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 on Falling Through That Ice!

Remember that movie The Dead Zone, with Christopher Walken? Where he falls gets into a car accident and almost dies and can then see into the future for brief missives about what is to come, allowing him to predict the future and potentially save hockey teams? No? It’s on USA sometimes, you should watch it. It’s not bad.

Anyhow, that happened to you a while back, and today you’re going to get a chance to save a hockey team from falling through some ice, just like in the movie. Except instead of saving some people and then hearing about a bunch of others dying under the ice, you’re going to try to directly intervene, running on to the ice waving your hands, begging those kids to get off the god damn ice. The ice will give way while hockey players pile on top of you to try and get you to stop ruining their game, and you’ll drown under ice, hammering on the surface and begging for life as it leaves you in one of the most horrible fashions imaginable. Hockey players will be grabbing for your feet to try and haul themselves up, weighed down to the bottom of the frozen lake by their skates. As you lose consciousness you’ll be dimly aware of their movement beneath you.

The downside of all this is that, unlike in that movie, no one will be around to stop crazy president Martin Sheen from launching nukes at Russia (which could still start a nuclear apocalypse, thanks to the Doomsday Device from Doctor Stangelove that it turns out was real) and we’ll all die horribly in the aftermath.

On the upside, you won’t have to deal with it, and your ex-girlfriend’s dick husband will die in a hail of nuclear fire, so you’ll kind of win on that front. Pity about the rest, though.

Congratulations on Falling Through That Ice!

Congratulations on Wreathing the World in Flames!

Today you’re going to put some weight on the glowing rune your dad put next to the computer with your foot while you’re masturbating. You’ll do that thing where you splay your legs out and thrust your crotch upward, as if you were inside someone instead of just clutching your lube caked hand, furiously pounding your meat. That’ll set all of it off.

The house will immediately be sheathed in a red light, pulsing with energy. It’ll be really distracting, and it’ll keep you from finishing. You’ll slam your fist down on the desk and grimace.

“Fuck!” you’ll shout, looking around the room for a towel. That’s how your father will find you, pants around your ankle, desperately grasping at a washcloth just out of reach.

“Jesus Christ,” he’ll say, shielding his eyes from you. “You really had to do that here?”

He won’t be shouting. He never shouts. He’ll just be shaking his head.

“This is bad,” he’ll say. “Get out of my office.”

You’ll tromp out to the front stoop, where you’ll sit and stare out at the street. Energy will be roiling out from your house, setting grass and leaves on fire as it rolls over the landscape. It’ll inch across the neighborhood slowly, surely, the fire creeping along the ground, leaping over houses and trees and cars. Water will be strangely untouched, too still under the flames rolling over it.

At the center of it all will be your home, with your mother and father, shouting at one another. They’ll be arguing about you, about your father refusing to talk to you about masturbation and the runic magic that his father taught him. From what you’ll hear, over the combination of the screams of passers-by and the doors your parents will slam, is that your dad didn’t want to make you learn about the hellish power contained by those runes for a few more years, at least, but your mom won’t buy it.

“Odds are he’s learned about runes already. Kids are probably invoking them at his school all the time!”

She’ll be very, very wrong, but you’ll be glad that she’s standing up for you. You’ll bite your lip and consider going back inside, but you really won’t want to. Instead you’ll sit on your steps and watch the flames creep along the earth.

The cute girl who lives next door to you will run by screaming, her skin boiling off her body, and it’ll suddenly dawn on you that you’ll be trapped here for a long time, with no one else on this world except your parents. You’ll be masturbating a lot more, but probably not with the internet, or by watching your cute neighbor through the window. You’ll bite your lip and start to cry, your tears steaming from the heat from the world around you as the fire continues to spread.

Congratulations on Wreathing the World in Flames!