The Magic Fart (14 page)

happy the whole time.” “Give me a sniff.” “One sniff,” Prior agreed, turning around and bending over. The man

put his nose down near his pantaloons. The Spire emitted a tiny fart. “That’s Joy!” the man agreed immediately. “But that’s my best blanket.

Three jugs.” “Two,” Prior said, knowing that bargaining was expected. “Two. But they have to sniff good.” Prior put his anus to a two-spouted jug. His fart went into one spout, forcing air out the other. When the Joy started coming through, the man clapped caps on both spouts. “How much time do you need to recharge?” “I’ve got a good load of gas. I can do it now.” He filled the second jug. The man gave him the blanket. Prior gave it to Smellie. “Take it home,

then return to me here. We have more shopping to do.” Amazed, she accepted, hurrying home with the blanket. “You got it for her?” the man asked, surprised. “She’s a good woman.” “Sure, but her face is plain.” “So is mine.” Soon Smellie returned. “Now food,” Prior said. “But you’ve already paid me far more than I deserve.” “I’m paying you for your guidance. It’s a day’s work.” Still dubious, she took him to a stall where there were many kinds of beans. Prior bought several packages with more joy farts, and helped her carry them home. “I don’t get it,” she said. He told her as much more of the truth as he thought was wise. “I’m here on a personal mission. I have special magic for this occasion. Once it’s done, I won’t have it any more. So I might as well use it to help a nice woman. It’s free, for me.” “You can get a slew of beautiful women, for what you’re giving me.” “Can I trust any of them without watching them?” She was silent a moment. “No. But how did you know you could trust

me?” “It’s a magic sense I have. You proved out, and I appreciate it.” She shook her head. “I’ve never been rewarded for being trustworthy

before.” “And maybe never again. But this time you are.” She considered. “May I kiss you?” “We kissed often enough last night.” “I mean in public, so others see.” Ah. “Sure.” She did so, and there was a stir. Others had been paying more attention

than he had realized. Probably news of his magic farts had gotten around. “But you know I’m moving on to rescue the Maiden in the Tower,” he

reminded her. “I’m not staying here.” “Yes, of course. Who would want to stay with me?” “I didn’t mean it like that.” “I know. But it’s true. I’m strictly a waystation woman. That’s why I

appreciate being treated like a person. It doesn’t happen often.” “You’re a nice person. You could make some man a good wife.” “So can any number of women with prettier faces.”
Can we help her?
he asked the Spire.
YOU’RE AN IDIOT.
Answer the damn question.
YES. I COULD GENERATE A MAGIC FART THAT WOULD MELT HER FACE AND SET GUIDELINES FOR A BETTER ONE. SHE’D HAVE TO PROTECT IT FOR SEVERAL DAYS, BUT THEREAFTER SHE’D BE BEAUTIFUL.
Prior nodded. He’d make the offer when it seemed appropriate. “Now let’s tour the fair,” he said. She hesitated. “Everything’s centered around the privy. You can find

whatever you want without my help.” “I thought I was buying your service as a tour guide. Are you reneging?” “No! It’s just that—well, I’m a—you know. Everyone knows it. To have me with you, treating me like a date, that could fart off your reputation in a hurry. You’ve been so good to me, I don’t want to do you ill in return.”

She was definitely not cut out to be a mean whore. “What do I care? Tomorrow I’ll be gone.” “You
should
care.” But she dropped the subject. They toured the fair. They stopped to eat fartburgers, drink fartfrappes, and nibble on pot cheese. All these generated generous quantities of gas, which they blew out with abandon. Prior saw a poster saying THE FAMILY THAT FARTS TOGETHER, STARTS TOGETHER. They were honoring its windy spirit.

There were shows galore. One was a little play featuring a man with a tremendous penis. “I’ll marry any woman who can handle this,” he proclaimed. One woman tried, bending over so he could penetrate her from behind, but barely half the member got into her before it balked. Another tried, and a bit more than half got in.

The third woman was more confident. “Sit down and lean back,” she said. He did so, and she stood over him, then lowered herself onto his member so that her own weight bore her down. Inch by inch she took it in, until at the end she reached down, grabbed his thighs, and hauled herself onto the last two inches. “There!” she said victoriously.

“No fair,” someone called. “She’s using leverage. Make her let go.” Re luctantly the woman did—and she flew up off the phallic pole, propelled by the recoil.

“That’s all right,” the man said. “It was the force of my ejaculation that did it, she’s such a good fuck.”

There was applause for the act. Obviously no ejaculation could have thrown her whole body up like that; she had jumped. But it was a nice punchline.

“Actually I once had a harder fuck,” the woman said, going into the next stage of the act. “My boyfriend didn’t have the biggest cock, but he was really enthusiastic. He fucked me so hard that when he was done, he had to pull out his cock, both balls, and half of his asshole.”

Laughter. Two more people came on stage. “You never fucked
me
that hard,” the new woman to her man.

“Well, I would have, but my farts would have blown you up like a bal loon.” More laughter, as they had topped the prior joke by suggesting that not only could the man have thrust so hard as to get his entire rectum into her, he would then have farted and inflated her. Realistic anatomy be damned.

“Then there’s the time I had constipation,” the woman on stage contin ued. “For two months I couldn’t pass anything, not even a fart. So finally the doctor gave me a pill. Not just any pill; it was the hydrogen bomb of laxatives, with a count down of exactly twenty four hours.” She looked at her watch. “Come to think of it, that was yesterday. You’d better fuck me within the next two minutes and get out of here, because you don’t want to be at ground zero when it detonates.”

“I don’t believe it,” the man said. “I’ll fuck you any time I want.” He unlimbered his large member in leisurely fashion.

“One minute,” she said, her eye still on the watch. “Maybe you’d better postpone it, because I can’t be responsible for what happens at zero time.”

“Forget it,” he said, pushing his penis slowly into her as she bent over to accommodate him. Their positions were carefully structured to provide the audience a clear view of the genital contact. Prior realized that the jokes were merely the pretext for the sexual display. It was working; he was turned on.

“Thirty seconds. And don’t pump, because any little vibration could set it off prematurely.” “You can’t scare me,” he said, and made a huge forceful thrust. There was a bright flash, a crack of noise, and a thick cloud of smoke. By the time it dissipated all that remained on the stage was a head-high pile of fecal matter.

More applause. That had been a fine act. They must have used the smoke to clamber through a trap door, and shoved out the pile. It had also been one fine fuck while it lasted.

Prior and Smellie moved on. There was a seduction contest, where the men stood on one side of a glass wall, their limp penises poking through suitably placed holes. Each woman did a strip-tease dance. The winner would be the one who managed to make a penis spurt without touching it. The audience was mostly women; it occurred to Prior that they might be studying technique.

Several women were able to make the members stiffen admirably, but none jetted. Finally a truly sexy creature came on the scene and performed a dance of such passion that Prior himself was stimulated painfully. “Um,” he murmured.

“Got it,” Smellie said. She hoisted up her farthingale, stepped into him, turned, and got his stiff member into her cleft just in time for it to spurt. Then she pulled herself off, dropped her skirt, and stood as if nothing had happened. No one had noticed; they were watching the dancer, who finally did make a penis spurt without touching. She had won.

Now the women of the audience forged in, advancing on the remaining stiff penises. Each of them turned and backed onto one, efficiently absorbing its triggered jet. “It’s a tradition,” Smellie explained. “The spectators get to tap the leftovers.”

Next was the stench trench, where the most feculent guts let fly. The aroma was truly awful, but there were those who were breathing it in like misty elixir. “Stink addicts,” Smellie murmured. “Last one left standing wins.”

They moved on to the main event: the champion fart-off. This was the one Prior meant to enter. “Now you know, joy farting won’t do it here,” Smellie warned him. “These aren’t feel farts, they’re cloud farts, so they can be seen and judged. There will be some pretty tough contenders.”

“I can handle it,” he said confidently. “I have more than one kind of magic fart.” “You’re really a wonder. May I—” He embraced her and kissed her on the mouth. She looked about ready to swoon with delight. In this culture, a fast fuck in public was nothing, but she felt obliged to ask permission for a kiss?

Two fat men got up on the stage. They turned together, bent over to present their plump rears to the audience, and blew out a fanfare of several tuba-like notes. This was the signal for the start of the event. People gathered around to watch.

An announcer appeared. “As you know, this event attracts competition from fart and wide. I’m sure most of you are familiar with the rules, but just in case any aren’t, here’s a reprise: Each farter will fart alone, into the central cavity, where his fart must form a visible cloud. Our panel of judges will measure this cloud for duration, determining when it has faded too far to qualify. The longest duration will win—” He paused for effect. “A day’s ride on the Fart Blimp tomorrow!”

There was applause as he waved toward the anchored brown blimp float ing at the village’s edge. That of course was the prize Prior needed to win.

“Now the call for contestants. Please step up to the stage and give me your names so I can announce them.” “Wish me luck,” Prior murmured as he started forward. “Oh, I do, Micro, I do,” Smellie said, and seemed to mean it. He liked

that. Three men and a woman were lining up as Prior came to join them. They all had huge bellies for the generation of champion farts. They glanced at Prior briefly and dismissively; his gut simply wasn’t big enough to host a serious contender.

“Our first contestant,” the announcer said, “is the WindBreaker, from the windswept plains to the north. He holds three awards for fartsmanship. Here is his opening effort.”

The first man faced away from the arena, so that Prior got a good look at his ugly face. He bent grandly over, and emitted a long slow peal of a fart that pulled itself together into a globular brown cloud about a foot in diameter. It roiled and turned as if some demon were inside trying to get out. It floated slowly upward, fissioning off curls of smoke, gradually shrinking. Finally it imploded, leaving only a fading wisp of vapor. “Time!” a judge exclaimed. “Seventy three seconds.” There was applause. It had been a good effort. “Now we have the ButtGuster from the gassy fumaroles to the south,” the announcer said. “He has competed in more cloud fartings than any other man, including last year’s Super Bowel, and is just hitting his second wind.”

The second man approached the arena and turned about. His face looked like a fart that hadn’t yet finished coming out. He bent over, concentrated, and blasted out a huge yellow cloud with tan specks. It sailed upward, expanding, until finally it thinned to the point it lost cohesion and got torn apart by the breeze. “Time! Eighty one seconds.”

There was louder applause. This was indeed a excellent emission. The big-name farters were coming through with a fine show.

“And our entry of the fragrant gender is Whoopee, runner-up in our contest last month,” the announcer said. “We have real hope that she’ll be our first local female champion.”

The woman approached the arena, lifted off her farthingale, and stood with a broad bare bottom. She pirouetted, squatted, and let fly a modest pink cloud that rotated like a football. It hovered, valiantly retaining its shape, until it flattened, buckled, and gave up the ghost. “Time. Eighty two seconds.”

There was considerable applause. Whoopee’s effort had taken the lead, however narrowly.

“Now Blowtorch, a convert from the firefart division. Last month’s time was sixty nine seconds, enough to place. He says he’s improved his wind since then.” The fourth competitor stepped up, almost as ugly as the other men. His gut could be heard rumbling from a fair distance. He pushed out a swisher of a reddish cloud that did indeed vaguely resemble the flame of a blowtorch. It coruscated into the air, shimmering with power. But it burned out too swiftly, and was only seventy seconds, not in the running this time.

“And finally we have a new face, as it were,” the announcer said. “Micro, for his first competitive effort.”

The audience was silent. The people were waiting to see this thin-bellied amateur make a fool of himself. Prior hoped they were in for a remarkable disappointment. It was up to the Spire.

He approached the arena, turned, and bent over, orienting the Spire.
Do your stuff.

The Spire issued a rushing jet of black gas. It formed into a spherical mass that sparkled like a dark star. It floated in place, neither shrinking nor expanding. A murmur spread through the audience as it hung on past a minute. This was no amateur effort! Slowly, reluctantly, it thinned, until at last it sank to the ground and dissipated into a trace of goo. “Time,” the judge said. “Ninety seconds.” “The winner,” the announcer said, amazed. “Micro.” Prior relaxed in relief. The Spire had come through.
I COULD HAVE MADE IT TWO MINUTES, BUT DIDN’T WANT TO BE OBVIOUS.