In the mid-80's, my new bride and I were among thousands of West Virginians who migrated to North Carolina for real work. I told my wife that because of the distance and expense, I could only bring her back to West Virginia once a month. She informed me twice a year would suit her fine.
As it turned out, within weeks of our move she was demanding to go home every weekend. She did not drive interstates then, so when I got home from my third shift job at eight in that Friday morning, instead of getting out of the car to go to my wonderful bed, the house door opened and my wife would come out with her bags and I would then drive the 500-mile trip. On the following Sunday afternoon, I would drive back to North Carolina, drop my wife off at the house, and then continue to my job. You can tell from this I really loved her.
Thankfully, over time, she started driving the interstates and I could sleep in the back of the car. On this fateful day, my sister-in-law, who was staying with us for a couple of weeks, was with us for her return trip. So as we started off that morning, I crawled into the back seat and drifted off to sleep. The next thing I knew there was a stinging on my face, and I could hear loud, vociferous yelling in the front seat. The sting had been caused by a cassette tape that had been thrown at me, and as I was becoming more awake, I was starting to comprehend that I was being yelled at for farting in my sleep.
I do not purposely fart around folks nor desire for folks to smell my gas. However, a fart might escape while I sleep after working a third shift, the proceeds from which were making it possible for my wife to see her folks on a weekly basis. The continued onslaught of verbal abuse made me boil.
I resolved that on the way back, they were going to get some real odor.
While at my folks' house, I went to work at formulating my revenge. First I bought a small tub of coleslaw; from experience, that stuff really makes me gas. Then I mixed in some Durkee burrito seasoning. One thing I had noticed about Durkee burrito seasoning was after I ingest some, I can still smell it in my gas and in my stool. Last but not least, I re-hydrated some minced onions. Re-hydrated minced onions not only induce copious farts, but enable them to have a staying power of odiferous density, kind of like an air biscuit.
I mixed together this horrid-tasting mélange. Then I put it in the windowsill in the warm sun to ferment. I could not but help to rub my hands together and cackle at my impending and devious revenge. About five minutes prior to departure for North Carolina, I slunk away and began to eat my chemical weapon. It did not taste good, but my obsession to give it to them (my sister-in-law was coming on the return trip) gave me the strength to consume it. I got all of it down and even licked the tub. We all got in the car and I laid down in the back seat and waited for the goop to take effect.
While laying in the backseat, my guts started rumbling and the pressure started to build. The girls up front were listing to the tape player and couldn't hear my guts for a while. But it started getting louder and a couple of times they turned the radio down, thinking the engine was making some weird noise.
This was the hardest instance of self-control I ever pulled off in my life. I had a deep-seated pain and ache on my sphincter. My intestines were inflated like a zeppelin. Only when I made it to the Virginia line did I decide to finally let loose. Finally, my revenge! Take that, you self-absorbed bitches!
I nearly had an orgasm when I finally let go, it felt so good. It was the loudest, densest fart I had EVER delivered. It burned when it rolled out. The fart lasted so long it actually tickled my asshole. Then another and another and the shrieking in the front seat became panic. The stench of the farts made ME queasy -- dense, oily, and caustic. My wife pulled to the side of the interstate and both front doors opened and my wife and sister-in-law started vomiting in unison. I was in that ecstasy of having produced a worthy revenge. The sound of the remains of their Roy Rogers sandwiches smacking the pavement was bliss. While they were retching, I felt another blockbuster in my entrails and let it fly, my icing on the cake.
It turned out to be icing, all right -- hot fecal icing. An uncontrollable stream of lava started exiting my ass at muzzle velocity. I got out of the back seat and ran up the hill next to the road behind some trees. I flung off my shit-coated pants and sat over a log while the rest of that fetid cataract of filth rushed out of my inflamed colon in spurts. My asshole and liquid poo was so hot, I'm surprised I didn't start a forest fire.
Between spurts I could hear my wife and sister-in-law alternatively puking and cursing. Then I could see, in the near twilight through the trees, a strobing blue light. The Virginia State Patrol had arrived on the scene. Instantly I could hear my wife screaming at the cop how I had made them all sick, nearly causing a wreck and endangering them and other motorists. The trooper remarked about the foul stench that still hung in the air. My sister-in-law lied to the trooper and told him I fled the scene and went up that-a-way, pointing in my direction.
Oh, what had I got myself into? I was so weak from shitting that miasma that I could not get up from that log. And even if I could, I was wearing no pants. What a way to encounter a Virginia State Trooper. I saw a flashlight beam heading my way. Then it stopped and I heard the cop cursing. Apparently, he stepped in some of my biology.
Virginia State Troopers are legend for their officiousness and lack of humor. This was not going to be good. I don't know why, but when he came up to me I put my hands up. Then the trooper laughed like hell. He asked for my I.D. and I pointed to my discarded shit-covered pants steaming in a pile. He said my car registration would do. He also offered all of us medical help, which we refused. The trooper returned to his cruiser and drove off to tell the story of the year to the barracks.
I got up, wiped my ass and legs with my t-shirt, and put my windbreaker on like pants. I had to throw away my socks and sneakers because the shit had run down and covered them both. My shit had been so liquid that my driver's license, credit cards and cash were covered in shit. It's interesting walking about in the outside world wearing only a windbreaker around your mid-region.
We got in the car and drove to the nearest town with our heads out of the window, where, at the cost of a couple hundred of caca-smelling dollars, my wife and sister-in-law rented a car in Wytheville and went back to North Carolina on their own. I had to buy my wife her own car because the smell in my own did not leave for days and she refused to ride in it.
We divorced later, and this incident was in her divorce complaint. Now and then I will see her in the grocery store and I'll hide behind something and make fart noises.
