Anna Hood

 

Gas

     It gripped him at the most god-awful times. Twice now, and the movie had barely begun, he'd had to navigate through legs, purses and dirty looks to get to the washroom. He checked under each door. Empty - thank God. Grateful, he allowed himself a long powerful fart. The evil smelling gas rushed about the room, fogging mirrors and making paper towels fly.

     More and more it was happening. All the foods he loved were forbidden. Chili, god how he loved it, no more. Buffalo wings, gone. Food containing the tiniest bit of fiber or spice growled in his intestines and heaved and worked until massive amounts of foul potent gas was produced. Norah, his wife, now slept in the guest room and after countless false accusations even the dog refused his company.

     He perched on the edge of the sink and lit a cigarette. Drawing the smoke deeply into his lungs, he felt the drug calm his nerves even as another torrent of gas gained strength as it rushed down the corridors of his gut. He raised one cheek of his ass and with a massive grunt tried to expel more wind. Nothing. He pressed again. And again. But the only thing expelled was a sad excuse for what waited deep in his belly. Sadly, he crushed out his cigarette. Half the movie will be over, he thought, and Norah a wild fury if he didn't get back soon.

     His bowels rumbled as he passed the popcorn machine and yet again at the soda fountain. He ignored them. As he climbed over an old man's legs an angry squeal of gas escaped his tightly clenched buttocks.

     Someone in the rear stood. Shouted, "God save the queen!"

     Norah bowed her head, clasped her palms together. Muttered, "God save us all."