Fart Dad

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Fart Dad Page 3

by Pete Ziolkowski


  Ani: “What kind of … toy-nado is this?!”

  JoJo: “We’re finished! We’re ruined! We will never be able to keep any of our toys ever again! How can we hide our toys from a toy-nado?!”

  She ran out of words before she ran out of tears. Ani and Elijah had to grab umbrellas so they wouldn’t get drenched by JoJo’s sadness. Again. They learned this lesson last time.

  Ani: “What will we do?”

  Elijah: “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  CHAPTER 7:

  The Race Is On

  Smalley: “Oooohhhh, Slim, dis ain’t no good, no good at all!”

  Slim: “What happened to all the sauce, boss? Ain’t no toyz, ain’t no boyz, ain’t nothing to take, ain’t nothing to break.”

  Smalley crumbled next to the full-size green-and-gold conversion van. Underneath the newly decaled white G. The heap of a shaking thug sobbed on top of the big bear feet Slim was wearing. No one told these guys that Toys“R”Us closed. For good. Never to be reopened again.

  Smalley: “I’m ruined, Slim, ruined! The Old Lady, she ain’t gonna like dis. Gerty’s gonna be maaad, Slim, she’s gonna be mad. And da other thugs, man, doze guyz are gonna think weez just a joke, Slim, a joke!”

  Slim: “Boss, dis ain’t no good. We ain’t winning like we should. Weez need a plan to beat da man. We can’t stay here and cry, weez gotta try. Weez gotta get back up and go or your old lady is gonna leave the Smalley show.”

  Somehow, against all odds and reason, Slim’s poetic speech inspired Smalley. He pulled himself up, grabbing clumps of faux bear fur along the way. The thugs stood side by side in the abandoned Toys“R”Us parking lot. The sun reflected off the van, right above Smalley’s head like a lightbulb.

  Smalley: “I gots an idea, Slim. Dis ain’t no problem. Dis is de answer. We just found our new hideout. Our new base. Ain’t no one looking for no toys at Toys“R”Us anymore, is dey? We can steal all da toyz in all da city—and hide ‘em in herez.”

  Slim: “Dats why your da boss, boss. Da man wit da plan. Ain’t no bum, you gonna get us some. Weez gonna be da thugs on top who no one can stop. Dat trophy weez gonna git, even if we smell like….

  Smalley: “Slim!! Da trophy! We ain’t gots any more time. Dis waz gonna be da only store weez hit. But now, we gotta get at all of ‘em. Let’s do dis.”

  With that, Smalley and Slim rained down terror on every toy in the city. Slim charged through every toyless aisle in every store in the city. He growled as he ran and knocked everything off the shelves that he could while shouting—“The Brewers are from the sewers! The Bucks really suck! The Brewers are from the sewers! The Bucks really suck!”

  Slim bolted through the stores causing so much destruction so fast that he looked like a brown tornado tearing through Milwaukee. While Slim lit a fuse in the heart of every Milwaukean, Smalley shoveled toys into a bag so big Santa would be jealous. He raced in and out of the stores, filling up his faux Packer’s van and filling up his heart. With each trip Smalley made, he could see more bling blinging on the woman that he loved. After he emptied out Ruckus and Glee, he could almost hear her say:

  Oh, Smalley, youz da best. My little sweetie, my sweetums, my little bittle, smoochy ouchy. What would I do widdout youz? Youz da one who makes me feel like da pincess I know I iz. Youz my hero. Git over here, you stallion.

  Everything was going perfectly. Smalley and Slim were sure to win. Even if the kids of Milwaukee were sure to lose. Slim had everyone distracted. So Smalley could joyfully sing his victory song as he went, “No coppers in sight, the trophy is ours tonight! No coppers in sight, the trophy is ours all right!!”

  CHAPTER 8:

  A Fart Is Born

  “PIZZA’S HERE!”

  Dad’s invitation rang through the house. Big smiles stretched across the kids’ faces as they dropped their umbrellas and raced to the kitchen table, eager to drown their sorrows in the greasy goodness of thick crust, extra cheese, and double pepperoni.

  Mom: “The treats won’t end with this, you wonderful kids! I’m making malts, baby! They’ll be the thickest, richest, most chocolatey malts you’ve ever had.” This mother always made good on her promises. Especially when it came to sweets!

  Dad was just about to enjoy the satisfaction of the first bite of melted cheese going down his gullet when Ani cried out, “Dad! Your pills! You need to take your pizza pills!”

  “I’ve been taking those pills as long as I can remember…,” Dad said, then slowly drifted in his memory to the first time he was told that you have to take a certain pill whenever you eat pizza.

  Aunt Karen: “Now, now dearie, you know you that if you really want to enjoy pizza, you have to have a pizza pill with it.”

  Dad the kid took the pizza pills. But in his memory, he looked around and noticed that no one else at the table took any pizza pills. In fact, now, Dad looked around the table and noticed that no one at this table had a pizza pill either. Why was he always the only one who had to take pizza pill with pizza?

  Wait. But not just pizza. Throughout his entire life, people had him take “pizza” pills with so many different meals. Ice cream. Cheesecake. Yogurt. What in the world was going on? It was time to find out.

  Dad shrugged off Ani’s warning and devoured the food in front of him. Bits of cheese and pepperoni flew around his face. Then he sucked down the extra-rich double chocolate malt with such force that the bottom of the cup nearly popped off. After that, the rumbles began. The table shook. The floor quaked. The windows rattled. A little, stinky “squeak” snuck out.

  All of a sudden Dad’s muscles started bulging out of everywhere! His biceps ripped out of his sleeves. Those pants were no match for Dad’s exploding calves. Mercifully, the back pockets held strong when his glutes put the David to shame.

  Ppffftt…! Pppffffttt…! Ppppffftttt…! Ppppppffffftttt! Rrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiippppp!

  Fuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrt!

  Dad’s farts filled the room with such force that he shot through the roof like a rocket. The family fell helplessly off their chairs as Dad flew through the skies. He was terrified. He wasn’t sure what was happening or why. His chaotic path through the troposphere was more unpredictable than the best ride Six Flags has to offer. Birds passed out as Dad passed by. The leaves on the highest trees wilted as Dad whizzed away. Somehow, he unconsciously managed to spell out a greenish brown message in the sky—HELP!!!!!!

  When he dotted the last exclamation point with a little “squeak,” he realized what was happening. This dad had superpowers. Well, super fart powers anyway. He could fly! At least he could propel himself for long distances through the air with controlled bursts of flatulence. “Let’s give this a shot!” Dad called out.

  He drew a fart heart in the sky and wrote “fam” in the middle of it. He flew over Miller Park just in time to see Yelich smack the game-winning shot to right center. Dad weaved his way through the skyscrapers downtown, clouding up the view of the folks working out during their break at Northwestern Mutual.

  Looking over the sparkling waters of lake Michigan, Dad spotted a struggling sailboat. So he flew over and gave the boat a burst the crew would have appreciated—if they hadn’t all passed out.

  Dad was having a blast! His posterior propelled him over to the Fiserv Forum where he wrote—“Fear the Rear!” Butt then, just as Dad was getting the hang of this, he started running out of gas. He spittered and sputtered in the sky. His fart muscles started to deflate. He tumbled out of the heavens and back to the earth—and crashed into Smalley and Slim as they were running out of the Grand Avenue Mall. The thugs were dazed, knocked down, but not out. They were just about to run away when one last little “squeak” snuck out—and knocked them down for the count.

  The police arrived on the scene just before the kids and just after the media.

  “Sir, can you tell us what happened here?”

  “How did you know where the terrible toy terrorists were going to be?”

 
“Don’t you think this is the kind of job that ought to be left to the proper authorities?”

  “What happened?” Dad asked. “Why are you asking me this? What do you think I did? What did I do? Do we have any pizza left? Where’s Skinney?!”

  Dad looked over as the cops cuffed Smalley and Slim and hauled them away.

  “You heard it here first, folks. The terrible toy terrorists were brought to justice by Milwaukee’s finest….”

  The family walked off into the sunset. I mean, not really. They walked to their blue minivan and then drove toward the sunset because they live west of downtown.

  Elijah: “Dad! That. Was. AWESOME!”

  Mom: “Except that it knocked all of us out, put a hole in roof that I had to fix, and made a gigantic mess that I had to clean up!”

  Ani: And we’ll never have to worry ever again about anyone taking any of our toys. Our toys are safe!

  Until they weren’t. When the family got home, the kids were terrified to find everything in the house—clean. Sparkling clean. So clean it even smelled clean. Like walking through a field of flowers on a warm summer day. Which made this terrible feeling all the worse—because it was confusing. Good smelling clean rooms normally make a person happy. But for these kids, this meant their toys would be gone, gone, gone!

  JoJo: Why?! How did this happen?! We caught the terrible toy terrorists. And our toys are still missing? Who is taking our toys? How is this happening? Our lives, our hope, our happiness, our peace, our EVERYTHING—it’s all gone! Forever gone! Why, oh God, why! The agony! The pain! The despair! Whhaaaa! Booooohhhooooooo!

  Elijah: Get out your umbrella. Here we go again….

  CHAPTER 9:

  To Catch a Culprit

  As the sun went down, the kids went to work strategically placing what was left of their toys around the reading area. Ani’s blue eyes sparkled with delight while she spread out her toys. Elijah’s educated fingers precisely placed the drone. JoJo, lost in her own happy little world, danced around, twirling her shimmering turquoise dress and accidentally dropping toys as she went. Usually, this would be a problem. But tonight, it was a convenient part of the plan.

  Ani: “OK, Dad, do you know how you stopped the terrible toy terrorists? Well, I think we’ll need you to do the same thing to stop the toy-nado that’s been flying through our house.”

  Dad: “Toy-nado? What are you talking about?”

  JoJo: “Oh, Dad, IT’S THE WORST! There’s this toy-nado. And it’s big. And fast. It whirls and twirls through our house. Everything gets sucked into its path. It’s so scary, Daddy! We thought it was that bear, but it wasn’t. Help, Daddy, help!”

  Ani: “It’s bonkers, Dad. Not only does it leave a spotless trail, but it also decorates as it goes. And it is actually pretty. Even though it’s TERRIFYING!”

  “Uh!” Mom yelled from the kitchen, unaware of what everyone else was talking about. “Why can’t anyone follow through? They said they would be here at five to pick up the table I refinished for them. It’s six! No show. Again. Now, I’m going to have to start all over again trying to sell this thing!” And with that, she dove back into her phone….

  Elijah: “I’ve got it set up!”

  Dad: “You’ve got what set up?”

  Ani: “We set up an irresistible trap for the toy-nado in the reading area. Every time we leave a mess and walk away—the toy-nado whips through and sucks up all of our toys. So this time, we put our toys everywhere!”

  JoJo: “Ya! We made such a big mess that no one, not even the toy-nado, can clean this up. We don’t have a single toy left in any of our shelves!!”

  Elijah: “Dad. This is the plan. My drone has a live feed going. See?” He tipped the iPhone-sized screen towards Dad. “Here we all are. Right now. If we leave, it’s almost a guarantee that the toy-nado will rip through here. So we’re going to leave this feed on—go downstairs and pretend that we’re watching shows. But really, we’ll keep an eye on the reading area—and get you all gassed up.

  Ani: “When the toy-nado comes out, then you can take it out with your fart powers.”

  Dad: “That. Sounds. Awesome! I’ve been itching to use my fart powers ever since we took down the terrible toy terrorists. Kids need toys. It’s my duty as a father to guard the toys of the children.” Dad’s eyes narrowed and his fists tightened as he grunted, “Let’s do this. Alexa! Play the Rocky soundtrack!”

  With Dave Bickler declaring that the “Eye of the Tiger” was ready for the thrill of the fight, the kids set up a cheese training course throughout the cluttered basement. JoJo handed Dad cheese curds to curl into his mouth. The good kind. The kind that still squeak. Alternating right and left—one, two, one, two, one two….

  Elijah perched himself on top of the pull-up bar, waiting with a vanilla, sea-salt, caramel, waffle Scratch ice cream cone. With each pull up, Dad got another lick! And with each lick, he got a little stronger … and smellier.

  When the pull-ups were done (actually, when the Scratch ice cream cone was gone), Elijah and JoJo sat on Dad’s back while Ani got a bowl of cottage cheese ready. Push-up time! Every time dad pushed himself—and the kids—off the ground, Ani had another spoonful replenished and ready to be devoured. The toy-nado was going down! And so were Fart Dad’s pants.

  This would have been embarrassing, but the kids were ready this time. They pulled together functional fighting fatigues for their farting father. Batman may have a utility belt, but Fart Dad got a malt belt. Chewbacca may have a sash of ammo, but Fart Dad got a double sash stuffed with cheese curds. All of this delightful dairy covered the dark-green suit and hid under the brownish yellow cape. Front and center was a sharp, brownish yellow F-D, just to make sure the toy-nado would know that it was Fart Dad who smoked it out.

  Dad: “Turn on the shows, kids, it’s just a matter of time now.”

  Ani: “Wait, Dad! Before you get called to doody, fart into this.”

  Ani rolled a rainbow speckled shell toward her dad. Fart Dad cracked open the empty Hatchimal shell, filled it with flatulence, and quickly sealed it before it could lose its potency. Rolling it back to his daughter, Fart Dad said,

  “Be careful with this, sweetheart. That’s no toy now. It’s a weapon of mass disgustion.”

  Almost as if on cue from an amateur children’s author, the Mexcanno 5000 lit up like a Christmas tree. The toy-nado was whipping through the reading area, devouring toys as it went.

  But it wouldn’t go much further. Fart Dad was here.

  “Tell me, Toy-nado. Do you smell? You will….”

  CHAPTER 10:

  Fart VS Nado

  Fart Dad flew up the stairs faster than a stinking bullet. The toy-nado was whipping around, cleaning up everything in sight. Fart Dad blasted himself into the middle of the toy-nado. But it reordered his oder, spun him around, and ejected him out the other side—sending him crashing into the wall, knocking all the textbooks, pens, and decorations off the shelf.

  The toy-nado whizzed toward Fart Dad. He leaped out of the way, propelled by the brown thunder. The toy-nado whirled by the wall, perfectly placing every last book that had fallen off the shelf, even somehow adding just the right touch of twinkly lights.

  Fart Dad sent the fecal fumes at the toy-nado. But the force of air created by the toy-nado diffused the fart’s power. So he started picking up toys and rifling them at the toy-nado. As soon as each toy entered the nado—it disappeared.

  The toy-nado seemed to have endless energy and superhuman speed that made Fart Dad feel like he was fighting ten people. He farted like a butterfly and stunk like a bee. Fart Dad zigged, the toy-nado zagged. He farted it up, the toy-nado shot it down. He put his left cheek in, the nado smacked it out. Fart Dad went up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, b-a-b-a, select, start—but there were no unlimited lives to be gained for this battle. The sheer force of the toy-nado was too much to handle. Exhausted—and worse, out of gas—Fart Dad lay trembling in the corner as the toy-nado deliberately made its w
ay toward him—swapping out seasonal decorations as it went.

  The kids watched on in horror as Fart Dad was about to meet his doom. Quick-thinking Ani handed Elijah the fart-filled Hatchimal. He strapped it in his old-school, brown wooden slingshot, pulled back the rubber band as far as he could, closed his left eye, squinted his right eye, clenched his teeth, then unclenched them a little bit so he could stick out his tongue instead—and—

  JoJo did what she does best. Poetically freaked out.

  “What are we going to do?

  Who else can we turn to?

  Fart Dad is out of gas.

  The Toy-nado is closing in fast.

  Our toys will be no more

  Our lives will be bore

  Fart Dad might never recover

  We will only have each other

  Wait! That reminds me of another!

  What ever happened to Mother?!

  Wait! Elijah! Doooooooon’t shoooooooooot!”

  But it was too late—- schvwiiiiiing—the Hatchimal catapulted for the center mass of the Toy-nado as it towered over a deflated Fart Dad. The Hatchimal disappeared into its orbit. And then—a high-pitched squeak—was heard as the weapon of mass disgustion detonated in the middle of the toy-nado—knocking it down for the count.

  Ani and Elijah celebrated with the exhilaration of kids who just saved Christmas. They yelled and cheered while flossing and sprinkler-ing and dabbing, unaware of anything but the joy of victory. JoJo, though, sprang over to the heap of humanity crumbled up on the floor.

  Fart Dad was incapacitated under a pile of nado. JoJo saw with her eyes what she earlier pieced together in her mind. Dad wasn’t pinned down by the nado—he was pinned down by—

  Dun Dun Duuuuunnnnn!!!!!

  Mom!!

 

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