Congratulations Nomadic Fart Salesman!

From the Tiber to Timbuktu, you wander the wastes of The World After the Cataclysm, selling your wares.  Your wares are, of course, farts.

Perhaps we should explain.

When The World That Was fell, the World After the Cataclysm had no need for its old currency, its futile, feeble monies.  But something needed to rise, so people started farting in jars and trading those fart filled jars for hard goods and services.  A rug might cost two translucent farts or one somewhat opaque fart.  A gallon jug of water might be worth a single weak reedy bean fart.  Steak farts fetch a high price.

As a fart trader, you carry farts and various goods that you can trade for other farts across the wastes.  You make a decent living, and you rarely have to rape anyone, so it suits you well.

Today you're going to be attacked by bandits.

"AHH!" you'll scream as bullets riddle your caravan wagon (a Dodge Caravan pulled by oxen), destroying your fart jars.  When all is said and done, you'll be bleeding out in the middle of the Sahara, the scent of farts heavy in the air.  You'll catch a snippet of conversation from the dunes as one of the bandits, the leader maybe, beats one of his men, shouting "You ruined the loot, fool."  Knowing that your death caused some sort of internal strife for your murders will be cold comfort, barely any comfort at all, really.

Congratulations Nomadic Fart Salesman!