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!

Congratulations Whispering Farter!

Tonight, you'll lean in to kiss your child goodnight and, immediately afterwards, whisper in her ear:

"I farted."

She won't be happy about it.

Congratulations Whispering Farter!

Congratulations Shitty Wizard!

Today you’re a wizard, but you’re a wizard with a very limited array of powers. Really just one. Whenever you wiggle your fingers you can make the nearest attractive woman fart. If no attractive woman is nearby, or if some other sort of conflict emerges, then a sliding scale of attractiveness and distance decides who farts. Someone always farts when you wiggle your fingers though.

For the most part this hasn’t gotten you too far in life. It’s not much of a marketable skill, and, let’s be honest, aside from this you’re kind of a loser. But today all that’s going to change.

You’re going to walk into the offices of your local beauty pageant which, because you’re in the south, is like its own fucking government, and slam your first down on the desk of the receptionist.

“I think we can help each other,” you’ll say.

This will lead to a forty five minute discussion of the fact that you aren’t selling anything, then a thirty minute description of what you do. Then you’ll wait for fifteen minutes while she sets up a meeting with the COO of the beauty pageant.

Once you’re in his office he’ll immediately see the value in hiring you.

“An objective measure of beauty AND attractive women farting?” He’ll laugh, a deep warm thing that comes from his belly and spreads out to fill the room with its energy.

“I think we can work together.”

Congratulations Shitty Wizard!