Ten Stinky Stories: Vol. 1: Ten Stinky Stories, #1

By Donald Rump

Celebrating the best of fart fiction, Donald Rump weaves together ten flatulent tales of love, betrayal, flesh-eating cannibals, and everyone's favorite green gas, that are sure to blow you away.

BOTTLING FARTS 

Could the greatest power… 

The path to riches beyond our wildest imagination… 

The key to reaching the highest level of spiritual awareness and happiness… 

…be obtained by bottling farts??? 

THE CHAPPED-ASS CRITIC 

Zack Pimpton's ass never felt worse, and it doesn't help that his doctor is a part time comedian.

GOING DUTCH 

Barnabus Prim has reached the end of his rope. Drowning in debt and married to an obnoxious wife who can't stand the sight of him, he decides to do the unthinkable. But finding a way to the afterlife proves more difficult than he imagined. 

MARRIAGE STINKS 

Mackelroy Puggsley thought he'd heard everything until an odd man named Bilby Bloob shows up in the DMV lobby one morning. When Bilby demands a marriage license for his gassy wife, the old man puts his foot down. Sure, it's one thing to marry your high school sweetheart, but a fart? Who in the world marries farts? 

GASTROINTESTINAL BLUES 

Since leaving his posh position at the Department of Motor Vehicles, Mackelroy Puggsley thought he'd smelled the last psychotic fart that nearly killed him. But in his new role as a psychologist, he quickly realizes that the problem is more widespread than he thought. Will a crazed client and his two gassy brides prevent the old man from getting one last piece of nookie before he dies? Or will Mackelroy talk his way out of another hazardous situation and live to see another hair pie? 

THE WOULD BE ASTRONAUT 

Hank Larmspitz has a plan. 

Well, sort of. 

He's going to be the first man on the moon, dagnabbit, and he's going to do it without the aid of a space suit or even a space ship. 

THE $500 QUESTION 

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. Hay caramba! 

Can the used car salesman talk his son out of it? Or is this Christmas really going to stink? 

FINDING FLOOFY 

When a man falls head over heels for a murderous fart, he has difficulty coping with her mysterious departure. Was it something he said? Something he did? Was his penis too small? None of it makes any sense. "I will find you, my darling Floofy. Even if it's the last thing I do!" 

TILL DEATH DO US FART 

Helen Hubbard's fears have finally been confirmed. During brunch one morning in her favorite restaurant, her husband Gary confesses to cheating on her, and is ready to leave at a moment's notice. When she pries deeper into the matter, she discovers more about his mysterious lover Muffy than she cares to know. “So you’re leaving me for a fart???” Helen exclaimed. 

WEEKEND GETAWAY 

When Martin Dollop and Arthur Bodine set off for a romantic vacation in the islands, they have no idea what they're in for. Now rotting away in a Mexican jail cell, it appears that they've reached the end of their rope. Even the pinche guard won't do them the honor of putting a bullet in their heads, and offers each a shot of poison to end their suffering. 

Will the two lovebirds cash in on their free weekend getaway and make things right between them? Or will the doomed couple kill each other in the process? 

BONUS! 

Also includes the bonus story I Am Fart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donald Rump
• Release date: Dec 5, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310505669

Donald Rump

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. Mr. Rump lives in Southern Maryland with his pet fart Floofy. (Note: Image licensed by DepositPhotos.com and © Matthew Britton.)

Book preview

Bottling Farts

Bottling Farts

Henry Winkle wasn’t your ordinary pint-sized little bastard. He was an exceptionally evil turd who enjoyed taunting others, even giants that could crush his tiny Raisinet balls with ease. No wonder the miscreant was held back an entire year, and his parents had no choice but to send him to the Catholics after he was expelled from the public school across the street. Just two weeks at St. Agnes, he’d already pissed off most of the staff, notably the soft-spoken Father Amos (or was it Anus?) who embraced everyone, even demonically-possessed little shits who enjoyed super gluing nuns to chairs. When his parents received word of Henry’s latest exploits—swapping holy water with toilet water at the front of the church—they wondered if he might be better off at military school. Perhaps they should just load him into a cannon and fire in the direction that they thought Fork Union Military Academy was.

Hell, it was worth a shot.

So it was of no surprise that Henry found his nose again bloodied and tears streaming down his cheeks after getting knocked senseless by a child less than half his size. Perhaps he shouldn’t have told the second-degree black belt transgender student that she hit like a girl.

Hey, little buddy. What’s wrong? Vlad the ancient janitor mopped the floor.

Henry enjoyed talking to the old bag whenever he got in trouble, which was becoming a daily occurrence. Of course, Henry didn’t really like Vlad at all. That would imply that he was anything less than the antichrist. In truth, Henry liked poking fun at the geezer’s tacky plaid pants and man cleavage that bubbled out every time he bent over. Vlad’s hair looked like it had been spray-painted with a can, his eyebrows coiled wildly like pubic hair, and his creaky, old boots belonged in a museum. And even though Vlad wore a pair of thick bifocals, Henry swore that the old man couldn’t find his dick. Curiously Henry confided in him, which made their relationship all the more peculiar.

Come on, pal. You can tell me. Vlad leaned on his mop.

I got in a fight. Henry shrugged.

Again? That’s the fifth time this week. The old man glanced at his watch. You’ve got to cut that shit out.

Yeah, I know. The boy continued walking.

So where are you headed? Need to drop off the kids at the pool? Vlad chuckled.

Nah, I’ve got to see the principal.

Seriously? You can’t do that. They’ll kick you out this time for sure!

Yeah, well…I guess it isn’t any big loss. He gazed at the dilapidated walls and black mold streaking across the ceiling. What do you think I should do?

Well, for starters, you shouldn’t get in anymore fights.

But it wasn’t my fault! Leslie accused me of farting and stuck her finger up my ass.

Are you sure it was a finger? Vlad set the mop aside. Anyways, there are better ways of dealing with those shit-eating little bastards.

Oh yeah, like what? Henry asked.

Well, you could just bottle farts. The old man grabbed a bottle of beer from his apron and cracked it open. He took a swig and burped loudly. Now that’s got one helluva bite!

Are you crazy? The boy looked around. If anyone sees you drinking on the job, you’ll be fired.

Nah, nothing’s gonna happen to me. Vlad chugged down more.

Why not?

Because I’ve been bottling farts, unlike you. He finished his beer and farted into the empty bottle. He plugged it with his thumb and held it up. See?

Although the hallway was dim, Henry could still make out the green gas swirling around inside. What the heck is that?

I already told you. Now take a whiff. Vlad uncorked the bottle and held it under Henry’s nose.

Good God! Henry shrieked. In his brief existence, he’d never smelled anything quite so foul. He shook his head and slowly realized that he was crouched on all fours, drooling on the dirty floor. What happened?

What do you think happened? The janitor plugged the bottle with a snot rag from his back pocket and set it in the closet. He grabbed another beer and swallowed down a mouthful.

I don’t know. I was walking down the hall and-

And?

And…I don’t remember. Wait, that’s right! I was on my way to the principal’s office.

Vlad grabbed a penlight from his shirt pocket and shined it in the boy’s eyes. Acute transient amnesia. He stepped in the closet and scribbled ‘ATA’ on the label of his freshly bottled fart.

What’s that supposed to mean?

It means that you lost your wits for a moment and fortunately got them back. As it turns out, a little gas can come in handy when you find yourself in a pickle. That’s why I bottle it. Vlad continued drinking beer.

Wait…what?! Henry’s head spun. What are you trying to tell me?

Instead of letting people push you around, let them gag on one of your homemade air biscuits. Sure, finding the right recipe takes a little organization, experimentation and plenty of luck, but hell…look at me! He polished off another beer and sunk a steamy squirrel in the bottle. Oh, nice! Do you want to guess what this one is? He sniffed and offered it to the child.

Hell no! Henry jumped back.

Fine. It’s your loss. Vlad forced the aluminum cap back on the bottle. But if you want to be successful like me, then you’ve gotta start bottling farts.

"But you’re a fucking janitor!" Henry wiped his bloody nose.

Just a janitor, eh? Is that all you see? Come here, you little prick. I’ve got something to show you. He stepped over to a metal door and opened it.

Reluctantly, Henry followed him through.

Hey, Betty. You’re looking mighty fine today. Vlad ambushed the secretary, releasing a puff of his ghastly ghoul in her face.

The blond bombshell made a face, and then smiled back. And aren’t you the sexiest thing I’ve seen all day? She tossed her typewriter aside, crawled atop the desk, and licked her lips.

Keep it classy, honey. I’ll deal with you later. He gaped at her healthy cleavage and then pulled Henry into an office. Sit! He pointed to an empty chair.

What are you doing? And what’s wrong with her? Henry glanced at Betty, who looked like she was about to tear her clothes off.

Haven’t you been listening to a damn word I said? The old man closed the door and took a seat.

You can’t sit there. That’s the principal’s chair.

Well, I’m in charge now. Vlad rolled his chair to the far corner and opened the closet door. A lean man with a mustache and a three-piece suit stood in the closet, holding a case of beer. Thanks, Mr. Withersby. He grabbed a bottle and shut the door.

I think I’m going to need one of those. Henry swiped the janitor’s beer and gulped it down.

Now is all of this sinking into that tiny brain of yours? Vlad grabbed another beer from the closet. It’s all about farts, Henry. The whole world revolves around farts. With the right gaseous emission, you can get away with just about anything. Why do you think so many attractive women want to jump my bones? Is it my irresistible odor? Even the word ‘cologne’ is just a pretty word for a fart. You got that? Vlad slammed down his beer, spilling it on the desk.

Uh-huh. The kid inhaled more beer.

People are often influenced by external forces beyond their control—things that infiltrate and manipulate the environment. Every moment, we’re breathing in some kind of toxic fume, from the paint on the walls to the exhaust of a diesel engine that smells like somebody set a dinosaur’s ass on fire. These emissions have troubling, and oftentimes permanent, psychological effects. You following me, son?

Right on, daddio. The boy burped.

"My good friend Cooper taught me that there’s one for everything, until he accidentally spontaneously combusted while lighting farts in the back of his pickup truck one night. Although bottling farts is potentially dangerous, it is rewarding. Just be careful what you brew or it can backfire on you. Big time.

"Once you’ve got a grasp on basic Fartology, you’ll discover that there are farts that can erase people’s memories and cause them to fall in love with you. There are farts of folly that induce gas in others and make their minds pliable and open to suggestion. If you’re lucky, you might even squeeze off a few recreational farts that make people giggle for hours—no alcohol required. Hell, a fart can even provoke nuclear war if you’re not too careful!

See that up there? Vlad pointed to a series of vials on the shelves behind him. That’s my personal stash, assembled over many painstaking years. What you see here is only a fraction of my collection. The majority is at home under lock and key. These are just the basics: confusion, mind control, memory wipes, binding suggestions, social stimulus, fear, drowsiness, animus, truth serums, sexual aggression, and…death. There are limitless classes and combinations. Eventually, you get so good at identifying them you can smell them right through the glass—no need for a label! Don’t get too close, though, or you’ll get snockered by your own creation.

So is that how you took over the school? Henry’s head throbbed.

Shh…that’s our little secret. Vlad grabbed his bottle and kicked back.

Suddenly a teacher burst through the door. She saw the beer and gasped.

Hey, Mrs. Hudgens. What brings you to my office? Vlad sat up straight.

I was wondering why it was taking Henry so long to return to class. Now I know why. Is that beer you’re serving him?

Root beer, Vlad replied.

Bullshit! She ripped