Every time someone farts...A Farie dies

1820 Words

Every time somebody farts, a fairy dies...

It was a Saturday night, and like any Saturday Luke was just about to sit down in front of his computer when his cell phone rang. The theme song from Star Wars: Return of the Jedi told him his best friend Ralph had been tampering with the ring tones again.

“Hello Ralph, what’s up?”

There was heavy breathing on the other line, before a deep, somewhat scratchy voice came over the phone. “Hey Luke, busy tonight?”

Luke sighed. “For a minute there I thought you we’re about to say, ‘Luke, I’m your father Luke!’ in your best Darth Vader voice.

It took a moment for his words to sink in before Ralph replied. “Sorry, I was trying to get my scale model of the Death Star from my dog. It’s the third time this week he’s tried to use it for a chew toy.”

“So, what’s up?”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“The same thing I do every Saturday night, why?”

“Dude! Not World of Warcraft again? You’re going to rot your brain.”

“Do you have something better to do?”

“Do you still have last year’s Halloween costume hanging up somewhere?”

Luke thought it was a strange request, but knowing Ralph, everything he did hinged on strange. “Yes…why do you ask? Need to borrow it to pick up chicks?”

“No, now get dressed, and be sure to bring the sword you bought at the flea market with you. I’ll see you in twenty...”

Just as Luke was about to ask why, the phone went dead. “Ralph, you had better have a very good explnation for this,” he whispered. With a deep sigh he went in search of last year’s costume.

********

“Where are we going?” Luke asked, the tip of his sword pressing against the small of his back, creeping further south every time the Rambler Classic hit a bump in the road.

“There’s a new club opening up on 3rd street. I thought we would go and check it out. They say it’s out of this world.”

“Dressed like a warrior monk and Robin Hood in green tights?” Luke asked. “Let me out of the car.”

“I’m not Robin Hood! I am a descendant of a lost line of ancient kings of man. I am Aragorn. But you may call me Striker.”

“Could have fooled me,” Luke whispered.

“We’re here!”

Luke looked out through the fog tinted windows of the Rambler Classic to a broken neon sign. “Is that a ‘Little Person’ standing by the door? Man, he needs to trim his beard. He’ll trip over it if he tries to walk.”

“He’s the clubs bouncer. They prefer to be called Dwarves, not little people. Now let me do all the talking. You just stand there and look…monkish.”

Luke wanted to ask how one looks ‘Monkish’, but decided to wait.

They didn’t have to wait in line for long, because there was no line. The Dwarf at the door stood there, arms crossed barring them from entering, which in Luke’s book was a great feat in itself.

“What’s the password,” he asked in a thick, dwarfish accent.

“Pink Fuzzy Bunnies,” Ralph whispered in the Dwarfs ear.

“Enter, but obey the rules.”

“Rules?” Luke asked, as if ‘Pink Fuzzy Bunnies’ didn’t already throw up a red flag. He was quickly ushered toward a small, weather beaten sign back by the pool tables.

“Pesky humans,” the Dwarf mumbled under his breath.

Upon gathering up their drinks at the bar while scoping out all of the other ‘characters’ Luke had to ask.

“Did Comic-con throw up in here or what?”

“You don’t get out much, do you?” Ralph asked while setting up a rack of balls.

“I guess not.” Luke spent the rest of his time reading up on the rules.



1. No Cursing

2. No Fighting

3. No Spitting

4. No Farting

“No Farting,” he asked, but Ralph was trying to do is best imitation of ‘Minnesota Fats’. He was having a little trouble though; his green tights were riding up every time we went to bend over to shoot. He also had trouble concentrating, what with all the cat calls and whistles he received from onlookers.

“Tough crowd tonight! He should have gotten a size bigger,” Luke heard a tiny voice whispering near his ear. “Who is he suppose to be, Robin Hood?”

Luke turned his head to find a Farie, resting on his shoulder. ‘Great holograms’, he thought. “No, he’s a direct descendant of a lost line of ancient kings of man,” he pointed out.

“Oh?”

“He’s Aragorn. But you can call him Striker. I’m Luke…”

“From Star wars,” she replied. “You know this –is- a fantasy club? The Sci-Fi club is down the street.”

“No, my name is Luke. I’m a Warrior monk.”

“Nice Sword. High grade polymer plastic. Sweet!” Tilting her head she sighed. “I still think he looks like Robin Hood to me. Need a refill?”

“Two beers,” Luke replied and watched the small Farie leave with his last five. Looking about the room he saw more Fairies taking orders, and serving drinks. The club was now filled with elves, wizards, sorceresses, knights in armor and the occasional barbarian warrior. There were even a few Gnomes and more Dwarves milling about, trying to keep from underfoot.

“What’s wrong with my sword,” Luke asked. “It’s a Conan the Barbarian replica, complete with leather grip. It wasn’t cheap you know.”

“You’re turn!”

Breaking out of his stupor Luke stared down at the table. “Thanks for leaving me a ball,” counting all of them still on the table. “Nice break!”

***

It wasn’t until the third round of beers when trouble started to raise its ugly head. At first it was nothing but a small rumbling, followed quickly by a strange gurgling sound, much like the sound of a sink draining. Luke was just about to break when he glanced up toward Ralph.

“Are you okay?”

Ralph stood there, leaning against his cue stick, tiny beads of sweat started to pool on his forehead and upper lip. He seemed to be in deep concentration, his eyes glancing around the room, his knuckles white, his ankles crossed. Luke recognized the look, his eyes suddenly falling back to the rules.

“Dude! Don’t even think about it,” he whispered, his warning falling on deaf ears.

The first sound of impending doom came not as a loud explosion, but as a soft whistle, much like someone holding the end of a balloon together and letting the air out slowly.

Just as the tip of Luke’s cue stick struck the cue ball the first Farie fell, striking the center of the table with a loud ‘SPLAT’. Luke watched in horror as the cue ball finished her off, by running right over her, pinning her to the green felt.

“Oh god…” Ralph whimpered. “That’s not good.”

The club went suddenly still, so still you could hear another Farie drop, right into someone’s drink.

“All right?” The bartender asked, “Who farted? Didn’t any of you read the rules?”

“Rules are made to be broken,” someone in the back yelled out.

Luke swallowed hard. He started to back away, after hearing the rumbling sound grow even stronger.

“Dude, what did you have for lunch?”

Ralph swallowed hard. “A burrito.”

“What kind?”

“A bean burrito.”

“How many?”

“They were on sale,” the grumbling grew even louder.

“How many Ralph?”

“They were buy one, get one free.”

“Ralph?”

Ralph squeaked out a weak “Six! Super sized…”

Luke knew they were in deep, deep trouble. But it was too late to do anything about it.

“Oh gods Luke…” Ralph warned of the impending doom. “Run! Don’t look back, just run,” as the rumbling suddenly stopped.

“For god sakes man, save yourself!” But the warning came to late.

The sound was like someone had just sat down on the biggest whoopee cushion ever made. It seemed to last for hours, echoing against the brick wall behind Ralph, amplifying throughout the club like a bass tuba. Ralph’s face was a mask of confusion, his damp brow wrinkled, his eyes were forced tightly shut, his cracked, dry lips puckered outward, like an invisible kiss. One leg came up; his knee all but touched his chest, causing the sound to grow even louder. The back of his tights fanned out like the American flag behind him, leaving behind an odor strong enough to peel lead paint.

“Ohhhh goddd!!!”

Everything was a blur after that. Luke had just enough time to grab Ralph by the arm before the next Farie started to fall. Everyone panicked, as Luke and Ralph made their way to the back exit, with faries raining down on them like a plague of locus, getting under everyone’s feet. One Farie blinded a knight in armor, by blocking his visor. He struck the far wall and went down.

Hard!

“He looks just like a turtle on his shell,” Ralph pointed out, ‘putt-putt’ sounds escaping behind him with every step he took.

“Shut up Ralph and come on,” Luke warned.

It was a free for all toward the front door after that, and they knew the Dwarf never had a chance. They heard the bartender screaming as they exited the back door.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you guys, every time somebody farts, a fairy dies.”

“That’s good to know, next time we’re attacked by a group of faries,” Ralph muttered under his breath, while Luke held his until they got outside. They made it through the back alley to their car, both of them winded, but unharmed.

“Did you know that fact,” Luke asked, “about farts and faries?”

Ralph shook his head no before checking the seat of his pants. “If I had, do you think I would have had those six bean burritos and beers?”

They both started to laugh as they got into the car. Suddenly Luke let out a loud, obnoxious belch, and Ralph gave him a strange look.

“Dude? Did you just belch?”

“Yes, why?”

Starting the car, Ralph threw it in gear and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. They left with tires screaming just as the club exploded behind them sending debris across the roadway. Car alarms echoed up and down the street as they sped by.

‘What the…”

“Dude, didn’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“Every time someone burps, a Gnome explodes…”

“This is why I stay home every Saturday night playing World of Warcraft. It’s much safer. No one farts, no one burps, no one dies.”

They both fell silent on the ride home. As Ralph pulled up to the drive, he asked, “What are you doing next weekend?”

Luke thought for a moment. “I heard if someone sneezes and fart at the same time, a Troll turns into a toad. Care to try that theory out?”

“Sure! See you next weekend then?”

“Only if you burn that costume…”