Tamboria, while rich with magic and adventure, was ultimately poor in entertainment. There was very little to do; most people were either dirt peddlers or slaves, and even the people who weren’t still hated their lives. To make matters worse, there was no internet or anything. A village would have one designated guy who would draw a funny picture of like, a dog making a funny face or something, but it would take a whole month to complete each picture. All-in-all, it was miserable, and other than scaling craggy rocks or falling in brambles, there was very little to do. As a result entertainment, no matter how mundane, was prized above all else. After all, it was the only thing that distracted them from their awful pox-filled lives.

This led to an annual event simply referred to as, “the Contest.” People from all over Tamboria would come and try their hand in the Contest, and with all the ticket sales to watch, it was responsible for 80% of Tamboria’s GDP. In order to draw out the best of the best, Tamboria’s wisest officials created larger and larger prizes, each one more luxurious than the last. For instance, two contests ago, the prize was a magical pane of glass that had a plastic glass cover you could peel off and it felt super satisfying, and it would magically replenish til the end of time. Yea, I guess you could say the Contest was a pretty big deal. To draw in the curious, no one knew what the exact prize was until the Contest was over. However, even the dullest knave knew it would be better than the year before, making each Contest’s prize the best prize that has ever been.

Naturally, Grom wanted the prize.

Grom entered herself, two out of four of her bards, and Xota into the contest, as she not only wanted the grand prize, but just in case there were lesser prizes for 2nd, 3rd, and 4th place. It hadn’t happened in the history of the Contest, but Grom wasn’t going to take any chances.

Xota apprehensively spoke to Grom. “Master, in the temple we were forbidden from watching the Contest, as it was considered foul and base. I am afraid that I will not be able to perform well in this bout, not even knowing it’s subject matter.”
After magically levitating the last submission form into the drop-off box, Grom acknowledged his concerns. “Yep, the Contest is hard, like an angry woman. It’ll kick you in the seat of your pants and spit in your eye. Heck, even I’ve lost one or two times.” This was incomprehensible to Xota, as Grom was the most violent and confident force he had ever encountered. “But I want that got dang prize, so nut up or shut up.” Grom and her fellows barged their way to the contest platform, and Xota, somehow knowing less than he did before, silently meditated on the advice he was given.

All of the sudden, a giant loudspeaker with flame decals on the sides magically appeared over the platform. “HEAR YE HEAR YE! IT IS TIME FOR THE CONTEEEEEEEEEEEEEEST!” A million screams filled the air, all excited and hyped for the Contest. Some even screamed so long they passed out, and one guy died from screaming himself to death. He was added to the long standing list of people who had screamed themselves to death, entitled, “List of Fuckin’ Rad Dudes.” As the competitors made their way to the platform, the loudspeaker played Quiet Riot’s “Cum on feel the noise.” The competitors were a who’s who of badasses; there was Belkthor, the one man army, said to have the strength of 10 angry dads; JNCO Jean Jim, who was a master of hidden weapons; The Butter Boys, who are so infamous that no explanation is needed or shall be given as to how they acquired their name; and many other known (or soon to be known) legends.
Grom leaned over to Xota. “This is a free-for-all contest, and I’m going to go all out at the start, so just try to survive.” Xota feared for the worst.

The loudspeaker opened a secret compartment, and a kingly fellow in a white-and-black striped robe stood on the lowest rung of a rope ladder that was descending to the ground by an unknown mechanism. He wore a giant king’s crown, much too big for his head, and black wraparound sunglasses with a safety strap connecting them in the rear so they couldn’t be lost. His beard was well groomed, and was checkered grey and black; it was unclear whether he had a gray beard with black spots, or a black beard with gray spots.
Fog poured out of the compartment as the rope ladder slowly descended, and the loudspeaker switched to playing “La Grange” by ZZ Top. Eventually the rope ladder reached the platform, and the person stepped down to presumably judge the event. Xota whispered to Grom, “Who is that, and why does he have flames shaved into his sideburns?”
“That ol’ boy? That’s the King of Tamboria.” Xota was shocked that Grom spoke on such familiar terms. Grom read Xota’s confused face, which was essentially saying, “Whiggidy whiggidy whaaa?” and provided further explanation. “We used to be members of the Elk’s club together, but I left when I realized it was boring and their secrets were just handshakes and stuff.” The King took to the center of the platform, ready to preside over the Contest; who else than the person that made the Contest the national sport of Tamboria was fit to judge? The compartment the King descended from had closed, and the loudspeaker blared, “AND SO IT IS SO, THAT IT IS SO, THAT SO IT BEGINS!”

Xota immediately sidekicked the nearest person next to him; much to his surprise, they were extremely weak, and just fell right on down. Suddenly the judge teleported next to Xota and pinched the back of both of his arms, real hard. “Infraction! No fighting! Do it again, and I’ll send you into the pain-mines you son-of-a-bogslave!” The judge disappeared, probably to go twist someone else’s arm skin flaps.

“If the contest is not a battle, then by the divine, what is this contest!?” Xota looked around for a better idea. Indeed, he didn’t see anyone fighting…instead, what he saw he couldn’t believed. He saw tens, possibly hundreds of people, all at once…
…farting.

Yes, unbeknownst to Xota, Tamboria’s annual Contest was a farting contest, where the last person standing wins.
What a contest it was! There were people lifting their legs, leaning over, putting their legs behind their head, all to rip the hardest farts they possibly could. Many died from the smells, some passed out from the sounds, and a few accidentally poo’ed and had to leave the stage in embarrassment. Truly, it was a spectacle.

Grom silently chuckled, as she watched boys and other untested youths popping their tiny butt bubbles. They knew they had no chance, but wanted the opportunity to brag to their friends and family members that they took part in the contest. “There is no fool like a young fool.” she thinks to herself.

Grom, remaining completely motionless, releases a small “pffft,” and to the churlish knaves of the crowd, it barely deserves observation; however, many Contest veterans immediately flee the area. Belthezor the Unslayer teleported to the other side of the platform, Haralzakar the Guy-You-Don’t-Ever-Fuck-With surrounded himself with lesser competitors to use them as human shields, and Charles the Gnome just booked it as hard as he could. Suddenly the air around Grom became wavy, as if it were bending light itself. It expanded from her in all directions, slowly but surely; anywhere the wavy air touched immediately turned brown with decay. The young boys from earlier who were farting for the fun of it? They died, right off the bat. Other competitors tried to put their shirts over their noses to defend, but that would not be nearly enough. Grom’s air entered their eyes, ears, and even the pores of their skin. Many died. Those that didn’t, wished they did. Grom, unphased, scratched her belly and couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. “That was only a small toot to me,” she said with a knowing smile.

Elsewhere, her lead-singer-bard had just engaged in a furious fart off with Slippery John. By using the forbidden bog arts, Slippery John was able to pre-grease his farts, and they all slapped with an unholy wetness. As Slippery John audibly churned his butt butter, the bard steeled himself, and just like that guy from police academy, he was able to make all manner of sounds from his mouth, including realistic farting sounds! The audience crackled with laughter. Compared to the moist mumblings of Slippery John’s rear, the bard’s stale-wind spittings were light and pure, creating a nostalgia for the innocence of youth. Slippery John eventually took his bog arts too far, however, and ripped his anus in twain. Truly, his colon bowlin’ days were over. The vocalist took this opportunity to peacefully retire from the competition, not wanting to be hoarse and having to clear his throat every 10 seconds later on, as that is super annoying.

Meanwhile, Xota had clung next to the drummer-bard. Xota was practically defenseless in this Contest; in the temple in which he grew up, he was chastised for farting, and had learned an ancient art for sucking farts back into your body and re-integrating them into your digestive tract. It had become second nature to him, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t even release the smallest mouse on a motorcycle out of his tightly clamped tush.

The drummer was having to pull double duty (which, depending on your pronunciation, can also sound like doody) by protecting both himself and Xota from the acoustic ass attacks. He was playing the butt bongos to the best of his ability, but he knew it was only a matter of time until his wind finally broke, and they would be overtaken. He spoke to Xota, “I’m going to create a distraction. Run to safety, which is the opposite direction of wherever Grom is.” Xota did not hesitate for a moment to abandon the drummer, even though the drummer was kind of hoping Xota would’ve been all like “Oh man that self-sacrifice is so nice I’ll sacrifice myself for you instead.” The drummer thought back to his musical training days with his sensei; he wasn’t always a drummer, you see. He spoke aloud to his foes, “What you see this day…don’t tell anyone!”

The drummer closed his eyes and whispers, “Sensei…forgive me. Just this once…I’m going to have to use THAT technique.” Uttering beatboxing incantation, a magical Tuba appeared in his hands, filled to the brim with chocolate pudding. He blew as hard and loud as he could, and it sounded like 10 million farts all at once. Men of quality shed a single tear at this noble, odorless display of farting excellence. Those around him passed out from laughter or the sonic boom of a tuba pudding slap, but the drummer too fell to the ground, as this forbidden technique sucked all the air from the user’s lungs until they passed out. The drawback to this double edged doodoo butter sword? He was covered in chocolate pudding now, and would be super sticky until he could find a place to wash himself off, which is extremely uncomfortable.

Xota ran through the chaos, trying just to survive. He tried to force a fart out, but he felt it sucked back up before it came even close. He heard a man in the distance screaming; what-for, he didn’t know. Who had the time to care? He jumped over the corpse of someone that suffered a back-end blowout, and his shoulder was struck by an errant air biscuit. Knocked to the ground, he turned to see Charles the Gnome closing in on him. Charles, as most gnomes are, was stark naked. His completely smooth, baby like body was offset by the creepy old man head and devil’s goatee he wore. Xota, being a religious man, had an inherent sense and ability to read into the souls of people, and what he found in Charles was horrible. Charles wasn’t here for the thrill of victory, or the camaraderie of competition; no, instead, farting on others gave him a grotesque enjoyment. Charles locked eyes with Xota, and winked. Xota knew only awful things would follow.

The divine smiled on Xota, however, and Charles was distracted by two attackers. They formed the classic pincer formation, one on each side, and their intent was to press their butts to each side of the gnome for the ultimate cornhole clap. “Hee hee hee!” Charles laughed. “You dare to duck call me?!” He dropped straight to the ground, and the two attackers farted into each other’s butts, exploding each other. The ground, and Charles, were drenched in blood. More attackers saw Charles knocked to the ground and thought this their opportunity to take him down. Charles stood up, and it looked like he slipped in the blood, but then he dropped immediately into a windmill breakdance move in the blood puddle. Every time his butt would zero in on an attacker, he’d let his under thunder fly, and before long he faced no opposition.

Charles closed in on Xota. “Hee hee hee! What a pretty young man to receive my best air tulip!” The gnome did a handstand, and his nude butt was right next to Xota’s face. Xota knew if the gnome farted, all was truly lost; a nude fart to your face was essentially the same as getting pooped on.

Charles belched his booty, and to Xota, time moved in slow motion. He closed his eyes. He didn’t want his last memory to be of Charles exhuming the dinner corpse on Xota’s face. However, death never came. Xota opened his eyes to see none other than Grom standing on his body. “Kept you waiting, huh?” Grom asked with a knowing wink. Charles look outraged. “What did you do!? He should’ve been gassed by my Down-South Nasty Cough!” Grom looked at him and simply stated, “I ate it.” Everyone, even some of the ghosts of the guys that died in the tournament, couldn’t believe it. Grom flicked an errant strand of beard hair out of her eye. “I love eating farts. This contest is like an all you can eat buffet to me! Come, Charles! Attack me with all your might! Let loose the duck calls of war!”
Grom and Charles gave an impressive battle; Charles would shoot floaters and fluffers, fizzlers and fecal fumes, fanny frogs and stink bombs, but Grom caught every one and ate them down. Xota looked around, and all the other competitors had either given up, been knocked out, or died. This battle would decide it all; if Grom won, the contest was over, and if Charles won, it was only a matter of time until Xota would be the recipient of savage rectal turbulence. Xota prayed Grom would emerge victorious.

Unfortunately, life doesn’t always turn out how you want. The just and true aren’t guaranteed victory. Sometimes, the strong man never stumbles. All it takes is a moment of carelessness, and the tested champion can be knocked down. Random chance is truly random, and as a result, sometimes the good guys don’t win. Unfortunately for Xota, this was one of those moments.

As Grom fought with Charles, toot-for-tat, she slipped on a hemmorhoid from a fallen competitor. “Hee hee hee! Your trip to flavortown is over, Grom!” Charles gleefully announced. Taking advantage of this momentary weakness, he did a cartwheel and landed with his butt on the back of Grom’s head, and played a sinister tune on his o-ring oboe. Even the mightiest of warriors, if struck in the back of the head on the medulla oblongata, will be knocked out. Grom, while larger than life, was still only mortal.

Charles looked over to Xota, the last remaining competitor. “Hee hee hee! What a shame you don’t know how to steam press your calvins!” Charles stalked his prey, eyes greedy and hungry, looking over Xota. “Are you ready for the greatest grundle rumble you’ve ever heard?” Intent was clear on Charles’ face, and Xota knew true terror.

However, something strange was happening. In the act of trying to force his fart out, and then it returning up into his guts over and over, he felt a strange sensation. With each pass, the sensation grew stronger and stronger. He felt his very stomach itself rumble and groan with the pressure.

Charles put his rear end right next to Xota’s face again, and started twerking. “Hee hee hee! There’s no one to save you now! Here comes the turtle burp, boy!” It was then that Xota relaxed. He knew this was the real end. There was no hope. Charles finished twerking, and savoring his victory, nestled his hairless bare buttcheecks on Xota’s face. Charles licked his lips.
There exists methods for filtering water, which removes impurities. If that water is re-filtered again, more impurities are removed, until finally one is left with the purest of water. Purity can, on occasion, trump volume; a single pure drop of uranium is more powerful than a warehouse of TNT. And, if one took uranium, and refined it throughout one’s entire lifetime, for the purest of the pure uranium…

Due to Xota’s relaxation, it was then that the singular fart that had been recirculated through the filtration system of his guts for nearly 20 years was released. It was no ghastly shart, no crap call or cheese cutter. It was a beautiful note, and the gas that was released shimmered with a golden sheen. The vile and perverted methods of Charles seemed like child’s play in comparison. This one expulsion was a story of Xota’s life; no, more than that, it was life itself. In the face of this undiluted expression of life, Charles’ sphincter clamped shut. The life force in Charles refused to allow him to defile Xota, despite his machinations otherwise. Charles, unable to contest with the force of life preventing his release of devilish dump gas, exploded.

As Xota’s fart trailed off, the tone perfectly blended into the universal silence. For a brief moment, everyone was truly present, and they all felt interconnected. As a singular organism, the crowd stood up, tears clearly and unabashedly streaming from their faces. There was no shame in crying to such a display. They all turned around and did anus applauses of their own, and applause and poo flakes rained down on Xota. These farts were not made in anger or lust, but in joy, and Xota saw the beauty in farts, and himself. He had spent so long being uptight, sometimes even hating his farts, but what foolishness that had been. Farts are an expression of life; no fool can reject life!

While everyone was experiencing a momentary glimpse into the truth of existence, Grom sought out the judge to receive the prize on Xota’s behalf. The judge handed Grom a big burlap sack that had a Druupling symbol on the front. Grom opened it, and instead of money, it was filled with lewd pictures of Grom. In one she was laying nude on a couch, artistically, as if a french countess. Another photo was gritty and clearly taken voyeuristically, catching Grom in the act of commiting high impact sexual violence against a couch cushion. There were a few of Grom showing off her delicious porkchop thighs, and this was just the top layer of a full size burlap sack. “Just what I always wanted,” Grom said, as she tucked the couch cushion picture in a pocket in her traveling bag.