The Curse of The Flatulent

Keith and I looked at each other.

"Pass me the phone Keith, I'll ring them."

Our security office had no windows, but we had CCTV. We were paired up that night.

"Never work with trumpeter Keith," they had warned me.

I didn't take much notice of rumours.

"They'll be here shortly." As I said that, Keith let rip.

"Jesus! Did you have to do that? Phew... What if they send a woman copper? You dirty old git... Go see if you can find some air freshener, quickly."

Keith returned moments later. "I found this on the receptionist's desk." He seemed pleased with himself.

It'll have to do I suppose, I thought as I figured out how to remove the bottle's cap.
After spraying a half bottle of perfume into the room; the place smelled like a whore's boudoir.

I began frantically waving the report book in a feeble attempt to neutralise the overwhelming smell of perfume.

Keith farted once again.

I heard the buzzing of the door-bell. "Go and answer the door, Keith," I blurted, pinching my nostrils together.

I waited in anticipation of a pretty female officer.

I froze when I heard him say: "Oh, hello. Come in—lads."