It was time for work. Farty put his farting stool in the middle of the middle of the tank. It had a large hole cut in the seat so farts could pass through unencumbered, a foot rest for Farty's feet and a little arm with board on it where Farty could put the newspaper to do the crossword.
He took a deep breath and sat down.
There was a high pitched whine and Mr Farty Pants was lost in a billowing cloud of orange kipper gas. If you sliced your way through it, you'd catch a glimpse of him doing the crossword. Not just any crossword, it was the cryptic crossword. Lost in his own world in his cloud of gas he did the cryptic crossword while powering the City of London with his amazing fart gas.
Once he'd done the crossword, every last tricky cryptic clue, he had a breather, going out through the little door in the side of the tank to see what the day was like. He liked grey days most, they were suitably depressing. He hated bright sunny days with all those little birds chirping cheerfully away. If they chirped too close to him, he'd knock them down with a well-aimed fart.
He stood out there, under the ten foot high Absolutely No Smoking sign, and puffed his way through a couple of ciggies. Then it was back to work until lunchtime.
While his morning routine was always, invariably the same, lunch changed depending on what type of gas he was planning to make in the afternoon. Swede soup followed by roast swedes and swede surprise for pudding if he was making cooking gas; Brussels sprout soup with a plate of freshly boiled sprouts on the side if he was making Skunk, now favoured by police forces the world over.
This lunch time Farty was experimenting. When it came to brewing farts he was a master
Prunes, apricots and dried mango, followed by plum duff.
After lunch, he strolled across to the small neighbouring gas tank where he produced his specialty gases, lay down on his old sofa and waited for his digestion to cut in.
Pluuuu-uuuuu-uuuuuu-uuuuu-ut
It was a long slow, plummy one. Farty sniffed the air. Yes, it was good, a definite winner: lots of wind, lots of noise, thick and sweet, just on the edge, with a risk of follow through if you weren't careful. Yes, perfect to sell in a bladder, a Falloon, a fart in a balloon, that would shoot through a crowd willy nilly, recreating perfectly the noise of the original fart as it distributed it's payload, bouncing off people and walls until it finally emptied itself out with a final Pluuut.
He siested, like he did every day. Rather than snoring, he farted, slowly, rhythmically, in time with his breathing, raising gently up off the sofa with every fart.
After his snooze, Farty ambled back over to the big tank. London was having a bit of a cold snap, low grey skies with rain, sheet and drizzle. Demand for gas was up, his tank was just about empty. This called for urgent measures. Sauerkraut and sausages, were his afternoon snack, chased down with cabbage, broccoli and broad bean soup, just the thing to keep the cold at bay and boost gas production.
Mr Farty Pants stripped off naked. What a truly horrible sight it was. Perry let out a whimper and put his paws over his eyes.
'Less resistance,' he said to Perry as the cabbage kicked in.
Perry was blasted against the wall by the shockwave.
Tink!
Farty hit the top of the tank and sat pinned there for a full ten seconds by the sheer force of the fart. There was a creaking of rollers as the giant reservoir filled and lifted upwards until...
Clink!
It was full. Farty's megafart tailed off and he descended slowly back to ground level.
Perry barked at him to remind him to put his clothes back on.
'Oh that was good,' said Farty to himself, 'Best fart ever. I am on good form.'
Chapter 21
'Perry,' said Mr Farty Pants, as he buttoned up his bright red and green shirt, 'Let's go for a walk in the park and have tea and scones by the lake.'
Outside, it was freezing. Cold and damp had turned to flurries of snow chasing autumn leaves about in the wind. Farty and Perry tootled off in the direction of the park, enjoying being out in the fresh air.
They weren't alone, an official looking man, wearing shiny black shoes and with a distinct and menacing bulge in his leather jacket, tailed close behind them,
He was the taxman from Kyoto; his weapon a fartometer, a super sensitive sniffer, primed and ready to catch a whiff of something horrible. Every fart that escaped into the atmosphere was logged, a sample taken and sent for laboratory analysis then Mr Farty taxed according to his carbon footprint, which was a whole lot bigger than the footprints that him and Perry were leaving in the snow, which was falling heavily now and beginning to settle.
Farty was still fill of beans and broccoli and could feel a big fart coming. Since starting The Gas Works he had built up production and there was a big bubble forming inside him, wanting out. He could sense the keen eyes of the taxman on him and held on as long as he could, then slowed up and let the man and his meter come close behind him.
Then he let rip, a well-aimed fart that sent the taxman and his precious meter summersaulting down the footpath and over a hedge.
'Run,' shouted Farty, and him and Perry, waddled off at full speed. Seeing Kyoto Man picking himself up, they jumped on a passing bus.
Farty tried to avoid public transport but this was an emergency. Him and Perry squeezed up the stairs and found an empty seat. The bus juddered up the road to the next stop where about a zillion noisy school kids clambered aboard; filling the bus up until it was choca-block full. Just as the last one climbed aboard, Kyoto Man caught up and squished is way in, his meter going crazy with all the fart gas. He pushed his way up the stairs, he had his quarry trapped. It was payday.
The bus swerved back out into the traffic, then stopped, hemmed in on all sides by taxis and other buses, the snow had bought the London traffic to a standstill.
Farty hated kids, they were noisy and smelly; very noisy and very smelly. To someone with a sensitive nose like him, it was torture being on the bus. In the mirror he caught a glimpse of the taxman climbing over the sea of green tartan uniforms to get his meter within range.
Mr Farty was on empty, nothing to worry about. He caught the Kyoto Man's eye in the mirror and smirked at him, they would be in the park soon, and the brisk breeze would waft his farts up and away, no risk of detection.
But nothing happened. The bus stayed still, large snowflakes drifting down and building up on the blocked traffic. The air was thick with noise and kiddy smells. It was unbearable. Farty tried to get up, but he wasn't the most agile and with the crush of people aboard the bus, he couldn't move. He plonked himself back down in his seat and breathed heavily, thinking Zen and trying to relax.
Pressure was building up inside him and he started to swell. He breathed deeply and wriggled and jiggled trying not to fart. Then it got easier, he was past the worst of it, he would be okay now. He just hoped the bus would move soon, because it would be fartronic when it came.
But the bus just sat there, the snow slowly drifting down all around. Pressure was building. Farty was going to blow any minute. He hoped Kyoto had his gauge ready!
Buttons started to pop on Farty's shirt. Perry whimpered at his feet.
Farty punched out a window. Kids screamed as an icy blast of wind sent a flurry of snow into the bus.
But it was too late....
Ka-Boooooooom!
Farty blew. As always, being at the epicentre of destruction, him and Perry were okay, but kids, bus, and nearby buildings were blasted away in the explosion.
'Well that's better,' said Farty, picking himself off the ground as wreckage rained down around him, 'I hate kids.'
Chapter 22
Some people do like kids, especially their own. They kicked up a fuss. A lynch mob descended on The Gas Works wearing gas masks and armed with axes and baseball bats.
Farty popped a few Falloons out the door and the riot squad turned up and started firing Skunk cartridges hoping the break up the angry mob. But they had gas masks, were angry and w
ell organised. Farty barricaded himself in and quickly scoffed down beans and chili con carne; he needed some farts with a bit of wind power.
Loud hammering came from the door, then there was a squeal of tyres and the door was ripped off its hinges by a commandeered tow truck. Farty turned his back on them, dropped his trousers and let rip. With the bean and chilly power, he unleashed a hurricane on them, blasting his attackers and sending them flying over rooftops. It only bought him a few moments of peace, soon masked vigilantes stormed in.
It's moments like these I could really do with a cigarette, thought Farty as the mob closed in on him from all sides. He plucked the ciggy from above his ear, and flicked his lighter....
Ka-booomm!
The gas works blew, decimating an entire suburb. The scenes of destruction made The Blitz look tame. It was a good time to make oneself scarce. Grabbing Perry by the collar, Farty shot off into the stratosphere.
Chapter 23
A borough of London had been destroyed and entire families lost. Wars had been started over less, someone had to pay.
Farty might have disappeared but he had to be brought to justice, he had to pay.
He was tracked down by satellite fart detecting imagery and the SAS were sent to bring him in to stand trial in the Old Bailey.
Not everyone agreed.
Not fair, let him go claimed The Farty Party, soon to become known as the Farties, Farty had acted in self-defense. It was Kyoto Man's fault for victimising Farty, harassing him in the pursuit of a few carbon foot print tax dollars. Everyone farts, even the Queen, why pick on poor Farty?
Frat shouted the graffiti on the Old Bailey.
'Frat,' said the Queen in her plummy voice, as she was driven by in her Bentley. 'Don't they mean fart?'
'No ma lady,' said her chauffeur. 'Frat is the word for a sneaky fart that no one hears, silent but deadly. It's the Farty Party's campaign. Anyone that they think is hypocritical they call a frat. They've started a campaign, Fart in support of Farty, fart and be proud of it.
Faaaaaart
A loud fart came from the back of the car.
Frat appeared scrawled across bridges, subway walls and politicians houses. After having Frat written on his fence, the speaker on the house made a special appearance on tele. For a politician, he didn't have much to say, he just said, 'I am not a frat,' and farted, a long, loud drawn out, chili con carne fart.
The Farties gave away whoopee cushions with FARTY written on them. No one dared sit down without looking; you never knew what farty, pooey sound you might make.
The anti fart lobby were silent and serious, the word frat fitted them perfectly. They wanted Farty to be hung, drawn and quartered for his heinous crimes. It might not have been a bad thing, but in a world that needed wheel chair access to every stairway they were scoffed at. Yes, everyone had a right to fart, even if it did destroy entire suburbs.
The nation was divided. One side said, Farty Pants can stay; the other, Farty must pay.
People whose lives had been affected by Mr Farty Pants came out of the woodwork; some had lost children, others their mum or dad. Some had suffered a gas attack and others had been bullied by him at school. One claimed that Farty was a secret assassin working for the Government and had killed his sister with a particularly nasty fart. None of them were happy. They demanded that he be sent to the Tower of London before something even worse happened.
When the day of the trial arrived, Farty was placed in a bomb proof, air conditioned and fully ventilated box with Danger No Smoking written in huge red letters across the glass. The crowd threw eggs and rocks at it.
Farty sat inside doing the cryptic crossword, Perry snoozing at his feet
Tap, tap, tap.
'Order in the court,' ordered the judge, frapping his hammer loudly.
The jury sat through weeks of witnesses describing horrible scenes of death and destruction while Farty, wearing an outrageous multicolour suit, sat in his box and snarled impatiently. No one came to his defence, no one had a good word to say about him. Even his old girlfriend stood in the dock and described his Dutch oven attack.
The jury took about twenty minutes to reach a verdict, just long enough to have a cup of tea and a scone.
Farty was guilty.
Chapter 24
Farty was exiled to a rough concrete underground bunker on a small atoll in the North Pacific that had been abandoned since it had been used for nuclear testing after World War ll. All fart gas was captured and pumped deep into the shattered ground.
It was bleak in the bunker; he couldn't even pick up the football on tele.
Farty lost his motivation, his purpose. There were no people. He was monitored by CCTV which was broadcast live on the web. The public watched as he ate spam and tinned broccoli and got fatter and fatter.
A doctor was sent to visit him.
'You must go on a diet or you will die,' he told Farty.
'Ha,' scoffed Fartypants, 'I'll eat myself to death!'
Then he made a vow that hit the headlines around the world. 'I'm not going to fart, ever again,' he declared and superglued a cork in his bottom.
He ate prunes and anchovies and kippers and beans, lots of beans, baked beans, black beans, brown beans, hot beans and Mexican jumping beans; yogurt and cheese and dumplings; roast lamb and Yorkshire puds with lashings of gravy and artichokes on the side. All washed down with gallons of Guinness.
He was big to start with but swelled and swelled, and grew and grew and grew. No clothes were big enough to fit him so he painted them on instead, red and green and black stripes. Then he grew some more.
'I could just do a little fart,' he said to Perry
Perry looked at him and whimpered.
Ka Booooooooom!
With a big bang that echoed across the universe and back off the end of time, Farty exploded; a huge fartronic explosion that destroyed planet Earth.
Once the dust has cleared some friendly aliens came poodling along in their flying saucer. They drove around in circles looking for Earth, checked and double checked their navigation computer, then opened the hatch and climbed out into space.
The both grabbed their noses at the same time
In funny, I've-got-a-clothes-peg-on-my-nose voices, they both shouted.
'Fong-O'
The End
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Mr Farty Pants Page 4