Bottling Farts, Inc. Season One: Episodes 1-9: Bottling Farts, Inc.

By Donald Rump

THE F**KING IDIOT . . .

Vlad Wieckowski has seen better days. With only the clothes on his back, he's out of money, out of luck, and out of gas.

CONFRONTS THE EVIL PINT-SIZED BASTARD . . .

That little sh*t Henry Winkle is at it again, and this time he's got warehouses full of toxic gas at his disposal. Can anyone stop his evil plot to gas the world?

AND GETS F**KED OVER BY A MYSTERIOUS DIPSH*T AGENT . . .

By his letter he is known.

W.

W for Wacky. W for Wicked. W for WTF?!

WILL THE INDELIBLE SH*THEAD GET HIS REVENGE?

Or is mankind totally f**ked?

Season One includes all nine episodes of Bottling Farts, Inc. plus the original short story that kicked off the series. Approximately 35,000 words in all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donald Rump
• Release date: Oct 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386558712

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

Chapter 1: Disheveled

Kenneth Price knew from the horrid stench that death was lurking just around the corner. Please come in, Mr...uh... Ken coughed the fetid odor from his lungs.

Wieckowski, but you can call me Vlad. An old man with thick bifocals stepped in the office. He wore a pair of torn jeans with a hole in the crotch, and a tattered Redskins jersey with faded letters that barely spelled the name RIGGINS. Although Vlad looked as if he’d slept with Oscar the Grouch, he was quite fortunate. A good Samaritan had donated the clothes for his job interview; otherwise, Vlad would be interviewing in his underwear.

You do realize this is an interview, don’t you, Mr. Wieckowski? Ken closed the door and sat down.

Oh yeah, sorry about that. You called for the interview so quickly I didn’t have time to get my clothes from the wash.

I called last week.

Yeah, but I had shit to do. Like pick a wedgie from his unwashed crack or wake up from a coma-inducing air biscuit that had been unleashed on him by a certain pint-sized little bastard.

I hope you take your job seriously, because this doesn’t look so good. Ken fidgeted with his Rolex.

Yeah, yeah. I get where you’re coming from, pal. Vlad sat up and combed what little hair he had with his fingers.

So tell me, why are you interested in getting a job here at Tringle and Associates?

Well, to be quite honest, I need a job.

And a shower. And a fucking brain, Ken thought to himself and brushed his blond bangs from his eyes. It says here on your application that you started out as a janitor and worked your way up to become the principal of Riverside Elementary? That’s quite a leap. At first I didn’t believe it, but then I made a few calls and lo and behold, you’re telling the truth. Could you tell me more about this?

Well, you know...I waxed a few floors, got lucky--if you know what I mean--and before I knew it I was sitting in the principal’s chair.

Do you have any college experience that I’m not aware of? Only a GED is listed as your highest level of education.

Oh, that. I just threw that in there so that you wouldn’t think I was a total fucking moron. Vlad grabbed a beer from his back pocket and cracked it open.

Is that beer? Ken asked.

Uh...no. Vlad looked around and took a swig.

I can smell the alcohol from here.

Really? Oh yeah, I got drunk the other night and puked all over my shoes. You’re probably smelling that. He gulped down another mouthful and set the bottle next to him.

Great, Ken sighed. He doubted Vlad owned a pair of shoes, but he hadn’t really noticed since he had been overwhelmed by the vagrant’s pungent odor. Mr. Wieckowski, perhaps it’s best that we don’t do this now.

Why?

Have you taken a look at yourself in the mirror?

I don’t own a mirror.

"Precisely. You need to pull yourself together and come back for another interview. I’m even willing to forget that you stepped foot in this office and give you another opportunity to knock my socks off. While it’s true that we need a janitor, we don’t need one that bad."

Oh, come on, man. Don’t do this to me. I’m really trying here. You’re the best shot I’ve got at putting my life back together. Tears filled Vlad’s eyes.

Well, you’re going to have to try a lot harder than that.

No, you don’t understand. Vlad shook his head, trying to hold himself together.

What don’t I understand? Ken sat back in his chair. All right, forget about the job for a moment. Let’s talk candidly, one man to another. What happened to you? By all accounts you seemed to be doing well. Did you do something illegal and get thrown in jail? Hopefully you didn’t rape one of those poor kids.

"Nothing of the sort. That little bastard raped me!"

What?! Ken nearly fell out of his chair.

A little kid robbed me blind. Stole every last fart I had. Vlad clenched his fists.

Pardon? Did you say ‘fart?’

"Yeah, he used my secret weapon against me, and then put me in a coma until I woke up a few months ago. He wiped out my life savings, and after I was released from the hospital I found out that my lender had foreclosed on my house and changed the locks. Everything I owned was gone in a flash. Now I’m homeless, wandering around, and trying to make sense of all this. But I’m not the begging type. When I realized that I wouldn’t last long on the streets, I applied for a job--any job--just to put food in my stomach. On top of that, I lost the one talent I had."

What’s that? Ken stared at him intently.

You know how singers occasionally lose their voice?

Yeah.

It’s kind of like that.

Oh, do you mean like that homeless guy with the golden voice? Didn’t he work for a radio station or something?

Yeah, something like that. Vlad took a sip of beer.

"So are you a former brewmaster who forgot how to make beer? Did you accidentally flush the secret recipe down the toilet in a drunken rage? Perhaps that’s why you carry a cold one wherever you go--to help you remember. Don’t tell me you’re related to the Anheuser Busch