender said. - "You can't go outside in this awful snowstorm! You'll be blown to bits and pieces!"
"But so will my boat, if I don't fasten it tighter!" Nigel cried.
"Your boat ain't going nowhere, and neither are you," the bartender said. - "We've already lost one soul here today, and that's enough for such a small village."
"But..." Nigel said.
"The beer's on the house," the bartender promptly said. - "As long as you promise not to go outside."
Nigel went back to the bar counter like a tethered ball bouncing back to its pole. Taking his lager, he downed it in less than ten seconds.
"Hand me another free beer, please," Nigel said.
"What? B-but... I only meant the first beer, not all the beer!" the bartender cried.
"When referring to 'the beer' it's ambiguous whether you mean the substance or a unit of beer," Nigel said with the stoic appearance of an educated man - after all, he used to be a professor in history at the University of Leeds until he lost his marbles. - "You clearly said that the beer is on the house, and I'm taking advantage of that ambiguity. If you however say 'THAT beer is on the house', you would be absolutely sure that nobody interprets otherwise than you giving only one beer away for free."
The bartender stood there with an empty stare for a few seconds, before letting out a deep sigh. The professor had, not surprisingly, beaten the bartender in a battle of applied science - and linguistics was, after all, science.
"You win," the older-than-time man said and started tapping the second in a long line of free beers to Nigel - and Ayn too, since the bartender did not specify that the beer was free only for Nigel.
--
Having suffered a textbook example of humiliation, The One was finally allowed back into his room again for the evening. The mocking laughter of Clara followed him all the way to his room. He landed in his bed and fell asleep, completely exhausted. As soon as he fell asleep, he entered the frightening abyss of his own mind. In all the horror, anguish, lust and anger there arose an angel in silver lining, bearing an eerie resemblance to a female version of Director.
"Huh?" The One muttered.
"One..." the dickless, divine Director-angel said, the words floating mid-air. - "You must come back to my house in the village... I am deeply troubled... I'm in pain... They're trying to kill me... Ireeene is already dead..."
"Huh?" The One muttered again, not understanding squat.
"She's forever encapsuled in concreeeete..."
"Huh?"
"She will be perfectly preserved even after one million years have passed byyy..."
"What the Hell are you talking about? What's happened to Irene? And what's happened to YOU, you irresistible hermaphrodite?"
"I'm inside your dream, Ony..."
The One paused for a moment. Then a wide smile formed on his face.
"Now I know what this is! It's a lucid dream! I can do whatever I want without consequences!"
"What? No, you need to listen to me, One! This isn't the time for pleasure! This is the time for listening! You must come to my aid at once!"
Sadly, the Director angel spoke to deaf ears, as The One had already got his big man hands on a pint of cool, premium lager, perfect as only a fantasy can be. Laughing crazily he snapped his fingers, and Director's own mother suddenly appeared naked on the floor, spreading her legs, lying giggling on her back.
"H-how dare you, One?" Director cried. - "My own mother!"
"As if you hadn't been there already, you vile, perverted swine..." The One said with a cold voice, before penetrating the very same opening into which Director last emptied his near-bursting tanks.
"Wait a minute..." Director suddenly thought. - "This isn't The One's dream! How could it be? He doesn't know what's happened lately! He's been away for quite some time!" An awful revelation came to him. - "That means... That means that this is MY dream! And The One is having his way with my mother... But... Hold on... If this is a lucid dream, then I myself can do whatever I want!"
Filled with feelings that had been mercilessly repressed for months, he approached his now lonely mother. His cock stood out, straight as an arrow, and slightly curved upwards. Floating through the air he finally entered the woman that no other woman could hold a candle to.
His own mother.
