[WARNING: THIS STORY IS MEANT TO BE HUMOROUS. THE SUBJECT MATTER MAY BE OFFENSIVE TO SOME PEOPLE AS IT DISCUSSES A FLESHY EMISSION FROM THE RECTAL ORIFICE.].

The Galactic Bracket was supposed to be humanity’s punchline. Twenty tiers, fight to the finish, no mercy. Each alien species came equipped with natural weapons—acid glands, spinning blades, and armoured carapaces. Humans, by comparison, were invited as a novelty act, the weaklings with their “carry-on” tools. Nobody thought they would last past the first round.

But one stubborn competitor had other ideas. He entered carrying a bow, a potato gun, an axe, a battered shield, and a belly full of beans. He smirked, certain he had the upper hand in this fight, his cheeks clenched like they’d been training for this moment his entire life.

The Snipod was his first opponent: a mucus-spitting inchworm balanced on wheels, covered in suction cups, belching fire from its maw. The odds—stacked twenty to one against humans—sided historically with the inchworm. But there was no way second best would cut it this time, and no one had ever tried to drop galactic farts on an opponent before with such vigour and readiness.

Howard Cossmell’s voice filled the broadcast booth, nasal but steady. He’d come out of retirement to announce for the Galactic Bracket.

“Tier three, ladies and gentlemen. The human steps forward. Snipod’s engines are revving. I’ve seen miracles, but I need to pause for a moment… wait…”

The human panicked, lifted his shield, nearly tripped—and then his gut clenched. He ripped a fart so horrendous it thundered through the dome, rattled the seats, and jiggled the cheeks of the crowd with its overzealous blast.

The cloud rolled forward, thick as swamp gas, and wrapped itself around the Snipod. The alien gagged. Its suction cups dropped one by one, plopping like hail. And then it collapsed.

Howard shouted, “My word! Humanity advances! The Snipod—taken down in an unprecedented release of human gas. Jerry, I bet you upset a lot of betting tiers and brackets. The bookie must be pleased. What do you think?”

Jerry Gaxx gagged beside him.

"Howard, the smells of swamp-ass underwear and dirty socks boiled in vinegar overwhelmed the atmosphere. How can you even consider this heroic in any way? Biological warfare has no place here.”

Howard sniffed, eyes watering but strangely reverent. “Jerry… this is beauty.”

A few brave souls held their noses and shouted chants. Someone yelled, “Praise the beans!” Another bellowed, “Long live the fart!” When the bell rang, the crowd stomped their feet while they gagged, laughed, and tried to invent rhymes about beans. The gas spread across the stadium like wildfire through a forest. It lingered in the air and then dropped like fresh rain.

#

The next match brought the Tyladicyte—a towering wall of blades that spun. Its discs flew like sawblades on wings and sliced banners from the walls.

Howard’s voice quivered with excitement.

“Look at those blades! They’re flying! The human dodges left, catches one midair, and hurls it back—yes! This is another blast of gas!” The discs stuttered; the beast gagged!

Jerry gagged so hard he hit the desk.

“Howard, my eyes. They’re bleeding. My teeth taste like cabbage. This is torture.”

But Howard wouldn’t relent. He leaned into the mic and coughed. “This is destiny, Jerry.”

The crowd grew louder and more organized. They pinched their noses in unison and chanted off-beat:"

“All hail beans, the sacred fruit!

"The more food we consume, the more gas we produce!"

Vendors waved cans of beans. Kids held their noses and sang along like it was recess. Even the referees wore red faces and pinched their noses under the guise of “protocol.”

#

By the semifinals, against the Elighastra, Howard was already cracking. His voice shook with every word, caught between awe and suffocation.

“The human… oh heavens… he’s done it again. The fart was like squeaks and a trumpet! The Elighastra staggers… yes, it staggers!”

Jerry snapped and laughed and said, “Howard, sit down! You’re green. You’re sweating through your shirt. This isn’t history—it’s sewage.”

Howard rasped, still holding onto his dignity. “Don’t… interrupt… art.”

On the floor, the axe came down. The Elighastra split in two, shrieking. The crowd erupted, their voices finally resembling a hymn:

“Blessed be the fart, amen! Beans unite us once again!”

Half the stadium swayed like pilgrims; the other half lunged for the exits.

#

The final brought Zaweak and Prime, a centipede tank bristling with razors and glowing venom sacs. Bookies stopped posting odds; the crowd went silent.

Howard’s voice was weak and ragged.

“Ladies and gentlemen… the human braces. Abdomen tight. This will be… historic.”

The fart detonated like a bomb. Rafters shook. Lights flickered. Banners tore loose. Zargolith staggered, gagged, and then vomited neon bile across the floor.

Jerry screamed and raised the mic.

“I can taste it in each swallow! Howard, say something!”

Howard gasped, coughed, and forced the words through.

"A thousand times worse than any smell I’ve ever cherished of mine, and that included the smell of beans that lingers forever."

His mic clattered. Howard collapsed in the booth, wheezing into static.

#

At the sound of the bell, humanity found their champion in biological warfare as a Champion Butt Blaster. Howard died a martyr.

Before the next match began, the crowd honoured him. Crews scavenged melted nacho trays, empty beer kegs, and whatever they could scavenge from the conquered opponents. They found broken Snipod suction cups and a few blades. Welders gagged as they worked, but at the end of the day, a crooked statue stood outside the gates: Howard commemorated in mid-gag, his microphone raised, and his nose wrinkled forever—a perfect likeness.

The crowd gathered, heads bowed. The tarp dropped. And then … … and then … … THE STATUE FARTED: As if on cue. A metallic “BWAAAP” echoed across the plaza, followed by a puff of burnt cheese smoke.

Nobody laughed. Nobody gagged. They fell to their knees, plugged their noses, and chanted, “BEANS FOREVER! HOWARD - KING OF FARTS! BEANS FOREVER!”

The plaque at its base gleamed in the haze: HOWARD COSSMELL He inhaled so we could cheer.

The tournament resumed, and the air stayed cosmosmell-scented, like someone had farted history and forgotten to open a window.