1. From the Bowels of the Earth
He huddled close to his family for their mutual warmth and security but as Ogg’s insides settled, he passed gas. Unga woke from the noise but it was the odor that made her sit up and protest. The baby too began to cry. Ashamed, Ogg pleaded his innocence. He considered blaming the baby, but, instead, pointed into the deeper cave and grunted. When Unga turned away, he smirked. When she turned back, he grunted again and shrugged.
Just then, a noise rose from the inner earth—a deep, guttural roll that was equal parts wind and beast. Ogg and Unga turned. A greenish light blossomed in the dark and spread along the damp walls toward them. A mist gathered, glowing, swirling, churning, like a living thing. The stink was shocking. Ogg gathered the baby and pulled Unga by her hair toward the opening. But the stink was already inside them.
Outside, a scream erupted from the cave mouth as if the earth itself were in agony. Then there was a squelching, and a crunching, and then—silence. The glow receded into the darkness.
This is how I began—without form. My memory of this early time is spotty, and I confess, I may have embellished a bit. It was not until quite some time later, once I had gained substance, and was first written of in the Abhorred Book, that my thoughts likewise began to cohere. But I feel that I must be clear. The Book did not make me. I am older than it, by far. But it did give me direction, as it has for many others, and it is with The Book that much of my story is entwined.
You may call me Farzal.
2. He Who Hath Dealt It
Certain settings attract me more than others. Take a boys’ dormitory, where a fart rarely goes unclaimed. I have no need of such places. A small, religious community, however, hidden in the wooded north, and since forgotten to history? Vehemently repressed and preoccupied with sin to the point of perversion? Now you’re making my mouths water.
I recall a minister or a magistrate of some kind—some person of importance. Don’t ask me for particulars. Such distinctions are boring and meaningless to me. He was sharing his bed with his wife for the sole purpose of procreation. They already had six living children, but were eager for more. After a particularly generous supper of cornbread and stewed cabbage, neither party was up to the task. And neither, as per usual, would admit to their own flatulence. It was therefore agreed that the culprit must be a demon, come from Hell, to torment them.
“But be careful, wife,” he warned her. “To even speak of such things is to give them power.”
Meanwhile, outside, a familiar green mist peeled away from the rocky, moonlit fields. It drifted against the wind, scattering the sheep and wilting the crops until it seeped into a drafty hovel. It cohered into something tangible, floating above the couple as they tossed and turned in the night. This was, of course, me in my gasbag manifestation. I noted, with amusement, the crucifix clutched in the man’s hand. Silently, I joined them beneath the covers. I snuggled, unnoticed, between them, using my warmth to comfort and relax them. Once they were both deep into a contented sleep, I erupted into a sticky vapor that stung their flesh, singed their garments, and withered the bed until it fell apart like rotten kindling. They awoke, but were too stunned to move, their faces frozen with a mixture of horror and epiphany.
It is said that the sense of smell is most closely associated with memory. Perhaps I unlocked something deep within them, a primordial memory of the first creatures crawling from the Sulphur pits of Hell, before Heaven was even thought of. I wonder also if they detected the hint of sweet apples I added to round out the experience. Not that it matters. In a few hours, their hair had bleached white, and their bodies had become wasted and brittle.
By dawn, they were simply ashes.
These later events were observed by the village elders and recorded by the town chronicler. This chronicler, it should be noted, secretly held a special interest in strange matters such as these, often going well out of his way to record them with feverish detail. This was the first known keeper of The Abhorred Book and one of its first authors. This was also not long before he was exposed and executed.
The book, however, found its way into other hands. It moved in secret circles, acquiring ever more forbidden knowledge and grew its scandalous reputation. Copies were made of varying qualities. A secret society, descended from the above mentioned elders, tasked themselves with locating and destroying all copies. They were only partially successful.
3. The Butler Did It
The lady of the estate was older than the butler, but not by much. She imagined herself as a shrewd matriarch, a dowdy dowager. But to her estranged family, whom she had excluded from the meager fortune left by her husband, she was a bitter, money-grubbing crone. To the old butler, she was the devil. She cruelly abused the butler while the master lived, but after, she became intolerable, despite the simple fact that, without him, she was utterly alone.
She was famously deaf and flatulent. The combination might be funnier to the butler if the joke were not so old, and he wasn’t, so often the butt of it. The scene would often play out like this: hHe would be helping her to her bed from her wheelchair, or vice-versa, and the movement would cause her to fart, sometimes quite violently. Then, upon smelling it—her sense of smell worked fine—she would say something along the lines of, “Good Heavens, James! Again?! You must see a doctor at once, you are not well! Disgusting, truly!”
His reply, invariably, was, “Apologies, madam,” and, “Yes, madam.”
Had she left it there, the butler may have forgiven her once her long-impending death became actual, but she always felt obliged to continue.
“Well, haven’t you got anything to say for yourself? I swear, such insubordination I have never seen. If you had ever acted like this while my husband lived, he would have dealt with you most severely. My patience has finally reached its end. James, I’m afraid I must terminate our arrangement, effective immediately.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Don’t try to talk me out of it, I’ve made up my mind. You are to quit these premises immediately.”
“Yes, madam. See you in Hell, madam.”
“Still nothing to say, then? You spineless twit, get out of my sight and take your nasty stink with you!”
“Pleasant dreams, madam. I hope you rot in your own shit tonight. Good night.”
With this, the butler would excuse himself to his apartment until she would ring for him again hours later, with little memory of her previous outburst.
It was her inferences about his late master which he found most hurtful. His master had been excessively kind and generous to the butler later in his life, sharing with him many closely held secrets. The two men were indeed friends in those final days, when something dark seemed to be circling the skies over the estate. This was when the butler was given the key to the secret cabinet in the library that held the Abhorred Book, as well as instructions as to where to send it, should certain individuals arrive asking for it after the master’s passing.
The butler barely survived my arrival, but still, he was up and dressed and serving tea and biscuits in the morning, same as always. Only now, as he endured another barrage of offenses from his mistress, he exchanged knowing glances with the dark, fleshy thing perched high in a shadowy corner of the breakfast room, its eyes like two smoldering embers.
For days I watched her, as she slept, as she ate, as she wrote pointless, bitter letters to her family, or whomever, most of which would never be opened, much less answered. Frequently, she would fart, smell it, and then look up for someone to blame. Seeing no one, she still cursed the butler. Each fart, deliciously rank, smelling of pudding and porridge, I ate until my body was swollen with them and I could barely move. When I felt I could wait no longer, I plopped down on her as she slept, parking my mighty ass firmly on her face, and returned every fart, all in one brutal instant. It was certainly more than she could hold. The butler quickly arrived upon hearing the explosion with a clothespin pinching shut his nose. He looked upon the scene and smiled. Never before and never since have I seen a man so pleased to clean up so much mess.
4. The Hellbound Fart
What he failed to recognize was after decades of misuse, many of the book’s thin pages had become stuck together. He ended up with neither Lilish, nor your humble Farzal, but a combination thereof. The consciousness of this new demon was still entirely my own, but I possessed the bearing of a large and powerful woman with a wild abundance of both fat and muscle. I had Lilish’s polished obsidian flesh, but mottled with pinkish veins and weeping tumors. I also came dressed in one of Lilish’s skimpier adornments, complete with all the hooks and chains that seem to be in fashion these days. I hoped she had another, because I was certainly ruining this one.
As the smoke cleared, I observed my new surroundings. I was in a lavish, but spacious studio with large windows overlooking midnight Manhattan. The stage was set for romance—candles glimmered, sultry jazz played on the hi-fi, and Blake was naked except for a thick sheen of baby oil. He trembled violently as he stared at me and the one, additional feature I had only just noticed myself—the monstrous phallus presently rising from behind my narrow loincloth.
I feel I should mention that I don’t have any interest in animal attraction. Sex disgusts me as few things can. What normally interests me is what repels. But a call cannot go unanswered, and I always take great joy and satisfaction from my work, and this was no exception. I’ll leave the details to your inflamed imagination. Pervert. But, after several hours, and it was apparent that his body could endure no more, I gave him one last embrace to squeeze the literal shit out of him. The terms of my summoning thus fulfilled, I vanished again in a whiff of smoke.
I still look back at this encounter with a strange fondness. Thank you, Blake, for such a memorable and novel experience. I’ll carry it with me always.
5. Finale
I’d call this a warning, but that seems unfair since there’s nothing to be done about it. Instead, I’ll call it a special treat, a preview of the very near future, it saddens me to report, you will not have the chance to experience.
I’ll begin with what you already know. You came to the Abhorred Fragments like everyone else, first through the dark web, then through JPEGs, GIFs, and memes. Then a certain populist President referred to them in a speech. This was the tipping point. All over the world, people, like yourself, started dabbling in these occult rites and were gratified by surprisingly easy results.
The Incarnation Rites of the Stinkubus went viral.
It was the so-called Stinkubus Challenge that summoned me to you here today. And—whoops—you forgot a couple of steps that were essential for your protection, So, I will be killing you very shortly. Not to worry, you still have a few minutes yet. I would like to finish this account first.
Again, it all comes down to a few silly details. The terms laid down in the rites used by you and many, many others, are vague and do not provide for my release. This will result in countless versions of myself, with no particular agenda, left to float harmlessly away—usually after mutilating our summoners—into the skies high over the Atlantic Ocean where we will cohere into a solitary and monstrous mass. No air force, no arsenal in the world will be able to bring it down. Eventually, however, it will grow large enough that it will sink by its own weight and settle over the east coast. It will push further inland, fatal to everything in its path. Once it reaches Chicago, all global communication dies out and society basically implodes.
There are survivors—again, not you—that are able to eke out a semblance of life, contained to a network of machine-ventilated shanty tunnels reinforced with plastic sheets and lots of duct tape. In the toxic ruins outside, ironic street art declares, Giant Fart Demon for President—2036, visible only to the mutant rats and cockroaches. And woe to anyone who farts and does not own to it. For it is to here that they are removed. But, if they can hold their breath long enough, they can witness themselves being forced inside-out by the tentacles that unfurl from the ominous, shit-stained sky. A terrible way to live and a terrible way to die, but you’re lucky. You don’t have to worry about any of that.