It wasn’t that she farted loudly. It was in fact discreet. Well, that was what she’d like to think that very moment when she could not contain it. In other words, unlike most people, it was entirely unintentional. Because what she thought at that moment, or seconds before she farted, was if she should have dinner with Brad for his birthday, or go out with Rust instead and spend the rest of the week in his rest house in his province. It was when her phone vibrated and lit up only to show Mediocre Migs’ invitation for a friendly date did she, somewhat unintentionally and candidly, pass gas. Perhaps, upon realizing that it was a silent one, with no apparent or suspect odor, she—after becoming conscious for a split-second—ignored it; she paid more attention to the text message instead. Little did she know that that was going to make her day rather extraordinary. Somewhat.
There’s something in here, she thought, rather suspiciously, because it was Mediocre Migs, and neither Brad, Rust nor any of the guys she'd gone out before. Eventually, she made a face, one reminiscent of disgust, and deleted it.
After a few minutes have passed, she heard someone rap at her office door. Come in, she called. In came the postman, a wiry, ginger-bearded, middle-aged man and said, Was it you who called out for a date tonight? She gazed at him preposterously and asked him to repeat what he said, which the postman did: Was it you who called out for a date tonight? No! she screamed, And how did you get inside the building?
Before she could demand the postman to leave, there was a knock on the door. Thinking that this could help her take the postman from her office, she asked for the person to come in. It was a well-dressed gentleman. By the looks of it, he appeared like some pilot for a commercial airline. He beamed up at her and said, Was it you who called out for a date tonight? Seeing that this was a handsome man, perhaps in his forties, most probably wealthy considering his bearing, she wanted to say ‘yes.’ But she held herself and said, And why should I? We’ve just met. Well, interrupted the postman, that’s how a date works, young lady.
She shot the postman the same preposterous look and back at the pilot. And before she could say anything, a trio of men clad as football players barged into her room and in unison, they said: Was it you who called for a date tonight? Despite their jerseys, she could tell from their mesomorphic frames how muscular they were from the bulging curves across their chests and shoulders. But when she realized she was leering at them, she snapped out of her momentary reverie and said, raising her voice: How dare you barge into my office like that? Don’t you know who I am?
But her words were only met with three curt raps. She glanced past the men by the door to see who it was. It was a shirtless Korean bodybuilder with a puerile-looking face. Was eetchu who cord out for a date too-night? He struggled in enunciating the words, but he got them nonetheless. One of the football athletes nodded at the bodybuilder, patted him on the back, and mouthed, That should’ve made yer mammy proud, laddie. The lady, on the other hand, gazed at him, eyes wide, mouth agape, and at a loss of words to say.
Her expression did not change when a squad of Marines burst through the door, took tactical positions inside the office, and one of them radioed, Echo one-four, echo one-four, this is Bravo Two. You copy. Over. Copy, Bravo Two—a voice responded—go ahead. Over. The marine who radioed spoke through his receiver again: Coast is clear. I repeat: the coast is clear, over.
From outside the hallway, someone called out, Coast is clear, gentlemen! Bring in the showman! Then a fatigue-wearing man in his thirties marched through the office, gave the entire room a quick, sweeping glance as if to ascertain that the ‘coast’ was indeed ‘clear,’ and said, in a voice made hoarse by countless battles he'd fought in: Madame, the army officer began, we have received a signal from this very area of the building. My team and I decided to find out as we have no idea whether it was a distress call or not. Now, that it’s you inside this premises, with all due respect, I wish—
Oh, cut to the chase, soldier! The lady yelled, cutting him short. A short pause ensued for a second or two. Then the officer harrumphed mildly and said: Permission to ask a question, madame: was it you who called for a date tonight?
Really? she asked more to herself than to any of the men inside her office. She was completely and genuinely exasperated and confounded with everything. And as if in defeat, she whimpered, But what did I do to bring you all here?
Then the postman farted rather loudly, causing the other men beside him to turn to his direction and cover their noses. He apologized. I think it must have been last night's dinner with the Joneses, he said, using an unopened mail to fan himself. Jeez, whispered one of the soldiers.
Wehr, spoke the Korean, a-reest wee ah nut een sza eroh-veytoh. The same football player nodded in acquiescence and patted him again on the back.
(This first appeared in https://screamtoadstool.wordpress.com.)
