CW: Immature themes
In the beginning, everyone had the god-given right to poot in the land of Olfactia. The air was hazy with the fumes of cabbage, eggs, and everything in-between. A massaging reverberation of thousands of unique notes - all different pitches, all different tones - mingling to play haunting, beautiful music had become the unofficial world anthem. Partaking of the sacred poot was synonymous with blessing. By the year 2000 B.O., the planet was a giant ball blanketed over in methane. Letting it out was so ingrained into Olfactic culture that every aspect of society was affected. Young Olfites dreamed of winning Brown in the 100+ Decibel Soundoff at the semi-annual Olympics. Folks prided themselves in their jars of trapped, homemade wind at the local fairs, entering their creations in hopes of a ribbon. There were bean dispensaries on every street corner, jeans with ventilated backsides had spawned a multi-billion facto industry, and the ability to withstand the Trial of the Fragrances was considered a rite of passage into adulthood.
But dark days were ahead. The citizens of Olfactia had prospered for centuries under the reign of emperors such as Flatulus, last of the B.O. dynasty. Flatulus was a highly-respected and admired leader whose passion for preserving the free will of the people and deep love of gas had earned him the affectionate nickname: Uncle Hindwhistle. All of that was to come crashing down in the year 2033 when a chain of events beginning with the assassination of Flatulus culminated in an age of oppression which effectively stripped the Olfite people of their god-given right. A group of hypersensitive political ideologists, whom had grown fed up with what they viewed as a planetary crisis, stormed into the capitol at Olfactorgrad and seized power, instituting martial law. Tyranny quickly followed. Through a masked executive order known as The Pure Skies Act, self-appointed emperor Stranglemedes the Righteous made pooting in public a capitol offense punishable by execution. All bean stalks were cut down and burned, all egg-laying fowl were rounded up and sent to specialized farms to have their genetics altered, the possession of cabbage was now a felony, bean dispensaries were converted to air freshener stands, and the ventilated jean industry was outlawed as a threat to civilized society.
Here's where I come in. My name is Fibar Longdraft, but you can just call me: Freedom Fighter for the Liberation of Olfactia. I, like so many other fellow Olfites, was born into a world where the liberty to do with one's digestive functions as they see fit was an essential element of democracy. I grew up during a time when schools taught important life skills like Legume-Oriented Agriculture and how to fart professionally and impressively to land the job during interviews.
I'll never forget that day in '33 when the Act quietly went into effect. I had just eaten a massive burrito for lunch and was minding my own business, ripping some good ones here and there, when the World Guard swarmed me. They tackled me to the ground and sprayed me with some of the most awful-smelling blend of lavender and honeysuckle I'd ever had the misfortune to whiff. They then took me into custody, later releasing me with a five-hundred facto fine and a vicious warning to either hold it in or face indefinite incarceration and/or execution depending upon the Olfactometer reading of the illegal poot in question.
As I watched things deteriorate all around me following that day, what had begun as shock soon developed into rock-solid resolve to stop the liquidation of liberty in its tracks. The Olfite people were bloated and miserable. Everywhere I turned, innocent citizens wore inverted smiles, glistening with sweat and strain. The economy was tanking. Former bean and cabbage plantation owners piled with out-of-work jean factory employees up and down the streets of the capitol in brutal competition for any meager job the government would permit. Even the reinvented jean industry, with its emphasis on airtight pant seats, was of little use to the working class as only fully-vetted candidates willing to submit to daily polygraphs affirming their loyalty to the emperor were given consideration for the job.
Key word: Loyalty. In other words, the fact the majority of citizens preferred starvation over serving this corrupt system was the light bulb which gave me a battle plan. I poured my soul into the scheme over the proceeding decade, building a secret following, overseeing clandestine farming operations near methane-heavy swamps around the planet, and even successfully infiltrating the poultry farms to acquire chickens that had yet to be genetically-modified. By the year 2043, thanks to the efforts of myself and hundreds of dedicated New Order of the Divided Cheese freedom fighters, we had enough roughage stored in our top-secret underground freezers to sufficiently gas up all of Olfactia for one decisive day.
The boats formed a crude circle in the ghastly dawn vapor of our headquarters: Swamp of the Spirits. Pungent gurgles and skyward hurls of the gas we had all grown to love so much accented the meeting, as the assembly of Dividers awaited my speech. In all our years of meeting here, the World Guard had never set foot in this "foul, god-forsaken territory", nor would they. By order of Stranglemedes, any Guard - any Olfite for that matter - caught wandering around a swamp would be deemed corrupted by methane and therefore executed on the spot. My breath reeked of the sythesized, Sky-Friendly government-issued breakfast I had eaten that morning as I exhaled through my lower lip trying to get psyched up for an oratory I knew could only be safe if whispered. I was as paranoid as everybody. The pulsating glow of foxfire on distant decaying logs could have been foxfire; or, it could have been one of the cameras rumored to have been planted virtually all over the globe by the emperor's elite spies.
"Dear friends," I opened with a gentle breeze in tone, "in the sacred texts, Origins Chapter Nine, verse one, it was written: 'Thou shalt not encroach on thy neighbor with ridicule nor retribution for exercising his divine right to expel. Any such man or woman who does so has disheartened the great Sky King, and shall not be deemed worthy of entering the kingdom of the stars.' Right there, we have it: The Greatest of all Greats, the Master of our universe, has explicitly blessed us with the free will to expel our gas. This verse was written in the year 78 Beyond the Origin of Olfactia. Though ancient, what the King has written remains valid to this day, some two millennia later. The King does not change. What he has spoken, he has spoken.
Yet what do we see now? Our divinely-granted liberties being eroded away by a gang of self-righteous bullies whom erroneously believe that their way is superior to the way of our King. Folks, this isn't just about the freedom to fart; it's about all of our freedoms. Today, it's the fart. What will it be tomorrow? The freedom to belch? The freedom to sigh? The freedom to breathe?
This must stop now, my fellow Cheesers. And stop, it will. Now: Most of you know the plan by heart. But some of you newer recruits may not. So let me give you the rundown right quick. First of all, this is not a plan of violence, but of peace. It's going to involve a lot of risk, a lot of patience, and a whole lot of pooting. Some of us may be executed before the Great Liberation reaches full success. But it will not have been in vain. There can be no more noble cause than a crusade to end tyranny. Always remember that, Cheeser brothers. Make it your inward battle cry. Nurture it. Draw strength from it. Let's make this happen!
So, give me a show of hands: How many of you are familiar with the variation on the poot known as the Silencer?" No sooner had I asked that than a drifting apparition laden with the aroma of a refinery, powerful enough to put the swamp itself to shame, tickled at my nose hairs."
"What the hell kinda question is that?" a snickering, portly voice asked from a boat off to my side.
I rubbed at my forehead and turned to him with widened eyes. "Bellso, you've made your point. But for King's sake, think with your head on straight! As eager as we all are - as eager as all of Olfactia is - for things to return to normal, it is vitally important that we all conserve until the plan is unleashed. We must all hold it in for just one more week. The future of Olfactia depends on it!"
With a casual stroll, I entered the market square of my home town. Formerly known as Bubbleburg, it was renamed Cleanville by order of Stranglemedes. I quieted the sloshing in my bowels as best I could while flexing my cheek muscles with a jittery facial grin as yesterday's diet commenced turning my innards into an emissions factory to be reckoned with.
Even now, an entire legion of Cheese Dividers were strategically scattered around the planet, armed with nothing more than the aftermath of a seven-day cruciferous vegetable, legume and omelette feast. But we were not alone. Millions of citizens had been visiting our farms to buy our crops. All had left with million-facto smiles. Some knew of our plan; most did not, but it didn't matter. The stage was set and I was one hundred percent confident in the power of the people.
I eased my way to within smelling range of the World Guardsman who was on patrol here, my heart thumping and my skin blanketed with goosebumps. But at the same time, a sense of peace lit me up all over. I thought back to how far my men and women had come in these mere ten years, and my gut growled with pride and determination.
As I browsed through assorted wares - or rather, pretended to - I felt the stealthy, warm and moist relief swirling behind my underwear. I undid the faux velcro-backed patch from the seat of the jeans while the guard wasn't looking, thinking a prayer of deep gratitude to the Sky King for blessing me with this wispy south breeze to help speed things along. It was a perfect ten. The stench was oh so beautiful!
And from behind, I heard the distinct sound of a hardback book being slammed shut. The guard hurled it into the crowd with a profane volley of words and an abrupt loss of interest in what he had been reading.
"Oh my god!" he whined, attempting to shield his nose with one hand while vigorously shaking up a can of air freshener with the other. In an instant, he turned red as a kidney bean.
"Alright! Who did it?" he interrogated like a dog foaming at the mouth. "Who let one?"
Arms crossed tight, Executioner's Pistol tapping at his side, he marched about looking every soul in the immediate area square in the eyes. "Did you do it? Did you? Was it you? Hmm...perhaps it was you."
Of course, no one, including me answered; we all stood like statues, some out of fear I'm sure, but myself out of steadfast resolve. The system would not win this one. We had the King on our side.
The guard cracked a girly giggle so opposite of the barking that had just tormented our ears. "Nobody's gonna 'fess, huh? Okay: Execution by water? Any takers? Going once...going twice...Come on, peasants, it only gets worse from here." Silence. "Execution by fire?"
It was not just my imagination. Even my gas could never be as potent as what I detected now. "You forgot execution by wind!" a group of cackling teens shouted from the crowd. I saw that all three were motioning their emissions in the guard's direction with their hands. "Go get him!" they ordered their odors.
Before I knew it, gasps of digestive relief filled the air along with the ever-amplifying fog of internal vegetative decay. Soon, bodily trumpets, trombones, and tubas played. It was a concert of triumph, and every Olfite in town was joining the band.
"Confiscate him!" I heard someone scream. A wall of Olfites immediately obliged by rushing to the faint, nauseated guard and ridding him of his air freshener and pistol. "Tell your emperor to get a whiff a this!" The choreography was breathtaking as they all doubled over, aiming their fully-loaded buttocks' at his contorted face.
Dancing tears zigged down my skin. If what had just transpired here was any indication, soon Olfactia would be free. The revolution had begun. The gastrointestinal power of the people would prevail, and a new era would be born with the year 1 A.C.: Age of the Cheese.