After that the school took gas attacks seriously. They did mind if kids got blasted about the playground and gassed, even if they did deserve it. Every student in Farty's class had a gas mask strapped to the bottom of his or her desk
They did a drill. On the shout Gas Attack everyone stopped breathing, grabbed their gas mask and evacuated the classroom. For added realism, Farty eased off the seal on his farty pants and let rip. The clowns at the back who hadn't been talking it seriously went a funny green colour and their hair fell out, never to grow back. After that, everyone treated Farty with a respect, and the class could evacuate the room faster than you could say Kcatta Sag, which is gas attack backwards.
Farty went through school living an almost normal life. The other kids treated him with the reverence which is normally reserved for a dangerous creature, like a skunk. Unfortunately, when it comes to young boys this often means often means poking it with a stick, just to see what happens.
Farty pushed and poked back but when it became too much he would open his bypass valve and shoot away, leaving his tormentors gasping for breath in a greeny cloud of fart gas. He liked to see them suffer.
Farty enjoyed school. As he grew older he went from bullied to bully. He went from escaping from the bullies with a quick burst of fart gas to pursuing them. His most feared move was The Straddle where he pinned his victim to the ground straddling them, then farted in their face. Once he had his victim in his sights, there was no escaping his attack. He pounced on even the fastest runner with a couple of quick bursts of jet propulsion. Clumsy but effective.
Seeing that Farty had a mean streak in him, the headmaster called in the councillors.
'There ain't much we can do with dat lad,' said the psychotherapist. 'He's one of dem ones with an evil streak in 'im. Keep an eye on 'im'
Chapter 8
He loved watching rugby but never thought he would get a chance to play. He was too fat and slow. His chance came up in the final of the inter-school competition, after a nasty bug had put half of the team off with the runs.
Farty had second thoughts and had to be dragged screaming and kicking onto the rugby pitch. Being big, he was placed in the forwards, playing as lock, locked right in the middle of the scrum. He wasn't very quick and it was hard to run in his farty pants. They were heavy and with the hermetic seals were super tight and chaffed on his thighs. He went red in the face as he puffed and panted his way around the field chasing the ball. He got poked and pushed and shoved and punched and not just by the other team either.
At half time, he whipped off his farty pants, so he could move a bit better. He had never done much sport and now was his chance. He wanted to shine.
And shine he did, in his own funny way.
He was passed the ball right down by his own goal line. Being clumsy and cack-handed, he knocked it forward and a scrum was awarded to the other team.
The scrum went down and Farty strained his hardest to hold back the weight of the other team as it tried to push his team back across the line.
He had never strained so hard in his life. He slipped backwards then gained a toehold in the soft mud. This was his chance; he didn't want the other team to score because of his mistake. He gave it his everything. He let rip.
Ffffffaaaaaaaaart!
The scrum exploded sending players flying in all directions. Some flew into the crowd, others landed in trees or draped over the posts.
In the ensuing mayhem, Farty grabbed the ball, tucked it under his arm and, aided by a bit of jet propulsion, trotted off up the field, scoring between the posts.
The other team's coach protested but Farty's points stayed on the board. There's nothing in the rules that say no farting!
Chapter 9
Farty had always liked music. He didn't pretend to have any sense of timing and was a bit tone deaf but he liked music. It took him a year or so, but he finally got up courage to join the orchestra.
'What instrument do you play?' asked Mr Smeadley, the music teacher.
'Um, er,' stammered Farty. 'I play the trumpet.'
'Well let's hear you play,' said Mr Smeadley, then when Farty, did nothing, like didn't magically produce a trumpet from up his jumper or something, he added impatiently, 'Come on lad, are you going to play or not?'
Farty just stood there not knowing quite what to say or do.
Then his tummy gurgled.
'What was that lad?' demanded Smeadley.
Pla-pla-pla-plaaa pla-pla-pla-plaaa pla-pla-pla-plaaa Pla-pla-pla-plaaa pla-pla-pla-plaaa...
Farty trumpeted out When the Saints come marching home. It came out perfect. Smeadley looked at him in disbelief then ran from the room holding his nose.
Farty went out to find him and apologise. 'I'm so sorry sir. I didn't mean to fart.'
'You are amazingly talented,' said Smeadley. 'It's a bit of an unconventional instrument but truly amazing. I can't have you play in the orchestra. I'd love to, but unfortunately it is an indoor activity and you might just gas us out. Would you be happy playing in the brass band? They play outdoors'
'Love to,' said Farty. 'Thanks, sir.'
And he did. Normally the trumpeters played at the front but Farty played at the back behind the drummers, sort of a rear guard action. It just seemed to work best that way, like a bit of a sting in the tail to remember them by. If they had a following breeze Farty would go at the front. He loved it, especially the solos, and went from strength to strength. They won the local competition and were on tele, and then they got famous and got to do a novelty piece with the London Philharmonic Orchestra at the night of the proms.
Chapter 10
Then at the age of fifteen, disaster struck. Not at school but at home.
One of Eugene's friends, Gonzales the Mexican guitarist, cooked up chili con carne for the whole house. Everyone started farting, big time. It was funny, everyone laughed and joked and tried to outdo each other with the loudest and most deadly fart.
'What about you, Farty,' asked Eugene. 'Do you have anything to offer?'
''Well yes,' said Farty. 'But I'm trying to be good.'
'Oh, come on then, let it out boy,' encouraged Eugene. 'Show us what you are made of.'
Everyone started clapping in time and chanting, 'Farty, Farty, Farty, Farty.'
Gonzales, the Mexican picked up his guitar and plucked at the strings.
Oh, Farty, Farty Pants,
Farty, oh Farty Pants,
Farty do your thing, do your thing,
Farty make our ears ring.
Farty could feel it coming, his first fartronic explosion ever. He scrunched up his face and curled his toes trying to hold it in, but there was no stopping those gassy Mexican beans. Pressure built up and up. He swelled up like a big pink turnip and still the crowd egged him on.
'Farty, Farty, Faaaaaarty,' chanted everyone, clapping faster and faster.
Farty do your thing, Farty make our ears ring.
Finally he reached bursting point; there was no holding it in any longer.
Boooompha!
The explosion blew out his farty pants and blasted the house to smithereens. Being at the epicentre of the destruction, Farty was okay, just a few bruises and a slightly singed ego but as for everyone else, it was adios amigos.
Farty was a bit sad but revelled in the destruction he had caused.
Just one small fart, he thought, I'm going to do great things.
Chapter 11
More than anything Farty wanted to have a girlfriend; someone to hang out with. For some odd reason he never got past the starting post. They always scurried away holding their noses saying, 'Fong-oh.'
Then Bob Bugerboy came to his rescue. Bob had had a little problem since birth. He farted all the time, not funny trumpeting farts but deadly silent ones that were guaranteed to put the damper on any date.
Luckily, Bob was brilliant and had developed a special fart proof fabric that killed the sound and purified the air.
It revolutionised his li
fe and now he wanted to get rich. He needed Farty to sell then to the world. If they worked for Farty, they would work for anyone.
He gave Farty a wardrobe of clothes made in the heavy dark brown fabric. There was a suit with matching shirt and tie, underpants, socks, a jacket and jeans.
Farty threw his old farty pants in the corner of the wardrobe and strutted about in his new brown jeans. He went out clubbing and hung about in seedy bars.
He met Ingrid at the local pub and they became good friends.
He started dreaming of having a family and even bought a diamond ring, not that he could get up courage to propose to her.
But then his nasty side got the better him. He went to bed without his fart-proof boxers. He pulled the covers up over their heads and let rip.
'Dutch oven!' he yelled with glee.
Ingrid held her breath, punched and kicked him, wriggled out the toe end of the bed and dived out the window.
She landed in the bushes below in a shower of glass, picked herself up and started running. The house exploded behind her, knocking her off her feet.
'Now that's a Dutch oven!' she exclaimed, as she picked herself up again and fled, bits of burning wreckage smashing down around her.
Chapter 12
Then Farty met his match.
Perry the dog was big, black and hairy. He was Basildon Bob's dog but had been thrown out for his devastating farts. He would lie on the shag pile in front of the couch, like a big, shaggy rug. Then he would fart, silent but deadly ones that filled the room with stink gas within a nano-second. He would look round in surprise at Bob, as if to blame him, then slink off outside.
Bob had had enough and had been looking far and wide for a new home for Perry.
He was taken in my several homes but for some odd reason, each time he was given back.
When Farty saw Perry tied up outside the market with a cardboard sign tied around his neck, Home needed for Flatulent Mutt, he knew they were going to be a perfect match.
They sat in front of the tele, Farty trumpeting away and Perry doing his sneaky little offerings, then both looked at each other accusingly, blaming the other.
Chapter 13
Farty took up smoking, not a good idea. He should have been like one of those bulk gas carriers with No Smoking written in ten foot high letters across the superstructure. But no, no one warned him. The packets say, Smoking kills, your teeth will rot and fall out and you will die a slow and painful death from cancer. Mr Farty Pants’ packet should have said, Whatever you do, don't light the match!
Farty liked to sit on the toilet in the morning and contemplate. To think about what he would do that day. What nasty, evil deeds he could get up to, if he dared. Every day, he got up early, collected the newspaper from the floor by the front door and sat on the toilet, his boxers around his ankles, hidden behind his newspaper, contemplating. Farting is okay on the toilet, so Farty did long, protracted, trumpeting farts that left him hovering a foot above the seat.
This morning Farty was feeling particularly happy and sang along to his trumpeting.
Trumpet, trumpet...
I've got a ticket to the moon
I'll be leaving here real soon
Yeah, I've got a ticket to the moon
I'll be rising high above the Earth so soon...
Trumpet, trumpet...
Then he took the cigarette from behind his ear, took out his lighter and......
Boomptha!
The toilet exploded and Farty shot out through the roof like a human canon ball. The G-forces forced out more fart gas and he fired off up into the sky like a rocket running its after burners. One last little fluff sent him out of the atmosphere and careening across space, splat into the moon which had been lurking overhead.
Farty picked himself up. Forgetting his boxer shorts were still around his ankles, he went to take a step and fell flat on his face. He picked himself up again, pulled up the smoking remains of his boxers, dusted himself off and looked around.
One day, thought Farty looking at the Earth floating heavily above the lunar horizon like a great big swirly thing, One day, I'm going to do the ultimate fart and blow you out of orbit.
He did a little fart, blasting out a little crater in the pristine lunar surface and sending him summersaulting through the thin atmosphere. He landed on his feet and did another fart, a slightly bigger fart, blowing out crater number two.
He spent all day amusing himself making craters then sat down in a toilet shaped crater and looking up at Earth, he took the cigarette from above his other ear and flicked his lighter.
Bam!
Back on Earth, standing amongst the still smouldering wreckage of his house, Farty looked up at his handy work. Yes, the moon looked much better with craters, it almost looked like there was a man in the moon now!
Chapter 14
Mr Farty Pants didn't have any friends, not anymore, they were either killed in gas attacks, blasted to smithereens by explosive farts or had run away screaming, so he had no one to tell about his little escapade to the moon, no one that is but Perry. Although a little shaken and charred by the exploding toilet, he was still loyal and lay on the floor, farting contentedly. Farty sat on the tattered remains of his old sofa, amongst the charred ruins of his house, his feet up on Perry, telling him all about the moon while keeping half an eye on the footy.
There was a lot of interest in the papers about the moon's new craters. Moon gets craters shouted The Sun and What on Earth is going on? demanded The Times. Was it a meteorite shower or volcanic activity they speculated? No one seemed to know.
Someone did. Maybe Farty's house was bugged or NASA had picked him up with one of their space telescopes
When they came, they didn't even ask, they just took Mr Farty Pants away.
Boob, boob, boob
A big helicopter appeared overhead, a net dropped down and scooped up Farty, Perry, the sofa and the tele and whisked then away. No polite knock on the door, no please, no commandos sliding down ropes or drama, just boob, boob, boob and away.
They were lowered down a long shaft into a secret base deep below the Yorkshire Moors.
I'll blast my way out, thought Farty, maybe a little too loudly.
'Don't even think of it,' said a prickly looking sergeant. 'This bunker is nuclear bomb proof; your poofy little fluffs could even take the paint off the walls.'
FAAAAAaaaaaRT
Farty did the biggest, angriest fart he could muster.
It a) took the paint off the walls b) blasted the sergeant out of the room c) made Perry's hair go curly, and d) set off the gas attack alarm system.
Farty sat on his sofa in the bunker with Perry, watching football and eating junk food.
The military watched and monitored and videoed their every move.
After a month or two, Farty got bored and wondered what they were up to. 'What's goin' on then?' he asked.
The military said nothing; they were researching using him and Perry as a secret weapon, code name FART (Fart Attack Rearguard Tactics) to be dropped behind enemy lines if the nuclear deterrent failed.
Once they finished their tests they boob, boob, boobed him and Perry back to his house, freshly rebuild out of reinforced concrete courtesy of Her Majesty's Government. It had No Smoking written in ten foot high letters across the walls, inside and out, just like a supertanker. Farty liked that.
Chapter 15
He sat on the door step, rolled up a cigarette, and puffed away leisurely while he wondered what to do next. Where could someone of his special skills find work? Demolition maybe.
Pest control, that was it. Farty bought a van and had it painted poo brown with Farty's Fumigation emblazoned across it in vomit green. He made a video of him and Perry doing burn outs in the supermarket car park then edited it so it went backwards and made up a little jingle with him and Perry trumpeting in the background and played it on tele.
Farty, oh Farty Pants, king of the wild frontier
&nbs
p; Farty, oh Farty Pants, king of the wild frontier
Killer of slugs, kill dem bugs
Kill them dead, dem bugs
Farty, oh Farty Pants, king of the wild frontier
His phone ran hot and he hooned around the countryside in his poo brown van, him with his fat arm hanging out the driver's window, Perry with his head out the passenger side, tongue flapping in the breeze. They did pest control and eradication.
He fine-tuned his diet to make his farts more deadly. Him and Perry ate broccoli for breakfast, day old cooked cabbage for lunch and chili con carne for dinner. He tried to make his farts odour-free but it couldn't be done, a fart is not a fart without a certain lingering smell.
Sending chickens flying he slid to a halt in the mud and puddles of a farmer's courtyard.
'Rats, is it?' he asked the farmer.
The farmer didn't say anything, he just nodded his head slightly towards the shed.
'Shut us in then,' said Farty.
The farmer splashed across to the barn and slid open the doors. Farty drove the van in and the doors slammed shut behind him. He opened up the back of the van and dragged his battered sofa out, set up the tele on a hay bale, opened a can of beer and sat down to watch the footy, Perry stretched out at his feet.