The Tell-Tale Fart

The Tell-Tale Fart

         ASHAMED! NERVOUS! I’m not so much nervous as I am ashamed. You will say I am mad, or sick, or demented. But I am not. Listen to my tale of woe and embarrassment, then tell me I am mad. Would a madman make such an elaborate plan such as I have? I think not! But I digress.

         It was the weekend before July 4th, 2006, and I was at my best friend’s house when the idea struck me. They had told me they would be going out to get some food, so they wouldn’t be home in the morning on the 4th of July. Now, my friends had never wronged me; never stole from me, or called me names. In fact, they had always treated me kindly—even giving me a key to their house to come and go as I please. But it was his wife’s cooking that bothered me. She was the best damn cook ever, and I simply could not stand it. So I took it upon myself to make right certain inequities. I never let them on to my nefarious scheme: I treated them with utmost kindness and respect in the days preceding the crime. You may think me mad, but listen to how I committed the deed:

         It was the morning of July 4th. I awoke at the crack of dawn, before the sun could shed light on the land. I crept softly, oh so softly, from my room to my shed to get my bicycle. See, they would hear my car, so I would use my bicycle to remain silent and unseen. I brought along the key to their house and my penlight, and proceeded to ride the six miles to their house. I wore black clothing and used electric tape to cover the reflectors on my bike. I arrived just as the sky was beginning to brighten.

         I hid in the bushes beside their house, waiting in silence for their garage door to open. Within minutes, I was rewarded with my vigilance: their silver BMW M3 glided out of the garage and accelerated off to the grocery store. The garage door descended behind them, but that was alright; I didn’t expect to get in that way, anyway.

         I kept to the bushes as I crept around back. I surreptitiously approached the back door and used my key to unlock the bolt. I did so very carefully. First, I slowly opened the storm door and used my back to hold it open. Then, crouched on the ground, I slowly slid my key deep into the slot, keeping my hand tight on the knob. Once it was in to the hilt, I slowly rotated my wrist, listening for the sound of the bolt sliding back. I could barely detect any sound at all. Finally, I slowly turned the knob, pulling back on the door to keep it from opening to fast.

         I then opened the door slightly, oh so slightly; just enough to admit my head. Then I slowly thrust my head through the opening, and, seeing how nobody was there, eased the rest of my body through the crack and entered their den. I crept forward, using my little penlight as a lantern to find my way to the kitchen. Ah, there it was: the baked beans! I checked my watch and noticed that I had taken too much time already. Now that I was in, I strode boldly forward into the kitchen and to the counter whereon the beans lay. I paused and beheld the villainous dish.

         It was then I heard a noise upstairs. Blast! My friend had anticipated my actions and left his wife here to protect the beans! Flustered, I inadvertently dropped my penlight into the beans. Crap! I panicked. Looking around for something to scoop it out with, I found nothing, so I ate the dish, all of it, finally uncovering my light at the bottom. Licking the sauce from the shaft of the light, I realized I had to conceal the evidence. I shoved my penlight into my pocket and grabbed the bowl. I quickly retreated to their backyard, where I shut the door and relocked it, grabbing my key as I did so. But what was I to do with the bowl? I couldn’t take it home; they would suspect something. This was my masterstroke: I used the garden hose to fill the dish with water, then I dumped the bowl and its contents into the same bushes I had previously hid in. It was perfectly clean; pristine even. I set the bowl down on the picnic table out back, where it would be this afternoon. I stole back through the bushes to my bike, and pedaled away fast before my friend returned home. Haha! I had done it! Or so I thought…

1 hour later:

         I arrived at the party to find everything in order. Ah, the accursed woman! No mention was made of the missing beans. It started to rain, so we moved the party indoors, gathering in the dining room and breaking out the playing cards. Still no mention of the beans. I began to worry. My stomach began to twist and grumble, becoming louder and louder. The incessant rumbling of my stomach was going to give me away. Surely they could hear it by now! But I kept laughing at the jokes everyone around me was making. Surely they could smell my nervousness. I began to sweat, and felt like moaning softly to myself, but I didn’t dare. Somebody said, “Thank God nobody ate any beans this year, since we’re indoors ’n’ all!” This prompted an explosion of laughter from the many guests. The hostess was laughing too.

         “I don’t know what happened to it,” she said. “This morning when we left, it was there, and then it wasn’t. I must have dreamt I made it.” I was sweating now. The turmoil in my stomach was unbearable. There was a moment of silence as people pondered privately about the culprit, and it was then that I lost it.

         “VILLIANS!” I shouted, and released the pent-up pressure within me in an earth-shaking fart. My flatulence hung in the air, highlighting me like a convict in a spotlight. The table was silent, my outburst drawing every eye to me. I looked around and tried to ignore the accusing glares, but then I farted again. My face reddened, and I looked sheepishly at my hostess. She was livid.

         “Did you eat my beans?” she whispered, almost inaudibly. There was murmuring around the table. When a woman shouts, she can be placated; when she lowers her voice to barely inaudibly, one can kiss one’s arse goodbye. I silently shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. Then, from under my seat, came yet another unmistakable fart. By this time, the smell could be discerned from the surrounding air. People made a beeline for the door, realizing the rain is better tolerated than the smell. Throughout this mass exodus, she and I sat frozen in our seats. If looks could kill, she would have vaporized me. I released one more tiny bweeeeeeeeep! and she lost herself. I barely made it out of the house alive. From that point on, I have never been trusted by my friend and his wife. They took my key, and installed a security camera in the kitchen. I am disgraced—beaten by my villainous derriere.