My half of another trade w/  siafa. If you enjoyed this story, check out his flashes and stories! They involve similar fetishes.



Huh, wow. How many days had it been since the poison dragon Fowg challenged the poison dragon Sini for the title of Most Gaseous, Most Noxious, Most Nauseating Dragon? After their standoff, days had come and gone like the roast turkeys, spiralled hams, aged cheeses, barrels of beer, peach and pear and plum pies that Sini’s worshipers fed him daily and that he scarfed down. This led to glorious belches whose echoes ghosted through the Valley and stunk of decayed venison and sour blackberries, and disastrous hurricanes of poison flatulence, which shook and chafed the insides of Sini’s Lair, and which stunk like superpowered skunk, and which only a few of his worshipers survived as per Survival of the Sinnest. Those who couldn’t handle those toxic ejections from either end of the dragon had long ago been wiped into history… Ah, history—right—how many days ago was it? With how vilely Sini’s gas evolved since then, and how purple the miasma of the Valley was now, we’ll say it was a hundred, give or take.

Cuz the faint of heart had already been weeded out (that’s Survival of the Sinnest for ya), the humans who worshiped Sini had eyes and noses fully acclimatized to the Valley’s blinding, asphyxiating fog of poison. And so, even though for you and I this world would appear to be blanketed in the flat color purple of Pre-Apocalypse, the world to these people and the animals that still lived (poisonous, all of them) would appear just a little misted with violet, and that’s about it.

Who could see through the fog better than Fowg? Fowg, whose very body absorbed poison, clearing his surroundings like a lantern in a dark cavern? No one, that’s who. And so, when Sini needed someone to go out into the world, Sini beckoned the lesser poison dragon out of the crowd of his worshipers, and then said to him:

“Fowg! Of course you know of our food shortage that’s been happening. Damn that lazy bitch Mother Nature for not producing food fast enough for me and my followers. Well, at the rate this is going, we’ll all be dead in another good hundred days unless we find another food source. Well, I can suffice without any non-poison to consume, but my worshipers can’t. And life’s pretty sad without people to feed you and flatter you, am I right? Or am I right?”

“Aye,” Fowg said, with the seriousness of oblivion; “what do you want me to do?”

“I,” Sini said, “know you’ve got the best eyes out of anyone. It’d be awesome if you went out on a scavenger hunt and used those eyes, found us some food, naddamean? I mean, I would go myself (seeing I can probably see through my own farts and belches better than you). But then I’d have to leave my worshipers all alone. And they don’t have any purpose in life without me. It’d be cruel, you know?”

Now Fowg, as high on Sini’s epidemic of hypnotizing neurotoxins as he was, loved Sini as much as Sini loved turning Fowg’s head into a buttplug and blasting his gases over it. Fowg, still high on some of the poisons from the last time Sini did that, saw no vanity here and thought that indeed very cruel. Who knows how many days the worshipers would go without the opportunity to have their heads wedged up Sini’s ass and deliciously gusted on? Taking one for the team, Fowg agreed to this quest. And so began his second journey.

A slime sensed the Source of Power’s approach. Seven miles away this slime was. According to the slime Amibo’s natural GPS, the Source of Power was headed toward Amibo and would eventually stumble across Amibo. Perfect, for the Source smelled foully of poison, and Amibo knew it to be the catalyst. Soon, Amibo would be free from the Dark Place Below the World, where he and the other Sins had been supposedly damned for eternity! He would say damn the prophecy!

Soon I shall have a good body, and I shall be able to speak because only a thing that can speak can have a high power level as this. Amibo thought this, but not with language, for he had none.

Fowg headed northwest. Lots of toxic plants and beasts he ate. His poison belly broke them down into enough toxic gas to fumigate an inn. Low that gut swooped, lower than his knees, and as he walked his heavy pouch of stomach juices and gases swung encumbered. The knotted tubes of his intestines bloated and grossly bugled. How they begged for him to release a grotesque tune! Sometime soon. But Fowg was no dumbass, nor was he an ass, so he thought releasing his flatus right here and now would be downright unthoughtful. For one, Sini had warned him of Regional Purpling oh so many times to get it into his head the animals and plants of the Valley could only adapt to so much toxic haze before they keeled over and died. That’s why he and Sini had tried to release their farts inside the well-insulated Lair and underground tunnels much as possible. Liberating his bowels of a gargantuan fart here and now would surely spike the 75.5% poison concentration of the atmosphere up to 76%, or more. And 90% poison concentration was the No Going Back Zone, which when reached basically heralded Apocalypse. So Fowg waddled faster for the underground, with his haunches squeezed together sort of funny, but he couldn’t hold back a couple of malodorous toots. Fwrwwwwwwwrrfffwfwft. Bwwwrrmmmmmmmpfff. Promptly, he made it to the entrance of a Safe Unloading Zone, a dark and ugly tooth of rock projecting two hundred feet upward. The entrance was two feet wide, two feet tall and above ground, like a glassless window if you will. It appeared to be the perfect size for Fowg to fix his asshole.

You bet his bottom he did. Now that his belly was all full of venomous blackberries the size of cantaloupes, young basilisks and basilisk eggs teeming with venom, sacks full of wedges of cheese from a couple of adventurers, and a couple of bulbous glowing globes that hung off the ends of strange plants and tasted like Jell-O, Fowg felt so bloated. More so than he did when he’d pigged out on the slime in that tavern that one time. His shaky pucker was gonna erupt. When he slammed his ass down on that glassless window, he gave a lewd groan, as though exorcising himself of a sexually peer-pressuring ghost. Cacophonous gases of ghastly smells fussed in his belly, thrashing about in the fat sausages of his intestines—a thrashing that’s sort of like what that doored space between two subway cars does. With the raunchy grumble of gas his tailhole swelled to the size of a caravan wheel with its flesh still pinched shut. And those ass lips spread to seal the glassless window completely and bond Fowg with the ugly tooth of rock. Then:

FWWWRRRRRRRRRRRRMRMMMMP!

BWOOOOOOOMMMMMRRRRRAAAP!

RRROOOOUULLLLLMMMMUMMAAAPTPTPT!

Fowg cried out on that one.

FWFPWPWPTT. PTWPWPTPTP! PHPWP BWWRRRMP!

Ghoulish flatulence floods swamped the gates of Unholy Hell itself, illuminating the dark, twisting chasms with a harsh green radiation. It seethed. It effervesced. A skyscraping condominium’s worth of gas pervaded and stunk through the Unholy Hell known also as The Dark Place Below the World, which didn’t have as much space as a skyscraping condominium, and so all of the residents would know the gas’ wrath.

There were three residents in all. The first of them was Slothful Snake. Slothful Snake was a poison beast who liked inhaling the poisons of Regional Purpling. But he had stayed away from the glassless window, the only place he could breathe in the Purpling, cuz going up there was pretty taxing and taxing himself would kill Slothful Snake. Well, the sea of Fowg’s flatulent ass gases surged over the snake now. And at first he was overwhelmed and very happy indeed. And he inhaled and inhaled. And he supped on all the fumes he had worked very little for. But by and by, Slothful Snake’s coils straightened and expanded into a big scaly sausage, blimping up until every scale was ten times bigger than normal. And Slothful Snake panted and knew he had been given too much work, and consequently, he keeled over and died.

The second of these residents was Envious Elephant. Envious Elephant was a poison beast who had enjoyed going outside and smelling the poisons and belching from his elephant trunk until he realized Regional Purpling had been caused by the farts and belches of a dragon called Sini. So upset about the damn thing, Envious Elephant banished himself to Unholy Hell for eternity so that he’d never have to be reminded there were beasts out there who could make poison gases smellier than his. Mind you, Envious Elephant still liked poisons. So when Fowg’s ass-gales blitzed over him and he stumbled backward, the elephant shouted out, “Ah, joy! All of this! It shall belong to noone but me!” and let his trunk trumpet up and inhale as much as it could. The stench of festering berries and old cheeses and decaying reptiles filled his trunk-strils, and so he was very happy for a while. Then the Truth of the smell bitchslapped him.

Alas! This is flatulence! Flatulence comes from others! If others have so much that they can just give it up like this, surely they have much more than I ever shall have. Ah! No! I am the loser!

When his belly bloated too big with the Truth fumes, perhaps the stink killed him, but more likely Truth clashing with Envy did. He croaked. His body hitting the floor caused a lengthy quake.

The third of these residents you have already met. No, not Fowg—Amibo! Amibo was more than an amoeba, as you may have hastily guessed, given our alliteration game so far. Amibo had a common ancestry with the Slime Mother, who had blessed Fowg and Sini with the amount of toxic gas they had today. But if you called Amibo “Slime Father,” he would get very angry and ding you for false dichotomy. Now, Amibo the purple slime shaped like a gelatin cake had the size of a wee child. But soon, he would have the size of a big adult slime.

My GPS rang true, Amibo would have exclaimed, if only he had some language lessons. Spewing forth from the glassless window to the Upper World came tides of toxic miasmas. Like a hammer they sledged him, so hard, they dredged the purple out of him, for this sonic boom of rumbling filth immediately assimilated with his body, so much in two seconds that he turned to green. The taste of rotten avocados and bad sewage filled his slime-buds and wracked his body with waves of fermented flatus, fertilizer for him to grow. So in two seconds he wasn’t no wee child no more, but a big adult slime. He rose to the height of a pony-horse. Gluttonous Amibo grew bigger, gassier, and steamier with every second of gas sponging. Who is it with such high power levels? Who speaks so fluently with their poison? Amibo wondered. Needing to know, he braced against the profuse gales of gas and slowly crept through the passageways of Unholy Hell toward the glassless window. Here and there the boisterous fart currents relented. With every windless tranquility, a dragon groaned above Unholy Hell, the sound a little closer every time.

With one of the windless tranquilities Fowg took a good long breather, giving some vacation time to his workaholic butthole. Then Amibo made some serious haste and reached the glassless window. Odd, he thought, for no light shined into the darkness—instead, there was the very butthole he sought in the window, idly fuming and clenching. The pucker definitely looked loose enough to have been responsible for those hordes of gas. The wide fleshy window gave access into the Source of Power itself. Amibo understood that asses usually led to stomachs, which usually birthed farts and belches. Here Amibo brooded for a moment, imagining how much he would evolve when he had all the Source of Power for himself. They would call him the Gassiest Thing Ever to Be, and they could never ever put him back in Unholy Hell, for he would just fart his oppressors to death. Then the Upper Worlders would worship him and bring him birds and rabbits and raccoons and deer and oxen and cows, and he would convert them to slime and slimy toxic gas. And he would grow until he was a great mountain of a hill. That sounded nice.

Thus, he dove into the fleshy window. The owner of the window gave a great hoot of glee muffled by tons of flesh and dense scale. Amibo’s slimy body burrowing through the owner’s asshole loosened the owner up, kind of like a prostate exam. Excited, the owner’s belly got to rumbling and burbling. So before Amibo made it halfway through the meandering anal shaft, the place got pretty lively: the slime could hear the gases partying next-door, and he could smell the smells of gasified beasts and fruits and plants creeping out of next-door. Then the volume got amped up suddenly, something mighty to drown out a steam engine. And just as sudden the owner unleashed half a dragon of weight in gas from his ass; out of his belly rushed a monstrous fart, berating his intestines small and large.

FFRWWWWWOOOOOOOOWWWWRRRRMMMPHHH.

The sound reminded Amibo of Envious Elephant. It sounded like a group of obese baby elephants trumpeting with their trunks. The bass rivaled that of a redwood tree trunk: such a thick bass! The force rivaled that of two rival ram armies ramming horns. The stench rivaled that of seafood two seasons out of the sea.

BRRRMMMMMMMP, BWWRRMMMMMRRMP, BRROOOOOPTPT.

Onslaught after onslaught of toxic nukes, Amibo absorbed every wave. The gas hadn’t anywhere to go but right into the slimy buttplug that was Amibo. The hungry slime swelled and grew. The apex of the owner’s belly shrank, while between the owner’s hindlegs it now bulged abnormally. If Amibo weren’t all compressed within the owner, he’d look as big as half a dragon now. This knowledge didn’t satisfy him, though. Could half a dragon be the gassiest dragon, and keep other dragons from vanquishing him back to Unholy Hell with all certainty?

Knowing the answer, Amibo did not tarry driving his enlarged body through the G.I. tract. With tentacles for fingers, he spread apart the sphincter into the owner’s belly. Then he flooded inside. Slimy tides gushed and crashed into the increasingly small, increasingly distended food pouch. So much gas here had gotten produced; now Amibo happily fed off it, festering into the size of a whole slime dragon. So Fowg, his belly become a perfect sphere and pushed his feet off the ground. The pressure in Fowg’s gut reached a boiling point. Lewdly Fowg bellowed:

“My butthole, my butthole! Whatever force is wreaking havoc in there, please, mercy. I feel I may burst. Relinquish the gases out of my butthole, please. If you don’t, my belly risks being burst. That would likely mean me dead, and the scavenger hunt for food failed. Then Sini and the rest would be sad and impoverished.”

To Fowg’s dismay the butthole-upsetting force did not answer. But his speech gave Amibo food for thought: If the owner bursts, and that means him dead, then no more gas will get produced. That means some of me best start being more considerate. Yes, I should leave his insides. But it would defeat the point if I left the way I came. There must be a way out not leading to Unholy Hell. When I find it, well, I can find the rest of the owner. Then I can feed off his gas through safer means.

Whatever had bloated Fowg’s belly tickled his belly walls, starting to relocate. It churned about, gained friction. It beat faster and faster against the cramped belly walls. The generated heat liquidized it, then gasified it. Fowg typically left belching to Sini, but now he had no choice. A slimy plug on his intestines barred him from relieving his upset stomach via backend, so the only way to go was up. Shooting from his belly to his chest to his craw, up climbed a bulge of gas. His eyes became compatible with pi.

“BelaaAAAAAAAAAAARRRRWWWWWWWRRRRCCCCCCHHH!”

Beasts nearby reckoned Sini had come to town, the belch was so humongous. Prophetic of doomsday. Out of Fowg’s maw poured a ghostly green gale into the Upper World. The gale, Fowg looked upon with eyes of pie size, watching it coagulate into a big, fat dragon-sized blob. It dropped to the ground, smelling of every meal Fowg had stewed away and every fart Fowg had been saving up, for the blob had indeed absorbed them.

When the last of the gale became Amibo, Fowg exclaimed, “How weird, I have to say! Maybe this is why I prefer my backend when it comes to letting out gas; though, I don’t recall ever running into the likes of you. Could you explain yourself, if you don’t mind?” The dragon-sized slime in response opened a mouth as wide as it was tall, but hesitated to speak. Fowg went on: “You don’t have to be shy. I’m not hateful toward slime; you just baffled me some is all. Say what you want to say, big guy.”


The slime didn’t speak. It stretched its mouth even bigger, big enough to vacuum up a dragon, and it did. With an undragonly squeal, Fowg involuntarily dived toward that cavernous maw, with such force, he thought maybe he had accidentally farted. Truth was, the slime’s lungs had only inherited the power of Fowg’s farts. The slime’s slimy jaws stretched with the ease of a rubber band then snapped behind the dragon’s shoulders, causing the dragon’s wings to thrash with grave peril and the slime monster to bubble and steam and eagerly belch on the surface, and eagerly the slime engulfed those leathery wings, devoured that scaly middle, and slurped up that salty tail.

“Mmm! Mmmm!”

Amibo hadn’t yet developed speech. That didn’t mean he didn’t have feelings like the rest of us, though, and he now expressed victory with this unintelligible noise. His prey floated into the center of his bubbling slime belly, screaming and twisting, but restrained and suspended in the gel abyss. How humiliating, the stagnancy… How awful to be eaten by a primitive blob, the dragon must have thought. How wonderful to sap energy from that dragon with spongy, slimy enzymes starting to placate the dragon already. Along with that energy, the dragon expelled squeaky farts of fear, sweated DNA, and squealed Common words. All of these, Amibo absorbed into his blob body. And after sponging up enough of the poison dragon’s words, the slime monster formed out of that blob body a large webby dragon snout and said, “Haha, nice! I can speak! Thanks!”

He taunted Fowg with a new skill:

“HRRRRRRRRRRRRRRUUUUOOOOAAARRRRRP!”

A loud, toxic dragon belch. Stink roared from the slime blob’s dragon muzzle. The humiliation had reached a whole new level, and dropped a heavy anchor on Fowg’s heart. The poison dragon squirmed and begged and flappy-flapped, but Amibo would hear none of it. The poison dragon was his core now. The poison dragon’s exertions only bled more of the poison dragon into Amibo until the bubble body with a dragon’s snout caved in on itself, then exploded into a metamorphic tantrum.

Shapeshifting began. Out of the bubbled body’s “posterior” sprouted a wiggly stump, which Amibo whined and grit his teeth to help squeeze out. And easy as clay, the stump elongated into a tail, and on top of it grew a slew of big toxic spikes. Meanwhile, the slime monster stretched harmonica style, going crazy with expansions and contractions all about the myriad regions of his body. Six limbs sprouted: four legs, two wings. Slime pooled around slimy, taloned paws. Then, sprouting with a horn’s curve, a neck formed, which in turn formed a draconic head whose features were quickly carved: a long, barbed muzzle; four ruler’s horns; ravenous neon teeth; and smoldering green eyes. The slime dragon stood twice the height of the original Fowg, while Fowg now floated within the belly of the beast.

He was merely a power source.

The slime dragon laughed. “This is awesome!” The dragon inside him tried negotiating with him with a shaky voice, but the slime dragon pranced in booming circles and laughed. When the slime dragon tired of that, he planted firmly his paws then hiked his rear back, saying, “What’s that, little dragon? I can’t hear you over my—”

BFFFFRRRRRRWWWWRRRRRMMMMMMMFFTFTFF.

“Ugh!”

That single fart left him panting, but that didn’t stop him.

FFWWWRRRRRRRRRWWPWPWPWPRRRRRRRRT!

The slime dragon was inches from licking dirt, his farts had bent him so forward in glee. He heaved and heaved. A warner shudder shook his buttcheeks before his intestines inflated with the gas of a hundred hot air balloons. Subsequently, he aimed his quivering anus at the ugly tooth of rock.

Amibo’s asshole yawned widely, the end of the barrel of a fleshy cannon. The tooth of rock’s image seemed to flutter for a half-second in a sudden blast, before the tooth of rock got all patterned like a dragon’s scaled hide then disintegrated into a storm of many tooths, which a putrid green mushroom cloud instantly devoured. The sound roared through the Valley. Even Sini caught wind, though he wished he didn’t.

The Connoisseur of Belches choked on a spiraled ham, and he got to wrangling with his own throat. Meanwhile, his worshipers, they perished one by one all around. Tendrils of harsh lime miasma speared into their nostrils and devastated their nose-hairs. Only a few of the worshipers—those whose sense of smell had long been burned away—survived. Alas for Sini, he exercised his sense of smell daily so that he could confirm the perfection of the flavor of his belches. Now his tongue lunged from his open mouth like a pink snake whilst he drowned on the floor, flopping beneath the gangs of terrible tentacles.

He croaked, “Incense candle…”

Half of his worshipers remained, and half of them stood in a daze while the other half fetched candles off the Candle Shelf. Lining them on a Candle Table, they lit some matches, and then the fallen dragon pointed his maw at the match-blocked sticks of wax, eructing the gentlest of burps that swept down the line to light each candle.

Though this only burned away more of the oxygen in the air, at least there was some nice fragrances now—like “mint chip ice cream” and “new paperback book”—to counterbalance the deathly wafts. Reality, though, meant less air to breathe, so Sini was hyperventilating, causing more of his worshipers to perish by hogging up the oxygen.

Back in Amibo’s belly, Fowg made a sorrowful throat gurgle. He sensed the greater poison dragon was perishing, and so Amibo sensed this as well. “Ahh. Who’s this you put on my mental GPS?” Amibo looked inwardly. “Sini’s his name? And he’s more toxic than you, toxic enough to put me back into Unholy Hell, you say?”

Fowg tried to shut the fuck up mentally but failed.

“No one shall put me back into Unholy Hell.” Amibo’s temper turned his body a hookah sort of steamy, so a hot stink of breath globbed out of his mouth when he talked. “I’m gonna wipe that dragon off the face of the planet with my putrid farts. Who knows. I may even eat him. And you’re going to help me grow before I confront him.”

Fowg shook his head vehemently.

Amibo smiled falsely. “Oh, yes you are!”

Fowg still resisted. So the slime dragon flew up, and over the Valley on a very arduous journey. This journey required deft sideways flying maneuvers through a crag in the earth—which the flight-experienced Fowg was forced to pilot Amibo’s body through. They reached a dragon lair Amibo had once discovered through underground passages, and the dragon lair housed dozens of dragon eggs, along with several sleeping wyverns and a sleeping Mother Drake and Father Drake. Seeing this made Fowg’s mouth water, for he loved cannibalizing. At the same time, his own hunger sickened him, for he knew that the slime dragon would somehow use it against him.

“You and I are gonna get so gassy.” Amibo crooned. “You’re gonna enjoy it—enjoy it as we turn these dragons into nothing but flatulence. And then we’ll move on to the next meal, and the next, until we’re both gassier than your burpy little friend Sini ever was. Won’t we?”

Fowg’s thoughts reached an awful stalemate. Inside he felt morally challenged. Both sides of his brain battled with uniquely cultured perspectives. Side One said, Fowg, you cannot betray Sini, for betrayal is a deadly sin. Besides, what do you get when you add to “sin” an “i”? You get a Sini. Are you a Sini?

Fowg said aloud, “I suppose not.” Amibo, thinking Fowg was speaking to him, shouted with infuriation. But Fowg was swimming in his thoughts and never heard the slime’s banter.

Side One continued: Well, don’t try to be a Sini then! You should stay abstinent from these dragons at all costs. Else, when you meet up with Sini, he’ll think you’ve betrayed him. Then your ass will really pay the price.

Well, Fowg said to Side One, more likely I’d pay the price under his ass.

Precisely.

Side Two piped up: Hold on, hold on y’all lil’ bitches. Fowg, fuck’s wrong with you, homie? This a free meal right here, G. You gon’ pass up on free dragon buffet? This a free trip to Mt. Gassiest Dragon Ever. Once Amibo’s eaten everything in the Valley right from under Sini’s nose, there ain’t gon’ be no more Sini. One fart, and that little lizard is finished. We talking flesh v.s. slime, and slimes is on a whole ‘nother level, nomsayin’?

Fowg frowned. I can’t backstab Sini like that, my hoodlum friend. Anyway, Sini contested a slime and I in the past; the only difference was inside-out, so the slime was inside me instead of outside me.

Side Two said, That’s all the difference, brah. If Sini tries to go for you—the Slime Heart—this time, he’s gonna end up as a second core for Amibo and turn that mufucka into a two-headed dragon.

Fowg was stunned. How do you know this, hoodlum?

I’m on Amibo’s side. I know like 50% of everything about him, including how to beat him.

Oh?

Oh, you think Imma start snitchin’ now? Fuck naw, broseph. Fuck the police.

Then Side Two dipped, and Fowg saw him an unreliable chap. Not to mention Side Two never explained what the police was. So Fowg decided to stay abstinent as far as the dragon meal went, and he told Amibo what he had chosen and why.

“Cute,” Amibo said. “You think you have a choice in this matter. Here’s what’s going to happen, Fowg. Because I can only possess the living creatures I engulf (not turn them into gas), you’re going to serve as my Dragon-to-Gas Furnace.”

The slime dragon lurched over the elephantine nest where rested the dozens of dragon eggs. Craning his neck out, he scooped up several of the canine-sized ovals in his lower jaw, then gulped them down, one after the next. The bulges of eggs revolved down his burbling neck, flickered down beneath the bulk of his chest. With bubbly descents, the eggs sunk into the slime dragon’s stomach and then gravitated toward the maw of Fowg. Pesky eggs! Fowg butted them away with his nose (oh, how he hated being used). But the eggs, they seemed attracted to his jaws (due to invisible forces) and repeatedly rebounded off and bounced toward his muzzle, trying to break apart his grit jaws. We would have been recollecting this all day if that’s all that went on—but no. Around Fowg’s muzzle, thick tentacles congealed and floated, very ghost-like. Suddenly, they wrapped around each of Fowg’s jaws separately, prying them open. The dragon’s throat dilated to become an unmissable target. As he gurgled rebelliously and wrestled new bonds arresting his body, invisible forces pistoned an egg into his mouth. The tentacles around his jaws slave-drove his jaws, working that first egg down that fleshy, curvy hatch. Fowg’s expression changed from indignation to post-epiphany rapture. Rapture only soared, as his stomach swelled with food to digest and process into great, gurgling plumes of poisonous gas. Fowg looked reluctant to look grateful, but when a second egg plunged down his throat, and a third and a fourth, his nostrils bubbled in a muffled purr, and he eased the muscles of his throat’s percolating sphincter, granting the lumps easy passage. A third of the way through eating, Fowg could feel the hot shells of dragon eggs burning away and ballooning his food sac with fresh, fetid fart fuel. Fowg could not restrain his moan, or the long murmur of poison gas that mewled slowly out of his pucker into the slime-wyrm’s body. Moaning too, the slime dragon accumulated mass from the gas Fowg slowly pumped into him, his Jell-O green form growing thirty-five feet tall.

Now, Mother Drake and Father Drake were deep-sleepers (as they deserved to be, having worked so hard the first five-hundred years of their lives). The wyverns, though, weren’t. One of the wyverns—a seven foot tall albino with a head-crest and horns that formed a “U”-shape—woke up sniffing with great curiosity. A great green slime-wyrm’s ass was bouncing overhead, and the slime-wyrm’s glowing throat was conveying dragon eggs to a hungry dragon floating in the slime-wyrm’s stomach. Muffled farts erupted within the slime dragon, making his form grow larger and fester with stink, and steam up the lair with an abhorrent glow.

The wyvern did what tattletales do best. Its banter awoke the several other wyverns, who copied the first and filled the underground with such screeches! Such shrill racket! Such a fierce alarm, which even caused the eyelids of the Mother and Father Drake to have shudders of nightmare. Surely those Drakes would wake up if the wyverns kept going. The slime dragon, loving his feast of premature dragon-fire and protein too much, simply wouldn’t have that disturbance.

Amibo lifted his tail and paced his hindquarters to right above the screeching wyvern flock. He then clenched his slimy stomach “muscles,” shepherding the gas Fowg had generated behind his own asshole. His pucker swelled and distended, before out roared a RRRFFFFFFRRFFFFFRRRRMMMMMWMPHPHHH!

Now, the sheer noise of this fart far surpassed the relative whisper the wyverns were making. In this way the fart was like an authoritative dictator, oppressing the voices of the protesters. The dictatorship that was Amibo’s fart gassed the protesters until their voices were choked and their eyes teary. Even when the protesters were wheezing and gasping, another fart came, FRRRWRWWWWWWRRFTFTFTFT, and another, FRWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAWWWWFFFFPT. The flatulence kept coming, as Amibo recycled the gas circulating in the room through absorption. Every destructive fart mauled the underground, silencing the teary-eyed wyverns, bringing their paws to their throats.

All the eggs fallen into Fowg’s belly were resolved on dissolving, and digestion went slowly, as to be expected of Fowg’s only above-average metabolism. Thus, the slime dragon actively enforced his flatus on the wyverns for seconds, minutes, hours—a good seven sixty-minute cycles—while his gas only worsened, going from the modest quakes of a buffalo stampede to the scary tremors of a global dragon marathon run.

PRRWWWWAAAAAAAAAABBBLBLBLBLBBLBLBLBT! BFFFRRFWFWWRFRWFRWRRRMMMMFFFFFFPHHHH! FRRRRWWT!

The belly of the poison dragon Fowg distended to elephant size, while his internal farts nurtured and grew the slime dragon to the size of a four-story building, causing Amibo’s horns to scrape against the roof of the underground. Because of this Amibo’s sonic blasts of gas sent quakes capable of demolishing buildings as far as Sini’s Lair and domino races of trees all around the radius of This Here Lair. Shit you not, the gas’ force managed to wake Mother Drake and Father Drake—cuz they found their backsides repeatedly slamming into their wyvern roommates with every gargantuanly rancid fart, and the rhythm of it reminded them of the one their roomies’ paws had when they would slap Mother and Father Drake awake in the evenings.

“What’s—happ—hagwwggwwggwwl—happening—right now?” Father Drake cried between smell-provoked sniffles and tears.

One wyvern explained, word by word over three minutes (for each fart lasted as long as twenty-five seconds): the slime dragon had eaten Mother and Father Drake’s dragon eggs, and the spicy gases punishing them mostly had Mother and Father Drake’s nutrient-rich hatchlings to thank. Mother and Father began to sob, partly because of their losses, partly because they had opened their eyes to the searing blasts of the slime dragon’s ass, a malodorous furnace.

When Amibo’s butthole grew numb to the sensation of releasing gas at a steadfast force (over seven hours after he started discharging farts), he felt his butthole yearned not to be vacated, but to be entered—come to think, his butthole craved a bite to eat. All those eruptions had worked up an appetite, and what better meal than a conglomeration of dragonkin?

Suddenly, the slime dragon’s ass descended upon the gang of wyverns. Screams couldn’t be uttered, as the gas had made hoarse and quiet all of their throats. Though, you could still hear the troubled flaps of wings when the slime dragon’s pucker sat upon a wyvern’s head and pulled it inside with harrumph-assisted rectum hugs. The gang of other wyverns got a hold of the wyvern’s wings and they tried to reclaim him, but instead they only doomed themselves by becoming a train of wyverns, which the slime’s ass discharged upon a stinky sputter of slimy gas that solidified fast into a dribbly green goop that slimed up all their limbs and stuck their grips together in super glue fashion. Irrevocably attached, the rope of wyverns gulp by gulp got pulled into the translucent depths by the squelching jelly hindquarters.

But Mother Drake and Father Drake wouldn’t let their roomies go out the same way their could-have-been children did! Together they lunged at the choochoo train of wyverns chugging into the slime dragon’s backend, clinging to the tail of the last wyvern aboard. Alas, a spiteful gust of flatus gusted out of Amibo’s anal tunnel, kicking the ticketless hobos off the train and then burying them halfway across the lair beneath an avalanche of rocks masked with rotten fruit and meat smells.

The blasts of gas bursting out of Amibo’s ass, Fowg would not have admitted to enjoying every second. But you can bet his ass he did. To the vibrations of the gas he motorboated into the growing slime dragon, his ass screamed with pleasure. Fowg’s butthole tasted the first wyvern’s muzzle, his anal muscles spasming with arousal and feeding hungrily. Fowg’s rectum now liberally made squeaky whimpers of air throughout its moist, loose flesh to the entering of the wyvern, a lewd sound parallel to that which a deflating inflatable makes. There went mister wyvern’s neck, upper body and hindquarters, blimping and defining Fowg’s belly pouch with a very squirmy dragonkin shape. Shortly after said dragonkin’s tail said goodbye to the outside world, here came second wyvern’s head saying hello to those hungry asscheeks, greeting the warm muzzle with squelches of flesh and purrs of gas. And hello, here came some more of the wyverns who were sure to digest into marvelous, dispensable symphonies of flatulence. And they came plowing his large intestines, spearing bliss through his anal nerve clusters. And Fowg’s cry of ecstasy could be compared to no less impassioned a sound than that of a dragoness’ labor. Think: a dragoness having time rewinded on herself and feeling full-grown wyverns she had labored out pushing back into her tummy, but instead of pain, joy. Earlier we stated simply, several wyverns: now that we have some free time to count their descent, let us have a go.

One… two… three… four… five… six…

…Seventeen!

There went the seventeenth wyvern’s tail into that aerobically stretched pucker, with a slurp that frightened a couple of deer way up by the crag in the earth. Now Fowg’s midriff bulged with so many wriggling wyverns, the mass of that giant flesh satchel pushed Amibo’s body outwards in expansion—not necessarily growth, but body mass relocation. Their struggles and squirms gave Fowg’s butt a couple of merry toots. He began to digest them. Scales and flesh dissolved into hundreds of gallons of gas. Fowg’s cramped belly melted those worthless wyrms down into vile gases, so much so its ovular shape grew to five times the height of Fowg himself. This forced Amibo to expand even more. Now, Fowg seemed to be farting even when he wasn’t farting, and his “wasn’t” farts were prolific jets—leaks of gases that streamed from his forfeiting pucker into the slime dragon—but then, when the legitimate farts came they boomed; they shuddered terribly the slime dragon’s frame.

Amibo lost his tongue. He squeezed on his bowels with all his might then released a trumpeting FWWRRROOOOOWWWWWRRFFFLLLLFFFFFFPHFPHFPHFPH as ear-buffeting as two hundred tubas blowing into a microphone at once. The deafening, debilitating fart dug a deep horizontal ditch in the underground for Mother and Father Drake, and now—although they had labored very hard in their five-hundred years plus of life—they seemed to work harder than they had in all their living hours combined: their bodies slammed, and thus dug, time and time again into the end of that elongating horizontal ditch, possessed to do this by Amibo’s superpowered soundwaves. Why, Mother and Father Drake had absolutely no chance to liberate themselves from this cycle of inequality! You see, they hadn’t any farts in them to fight back, while Amibo and Fowg had more farts than all the other dragons combined. Yet, some would argue that everyone in theory had equal opportunity to success and therefore did. Privileged idealists say the darndest things.

Mother and Father Drake dug for many many miles. Eventually, they burrowed close enough to ground level that you could see the clumps of earth billowing up from the ground in a linear trail all mole-like, and this linear trail stopped only a few yards outside of Sini’s Lair. Sini now was paying no mind, cuz he and his remaining worshipers, they were huffing and puffing at a bunch of gigantic flames spread about the Lair. Recent blasts of Amibo’s flatus had knocked over Sini’s incense candles and made their flames very big and angry. Sini, though, made no progress, nor did his worshipers. And they never would: for, the arrival of the Linear Trail’s Tail gave the Lair a dooming shake, and then the Lair got to collapsing. Heartstruck, Sini and the worshipers evacuated.

When they entered the outside world, the atmosphere wasn’t congested wholly with purple, but green too. With a sampling inhale of the air, Sini gave a startled cry. The gas concentration had gone up from 75.55% to 83%, only 7% away from the No Going Back Zone. As the worshipers hugged each other consolingly and wheezed, Sini spat loudly: “The fog’s green, meaning Fowg betrayed me! Fuck! To think: you give some dragons an inch—they fart you to death!”

Then, like weasels, two dragons popped up from the Linear Trail’s Tail. “Wait!” the first of these dragons urged, Mother Drake. “You musn’t make such a hasty assumption.”

Father Drake, the second of these dragons, said, “We know of you and Fowg, Sini, and we know the one who brings upon us the Apocalypse is not Fowg.”

Sini’s lower lip covered the top one. “Well, who?”

“A slime dragon,” the two drakes chorused. “He possesses the body of Fowg and uses it to produce the apocalyptic gas, perhaps so that no one can send him back to Unholy Hell.”

“Doesn’t he know he’s causing Regional Purpling?” Sini asked.

“His gas is green, so it’s not politically correct to say ‘Purpling’ anymore,” Father Drake said. “Regional Poisoning is the official term to refer to the issue now.”

“Fucking hell,” Sini said. “Answer me.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Mother Drake said.

Sini thought about this a good five seconds, then came to a conclusion. It made no difference whether the slime dragon was educated about Regional Pur—Poisoning. A slime dragon who knew the rapture of relieving your butthole of world-destroying gas would relieve his butthole, by golly, else he would either have to change his diet, or kaboom. Why would he change his diet simply for the sake of the rest of the world? Sini empathized with the slime’s selfishness, but still…

Sini balled a paw into a fist.

“Time to save Fowg. Who wants to sacrifice themselves to that slime dragon’s asshole?”

* * *

From beneath the earth, booms were coming up. The booms, which sounded muffled, but loud, as if performed next to your eardrum, burrowed in many directions from a central point across the surface of the earth like giant whack-a-moles. From their linear trails, noxious green steam wafted up and added to Regional Poisoning. Poisonous creatures who got close to the fumes sniffed, deeply inhaled, and soon got high off their wondrous scent. These creatures who once resembled Sini soon became addicted to this SLIMEGAS and gradually degenerated into poisonous slime creatures, whose bodies were purple but oozed and wafted a deathly green. And if encountered by anyone but their master Amibo, they would pounce angrily like retarded baboons.

But the slime dragon Amibos’ awe-inspiring booms and transmogrifying fumes would not go unchallenged. In the distance, the opposition began as a “Buuwwwwwruuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhuurwwhhhppp” that echoed through the Valley, filling first the poison slime creatures with fear. Then “Uwwwwwwwrrrooooooooaaaaaaaaahhhhhwp!” “Rrrrrrrurrrrrrwwwllllooooooooooollllaaaaahwwwk!” The coming of the poison dragon Sini was heralded by belches succeeded by delayed gales. These gales thrashed the creatures onto their heads. And they whipped away the slimy fumes. And their aftershocks sent stones skipping knee high, rumbling the earth. As his belches smote the land, they strangled Amibos’ influence out of the creatures and made them Sini’s creatures again.

The impolite roars reached Fowg’s ears, and their distant winds cleared away some of the storm clouds smothering his heart. “The Connoisseur of Belches comes to abort Apocalypse,” the lesser poison dragon said.

Amibo tried to form hard lines on his forehead, but his slime couldn’t tense up enough, and he merely jiggled. “No, my Slime Heart. When Sini arrives, the final ingredient I need to initiate perfect Apocalypse I shall have.” His tail wagged, and his butt drooled copiously. “Ah, how I can hardly withhold my patience.” Amibo hurrahed. His butt hitched backward, and he released a celebratory thunder of swampy miasmas.

Above earth it answered Sini, but Sini gave no pause. The Connoisseur of Belches galloped steadfast through the rumbling dystopia, as more crags in the earth all about him opened and spewed slimegas-geysers, corrupting his own poisonous beasts with the element of his enemy.

Then somewhere far away, Amibo spoke, “Come to me, my kin, and fill me with the poisons I need to obliterate Sini! May Unholy Hell never have me again! And may history know me as the gassiest.” And the poisonous slime creatures broke into speed, and raced ahead of Sini into a central crag in the earth.

Sini suddenly reared onto his hinds before the central crag, for the earth ahead had began convulsing and surging upward into a mound with cracks and belches of green steam, as though some neon demon was escaping Unholy Hell. Then suddenly, the mound ruptured open, and out of it—two herculean wings of green slime! The veil of earth splashed away. Lo, the spined back of a slimy body! A slimy dragon’s head! Wriggling up into the air with vehement wing-thrusts went the slime dragon Amibos, but his ascent was not entirely powered by wing-thrusts alone.

BWRWRWRWRWRRRRRRRRRRRRRFFFRRRRAAAAAAAATHH!

Sini put on some glasses that tinted a dark coffee shade in the blazing glow of gas, which rippled out into the air and sent infernal haloes of light across the ground. These glasses did little to buffer Sini’s eyes against the burning fumes that bellowed out that rude, crude, brassy-with-attitude fart as loud as a galley-flipping tide.

FFRFFRRFFRRRRRRRFFFRRAAAATATHHHHTHTHTHHTHPTHPTHTHTHPP…

The way naturists judge the age of old oaks with the number of rings they have inside the stumps, archaeologists would later judge the length of Amibo’s second Sini-greeting fart by counting the number of rings in the crater it made, along with the toxicity levels of the earth. Unless we got a giant to shovel up a mountain’s-worth of dirt here, we would to this day come up with soil that reeked of bad berries and battery acid and the sky around a blimp popped full of cow gas. Sini’s spectacles shattered seven seconds in, when Sini was seven yards pressed back by the long-winded nuke of flatulence. Eyelids gusting, he threw a second pair on, which cracked, and a third, and so on and so forth for the length of twelve seconds: well, by the time his twelfth pair cracked, he’d been pressed back a quarter a football field, but that wasn’t enough for him to gain some slack on the power of the godly fart! In fact, every second it only grew stronger, and not only made up for the distance in strength, but then some.

…PPFPFFPTHAHAFFBBBFFTTFTBRTRTRRRRRRFFFRRAAPPBBBBTTTPFPFFPPBTT…

Gods, was the fart still going on? And… was the slime dragon turning a tinge of purple? The divine fart pinned Sini against a Tooth of Stone as hard as fucking diamond, and Sini watched helplessly as the air west of Amibo cleared and Amibo got purpler. Gods… Amibo was absorbing Regional Poisoning itself!

Why, surely that will only cause the poison to circulate, Sini thought, except, it’s circulating with such a disciplinary power I don’t know if I or the world shall survive it, frankly—and fearfully I do think this slime dragon, he’s biding time for something even badder.

Somewhere, Mother and Father Drake—along with Sini’s old followers—suffered the wrath of a whipping green and gradually purpling hurricane. They had left Sini all alone to suffer this wrath against the Tooth of Stone. A couple of hours passed wherein Amibo’s fart refused to end, only bulk up to a strength that slowly leveled the Valley’s mountains inch by inch. Thankfully, in this time, Fowg had gotten so practised with the endless blast coming out of his ass and thus out of Amibo’s that he could twist the sound waves to say some things directly to Sini.

…BBRRRRRWWLWLLLLAAAPAPPPTTTT—AAAAPPRPRFPFFFPT—FFFFFFP—FFFFRRRRFFAFAAAAFFFPPBTBTLWLWLB…

This was some pretty advanced morse code, as even Sini understood it, and he had not taken morse code in dragon college, especially not audio morse code. What he gathered was: “SINI. THE SLIME HAS FILLED ME WITH MOST OF THE BEASTS IN THE WESTERN VALLEY. I DIGEST THEM AS WE SPEAK. IF YOU WANT TO STOP HIM YOU HAVE GOT TO GET ME OUT OF HERE—HE WILL LOSE HIS DRAGON FORM AND BE UNABLE TO PERFORM APOCALYPSE.”

That made sense, thought Sini. After all, formless slimes may have lots of gas but no butthole. How do you suppose you perform Apocalypse without something as essential as a butthole? Exactly. You don’t.

Sini shrugged, since he had been on the route of saving Fowg anyway, but he internally thanked Fowg for reminding him of the route he was on. Inspiration renewed, he rolled onto his belly and rock-climbed down from the Tooth of Stone the fart restrained him against step by step. Using his talons like picks to gather himself to good old earth, he trotted himself backward in slow-mo. When he got about halfway to Amibo, he saw Mother and Father Drake whipping through the winds (frackin’ purple winds that weren’t green anymore), and he gave them a shout out:

“Ahoy you two!”

And he fetched out of his neckpocket the tool for his plan. And the two drakes, after a couple spins around the Western Valley, caught it: a good-lengthed rope. If Sini wasn’t poisonous he would’ve kissed his forearm goodbye, holding onto that rope with the flapping drakes. But Sini was poisonous, so he had a good deal of strength in this poison-rich gust.

Sini then climbed himself and his waggling rope of wyverns across the ground to Amibo’s flank. The slime dragon—so occupied with his infinite flatus—didn’t take notice of Sini and pals one bit! Well, now Fowg bounced gladly. Now the plan was to be showed. Verbally, Sini showed Mother and Father Drake the plan, and then told them to jump into the lake of gel. The two drakes—after learning the prerequisite ground-climbing from Sini—made their way into Amibo’s rocketing anus. Swimming into that was easy, once Amibo’s butthole wanted them inside. They swam and swam through the slimy gastrointestinal tract till they reached Fowg, who now merrily farted even harder. Well, all good farts must end for the sake of the world, so they grabbed a hold of him and said to him:

“Ready for takeoff?”

“I’ve been for hours!” Fowg said exasperatedly.

Sini resituated, pointing his ass at Amibo. Then, he began to count down from three in burpy morse code, and everyone braced themselves.

“BWWRRRUUP [THREE]…

“GLRRRRCK [TWO]…

“HRUUAAAAP [ONE]…”

“Blast off!” cried the other three dragons.

Sini let go of the earth, and before Amibo could blast him off the wrong way, Sini unleashed every last pound of compressed gas inside his belly to nuke the target: the very slime dragon they were trying to defeat.

PPPWWWFWFFRRRWWOOOORORRRAAAARAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTTTTTTTPPFPFPTTTFAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPP.

If a giant can of whipped cream and a giant roaring dragon had a duet, it would have sounded sort of like this, but not nearly as bassy or as glorious. This fart was frankly more of an extrovert than any being who ever lived, if extroverts were to be labeled extroverts solely on how much noise they made in society. The force of this utterly Valley-upsetting fart surpassed that of 5,000 crocodile jaws snapping, and frankly you would insult the force to compare its bite to that of 5,000 crocodiles. Why, if Sini digested some animals to make that fart instead of recycling Fowg’s gas, Apocalypse would have been long out the door, and the concentration of poison in the air would have been 99% and everyone dead. Luckily, he didn’t.

The fart blasted smack dab into the slime dragon, who unleashed a wail of ecstasy. He grew and grew, his knees rising higher than Sini and then many many floors above Sini. Amibo grew to a godly size, and he made a triumphant bellow that gave him a dramatic expression. But this bellow was muted by Sini’s fart’s volume, and his happy expression began to subside. As Sini barraged Amibo’s body with poison miasmas, he also anally missiled himself away from the slime dragon, thus pulling the other three dragons out of Amibo’s skin inch by inch, though Amibo’s slime gave some resistance. But they were pulled out, alright. And Amibo, losing his poison dragon core Fowg, began to slowly lose the dragonish features of his face and body. Worse for the slime dragon, but better for the whole rest of the world, the pucker that belonged to his core began to disintegrate, thus lowering the volume of his gas from mountain-leveling to Valley-echoing, to a cacophonous crowd of protesters, to the noise level of any old stinker. Then, the pucker vanished.

The fart ended. And out of the portal of the blob of slime Amibo’s skin erupted Mother and Father Drake and Fowg, all slimy at the end of the rope. At last they landed on good old earth after Sini aborted his rocketing fart. They got up, and they made some pretty happy hoorays.

Twenty yards behind them, now, wobbled and gurgled Amibo the blob of slime. The surface of the angry blob belched and smogged with the foulness of a fifty refineries. Despite all that poisonous simmering, Amibo no longer had any central orifices to focus his poison farts through, thus thought to himself, My power! All of it, gone! No… if I allow them to get away with this, they’ll send me back to Unholy Hell. I must swallow them—swallow them all—turn them all into Slime Hearts and become a many-headed dragon!

The blob of slime and all its rolls of fat gathered a remarkable speed, chugging toward the celebrating dragons. Sini didn’t even finish initiating a group hug when Fowg screeched and dove at the other poison dragon, knocking him out of the way—at least, attempting to. Bear in mind, a crab would’ve had an easier time pushing itself out of the way of a hurricane if it were on a beach, so Fowg failed. Everyone got absorbed.

“Mmm! Mmm!”

Engulfed again by the treacherous sea of slime, Fowg saw the other three dragons floating stunned in the murk of Jell-O green. Reacting with a finessed speed, he swam his butt nearest to their ears, and then performed a string of morse code farts as quietly as possible.

It translated to this: “WE HAVE ABOUT A MINUTE BEFORE AMIBO ABSORBS OUR DNA AND SOLIDIFIES HIS GRIP ON OUR BODIES AND BECOMES THE MULTI HEADED DRAGON OF APOCALYPSE. WE MUST RETALIATE BEFORE OUR OPPRESSOR CAN OPPRESS US.” Fowg farted the gist of the plan, then this: “ARE YOU READY, SINI AND OTHER TWO DRAGONS?”

The other three dragons nodded. All at once, they did teamwork. What was teamwork, you might ask? What you should ask is, what was teamwork here? Well, teamwork here was the group of dragons taking a deep breath, before inhaling as powerfully as they could normally fart. Suddenly, geysers of slime gushed down the dragons’ throats. And their bellies stretched like toad gullets. More than that, their bellies stretched to the size of great nimbuses. More than that, their need to fart (and, for Sini, to belch) grew every single second.

More than that, Amibo shrank. The slime managed to absorb some of the dragons’ DNA, but he could not solidify his hold on them because of the twisters of slime pooling into their bellies. So, as he shrank, he contorted and twisted in appearance from a single-headed dragon to a dragon of two, three, four heads. And he thrust himself onto his back, wailing, from all four heads, as they sucked the slime out of him from the inside out:

“Help us, help us, help us, help us! Someone, someone, someone, someone!”

But the beasts of the surrounding Valley had been anally ingested by him and Fowg already, so no one would come to help him. The vacuums inside him increased in force. Down from the height of half a skyscraper to ten stories he went. Down from the height of that to the height of three stacked giraffes he went. Down from that he went until, with a quartet of greedy slurps, the sirening heads of the four-headed slime dragon dispersed into the four fleshy drains that were the four dragons’ throats, with this echo of sound: “Noo oo oo oo!”

Up and up the inhaling dragons went on their bellies. Up and up, till they loomed higher than any parade float, and their stomach gases constantly roared louder than any class reunion of lions. Mother and Father Drake loomed so high, they almost thought they would be gassy as Fowg and Sini.

But Fowg and Sini’s maw vacuums torpedoed with force, and their faces scrunched with an angry gluttony, as both of them tried to outdo each other. Suddenly, Mother and Father Drake both felt tugs on their bodies, and each one of them rolled sideways, each of them subsequently plunging toward one of the poison dragon’s maws and plugging them with their demi-mountain expanses of belly.

No, Fowg and Sini would not be plugged. They chugged ever harder, till Mother and Father Drake cartoonishly collapsed into the two dragons’ gullets, barreling, barreling, barreling down, with but this duet: “We helped save the world!”

Ah, right you were, Mother and Father Drake. But Fowg and Sini would have sooner bade the world goodbye than to share their reign with you two forgettable cameos. In the end, you both contributed to the bellies of the poison dragons, and both of their bellies became the size of sports-domes, so for that Sini and Fowg appreciated you.

As both poison dragons lay panting and sweating in the center of the Valley, their bellies began the arduous task of digesting the slime dragon, the Valley creatures, the Mother and Father Drake. And a hearty competition between the two began. Sini, Connoisseur of Belches made the first move:

“GWRRRRRrrrrRRRRROOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHWWWWHHHHHWWWWHHHHWWWRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrRRRRWWWPPP!”

High metabolism gave the dragon a breathtaking opening act. The mega ejection of a belch reached the feet of humans outside the Valley, and as though a rug were ripped up from underneath their feet the humans tumbled onto their buttocks. The grotesque stink billowing through the Valley sent even beasts adapted to poison flocking to the coasts to the west; rabbits and deer and bears and so on dunked their snouts underwater for air. But then the putrid stench strangled the waters, and having nowhere to go, the beasts croaked. Regional Purpling reached 88%.

Now Fowg, he scoffed at Sini, and said, “Is that all you’ve got, after inhaling all that gas? Your reign is surely mine, now.” So he rolled onto his gut, bounced on it, and deeply inhaled, so deeply, Regional Purpling declined to 66%. His ass then punished the earth.

BRRRRRRFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRRRRRFRFRFRFFFRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAFFFFWWWOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRFFFTFTFTFTFTFT.

If Sini’s belch were a housecat, Fowg’s fart was a fullgrown black panther. This fart sent the humans that Sini had sent onto their buttocks into a whole-body chatter, which made their bodies travel halfway across their respective villages. Meanwhile, dolphins and sharks and various fish in the ocean to the west began to drown in the flatulence-heavy waters, rolling belly up. The sound of the fabric of the atmosphere itself being shredded reverberated throughout not just the Valley, but half of the Continent.

Now Sini, not to be outdone, let the pressure of poison gas build against his sphincter, then produced the sound of a belch mogul:

“URRRWWWWWWWWWWWWWRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOAOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAHHHHCKKKK!…”

And not just the fabric of the atmosphere, but the fabric of the solar system itself began to shred; and volcanoes on distant islands shook, as though like to erupt; and humans in various lands got chucked about the various lands like die in Yahtzee cups. And a stench that should have murdered everyone’s sense of smell five hundred times over instead strangled the smell-senses so tightly that the spirits of them couldn’t get away, thus they could not be murdered. Fowg’s complexion turned pallid with fear.

But Sini’s power was not to be questioned and his gassiness not to be trumped ever. So as his maw spread and continued that belch, so spread the flesh of his ass, until the diameter of it could not be challenged, not even by the gates on Stargate SG-1. And joining that epic endgame belch came a fart:

FFFRWRWRWRWRWRWRWRWRRWROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTHHHHHHHHHHPTHPTHPTHPTHTPTHPTHPTPH!…

The way the most radiant part of a halo is outside the center, so the most destructive part of Sini’s fart was outside the world. Celestial bodies were beginning to lose balance and lose projected years of not colliding with other celestial bodies. Not just the fabric of the solar system, but the fabric of the galaxy began to shred. Back on the world Fowg gasped, and knew once again he had made a grave error. He had challenged a god of gas to a gas off. More than that, he had awakened in that god of gas his greatest potential. But none of that potential was fully trained, and within minutes the world would be destroyed if Fowg could not get Sini to stop erupting from both ends.

Fowg screamed and screamed stop, but of course Sini couldn’t hear that.

So Fowg did what any reasonable poison dragon supercharged with the strength of a thousand poisons would do. He ground-climbed his way to the Tooth of Stone Amibo’s fart earlier pinned Sini against, then with that super-strength he ripped it out of the ground and he twirled, chucking the Tooth of Stone like a spear directly into Sini’s butthole. Instantly the gas got corked off. Only a godly boom erupted from Sini’s maw now.

So Fowg did what any self-sacrificial poison dragon would do. He launched his jaws at Sini’s and he kissed the other poison dragon as ungayly as possible. That surprised Sini, but Sini immediately understood from the purposeful twinkle in Fowg’s eyes that Fowg was not trying to be a faggot, just trying to be helpful somehow. So Sini continued belching, just into Fowg’s helpful mouth now, inflating Fowg until the both of them lay on bellies the same size far above the ground.

When the belch ceased, great silence followed. This great silence was followed by a great shifting of gravity. Yes, sir—now that both Fowg and Sini had in their bellies more poison than what existed in the whole rest of the world, a great Change of Climate was happening. Both dragons awed, for the air around them that was purple?—it grew attracted to the both of them in a nonsexual way, clumping around their bodies and then seeping into their pores.

For many minutes the purple fogs around the dragons danced into their scales. Sini had once seen a ritual where a young laddie was surrounded by faeries before they leapt into him and made him eternally magical for saving their faerie village, but Sini reckoned that wasn’t quite as beautiful as this.

But oh, did they dance! The fogs, I mean. They danced into both Fowg and Sini, and both dragons had the literal shock of their lives, and began convulsing as if being resurrected. Well in a sense, they were. They were being reborn as their new selves.

See, science was working right now, and if you didn’t know how science worked you wouldn’t get it. I don’t think you know a thing about science, judging by that confused look on your face, so I will have to take it real nice and slow for you.

When a regular old body becomes a celestial body, it tends to pull things toward itself with something called gravitational pull. As for how you get to be a celestial body, you’ve got to be really full of some mighty heavy stuff. Fowg and Sini just happened to be really full of some mighty heavy stuff, therefore celestial bodies. But these bodies wouldn’t pull just any old thing toward them like sellout bodies did. They’d gotten all celestial by ingesting poison, so that’s exactly what they were pulling towards them now.

And so much poison they pulled… it brings a joyful tear to my eye, just recounting it. If they had only pulled in the Valley’s poison or the Valley’s neighbors’ poison, I probably wouldn’t have gotten this teary or spent so much time explaining to you how science works. No, they attracted every last particle of poison in the world. And thus Regional Poisoning went to 0%. And the air was pure and fresh, not fouled by a single poison particle.

Snakes got pretty stressed when they found out their venoms had been soaked up too, seeing they would be all hiss and no bite, but they would deal. How would they deal, ask you? We will go to the time of The Return of the Worshipers. Then you will watch, and you will have your answer.

* * *

Many suns later, Sini and Fowg built a Lair in the Northern Valley. Many more suns after that, the two dragons lay side by side on bellies that had shrunken down enough to rest on the cave floor, while their feet did the same. They lay as humans fanned them with palm leaves and fed them human foods. And beasts of prey came and brought the dragons their catches—either that, or brought themselves as sacrifice, for it was a great honor to end one’s life as a fart or a belch from either of the poison dragons’ assholes or mouths. And then the snakes came.

And they asked the dragons if they could have their poisons back. And so the dragon Sini said to them yes—on the condition that they and every generation of snakes after them worshiped the poison dragons. Although this was a pretty pricy bargain, you know how thirsty snakes are for poison, so they reluctantly agreed. So, to this day, all humans and beasts of prey and especially snakes worship the poison dragons.

And whenever Fowg and Sini fart or belch,