“The Night Two Thieves Got Busted by a Fart So Bad the Whole Family Almost Died”

 

Duffy and Duppy sneaking behind the house

The Two Thief

Duffy and Duppy were out to rob a house on a perfect, moonlit night—prime picking weather. They’d been planning this score for weeks.

Duffy was thin as a broom handle, with one bulging eye that looked ready to pop out and roll down the street. He sported a wispy mustache he kept parting with two fingers, pretending he was some fancy gentleman deep in thought. His teeth were a crooked, yellow mess—half of them cracked like old pottery.

Duppy, on the other hand, was built like Uncle Vernon from Harry Potter after three all-you-can-eat buffets. Piggy face, tiny rat eyes, puffy hands, and a mouth so thin it looked drawn on with a pencil.

As they crouched behind a hedge, Duffy hissed, “I hope you washed your gut tonight. We can’t have you farting mid-job again.”

“Are you seriously talking?” Duppy shot back. “You smell like a sewer decided to die in your armpits.”

“I don’t smell,” Duffy protested. “I’ve got a signature body scent.”

“Yeah, signature ‘Chicken and Ham."Even the mosquitoes drop-off rats give you a wide berth.”

“They respect me,” Duffy sniffed. “I’m a higher predator.”

“Predator of hygiene, maybe. When’s the last time you met soap, eh?”

“Shut it about my scent and answer the question—did you scrub that cannon you call a backside?”

“My gut’s fine,” Duppy grumbled. “Haven’t farted in hours. That’s not normal. I think I’m sick.”

“You’re always sick,” Duffy said with a nasty grin. “Any man who farts like thunder has something wrong upstairs.”

“I do not fart like thunder. Last time just happened to line up with that car crash.”

“Right. And the security guards ran toward your ass instead of the smoking wreck.”

“Bad luck, man,” Duppy shrugged. “At least we got something out of it—that can of beans.”

Duffy’s eye bulged even further. “You mean the ten cans of expired beans you ate?”

“They tasted fine! Gave me energy.”

“You ate ten cans of beans that expired during the last war, you walking biohazard.”

Duppy’s tiny eyes narrowed. He hated when people commented on his eating. “Keep talking and I’ll sit on you.”

Duffy raised his hands. “Fine, fine. Let’s just do the damn job.”

The target was a modest house a few streets from the bank. An old smuggler’s map showed a forgotten wartime tunnel running from the basement straight into the vault. Perfect plan. Until they arrived.

“Shit,” Duffy whispered. “It’s occupied.”

Duppy peered over his shoulder. “They’re asleep. We just gotta be quiet, slip to the basement, and pew—money.”

“Can you be quiet?” Duffy asked, eyeing Duppy’s bulk.

“I’m stealth itself when I wanna be.”

They crept forward, hopping from shadow to shadow like cartoon burglars. Then—CLAAAANG!—Duppy walked straight into a metal trash can, sending the lid spinning like a cymbal.

Duffy spun around. “Shh! You trying to wake the whole damn town?”

“They’re heavy sleepers,” Duppy said, rubbing his shin. “Come on, Benjamins are waiting.”

They picked the back-door lock in under thirty seconds—finally something went right—and slipped inside.

Duppy let out a low whistle at the cozy living room.

Duffy slapped a hand over his mouth. “Quiet!”

Duppy peeled the hand away, gagging. “Lord, man, your breath and your pits together? I’m gonna die in here.”

“Focus!”

They tiptoed toward the basement stairs. Three steps from salvation, Duppy’s stomach rumbled like an approaching storm.

BRRRAAAAAPPPPPPP!

A fart of biblical proportions ripped through the silent house, loud enough to rattle the windows.

Duffy froze. Heavy footsteps thumped overhead.

“Hide!” He shoved Duppy into the broom closet under the stairs and squeezed in after him, pulling the door almost shut.

The Family

Through the crack they watched a man built like a refrigerator stomp down the stairs, followed by his equally massive wife and two teenagers who looked ready to cry.

“Jesus H. Christ!” the dad roared, slapping a hand over his nose. “Something crawl up in here and die?”

The kids were actually dry-heaving.

“Smells like a sewer main exploded,” the mom choked, pulling her scarf over her face.

Inside the closet, Duppy elbowed Duffy hard in the ribs and mouthed, “Your stink!”

Duffy shook his head frantically and whispered, “That was YOU, you human foghorn!”

The family fanned the air, cursed a bit more, then finally trudged back upstairs, muttering about calling an exterminator in the morning.

The second their bedroom door clicked shut, Duppy cracked the closet open. “We still doing this?”

Duffy took a cautious sniff of his own armpit, winced, then sighed. “Yeah. But if we get caught, I’m telling them the fart was the murder weapon and you pulled the trigger.”

Duppy grinned. “Deal. Long as we split the cash fifty-fifty.”

They crept toward the basement once more—two stinking, bickering disasters against the world—praying the tunnel was still there and that Duppy’s gut stayed quiet for at least five more minutes.

It didn’t.

But that’s a story for another night.

After the family headed back upstairs, Duffy waved at Duppy to crawl out on his hands and knees.

Duppy rolled his eyes. “For what, man?”

“So your big feet don’t clomp around like an elephant, genius,” Duffy hissed, smacking him upside the head.

Duppy shot him a death glare but dropped to all fours anyway and started creeping toward the basement door. Duffy followed right behind—and immediately regretted it when he realized his face was about six inches from Duppy’s backside.

Lord, please, Duffy prayed silently, I swear I’ll go straight after this one last job—just don’t let this fool gas me into next week.

Duppy was almost to the stairs when his stomach let out an ominous growl. He opened his mouth to warn Duffy, but nope—too late.

BRRRAAAAAPPPPP!

It sounded like a Harley backfiring in a tin shed. The blast hit Duffy square in the face, launching him backward a good five feet. He slammed into the floor, out cold, little cartoon birdies circling his head.

Duppy scrambled over and started slapping his cheeks. “I tried to tell you, bro! Crawling’s bad for my digestion!”

No response. Duffy was gone—lights out.

Then came the thunder of footsteps upstairs.

“Oh hell no—not AGAIN!” the dad bellowed.

Duppy heard the whole family charging for the basement. Panicking, he grabbed Duffy by the ankles and dragged him back down the stairs, heaving the limp body behind the water heater just as the dad flung the door open and flipped on the light.

They made it—just barely. Duffy was still unconscious, smelling like death, and Duppy sat there sweating bullets, trying to look like two innocent guys definitely not robbing the place.

When the family got to the basement door, they couldn’t even touch the knob—the stench was holding it hostage.

Through a pinched nose Henry croaked, “We can’t stay here tonight. We need the exterminator, like… emergency yesterday.” He gagged as the smell crawled into his mouth like it paid rent.

Without a word he frantically waved his wife and two kids outside, swearing on his life they’d sleep in the yard till morning.

“Henry!” his wife hollered, “what in God’s name died down there to make the house smell like raw sewage had a baby with death?”

“How should I know?” he barked, eyes streaming like it was raining. “This is beyond extraordinary—this is apocalyptic!”

They bolted outside with sleeping bags and a tent. The second it was half-ass pitched, Henry was already on the phone.

Dumpy and Lumpy

Three rings. A groggy voice answered, “This is Mr. Dumpy. You’ve reached the best exterminator in town. Whaddaya want at this hour?”

“This is Henry. My basement smells like a sewage disposal exploded. I need you here now.”

“It’s late, buddy. First thing in the morning.”

Right then another murderous cloud oozed out of the house and sucker-punched Henry straight in the nostrils. He started gagging and coughing like his lungs were trying to escape.

“You okay?” Mr. Dumpy asked, sounding like he couldn’t care less.

After thirty seconds of near-death, Henry wheezed, “I’ll double your fee if you come tonight. Please.”

Mr. Dumpy kicked the snoring lump beside him. “Hey, Lumpy! Job. Get your lazy ass up.”

Lumpy woke up mad, drool dripping off his chin, wiping it with the back of his hairy hand. “Man, I was having a good dream…”

“Shut it, Lumpy. Money. Now move.”

“It’s late,” Lumpy grumbled.

“Yeah, yeah, get packing.”

Later, down in the basement, Duppy let out a huge sigh of relief when he saw the family sprint out of the house. He bent over Duffy  and lightly slapped his face.

“Cut it out, man, we’re in the clear,” he whispered, then noticed the perfect little bald spot smack in the center of Duffy’s head where the mega-fart had literally scorched the hair clean off.

Duppy winced, crossed his fingers, and muttered, “Please God, let him never notice…”

The Arrival

Dumpy and Lumpy arrived at Mr. Henry's residence and saw the family sleeping in bags outside in a tent. "Must be serious for them to be out here," Lumpy said, using his finger to clean his nose and then licking it.

"Yeah, more money for us," said Dumpy as he reached Mr. Henry.

Mr. Henry hurried to them with a breath of relief. "Thank you guys for coming. Please go inside and check it out."

At that moment, a stench wafted out of the window and hit Lumpy square in the nose, and he fell to the ground groaning. "That's a very bad sign," Dumpy said, looking at his partner. "What happened, Lumpy?"

Lumpy gagged. "Jesus Christ, that smell nearly killed me."

"I told you," Mr. Henry said.

Dumpy kicked Lumpy and told him to man up and not be a chickenshit.

They hurriedly put on their gear as Mr. Henry cheered them on eagerly, waiting for the good news.

Dumpy and Lumpy hurried into the house, hoping to get some quick cash—and double at that. Well, time will tell.

In The Basement 

Duppy smacked Duffy harder this time, and he came to with a start. "What happened? And why am I on the ground?"

"You passed out," Duppy said, not meeting his eye.

"Yeah, after you farted an atomic bomb directly at me," Duffy said, feeling his head. He came to the bald part that the fart had blown away on his head.

"Jesus Christ, did I just go bald from your damn fart?"

"It's just a minor hindrance. It will grow back," Duppy said, not looking at him.

"Damnit, Duppy, why would you do this to me? Oh no, I'm bald, I'm bald," Lumpy whined. "You're going to pay for this."

"Calm down."

"Calm down? You foghorn!" he snarled and jumped on Duppy, who swatted him away. At that moment, they heard the noise upstairs, and they both froze.

"Damn, it smells like a sewage dump in here," Dumpy said, slapping his mask over his face.

Lumpy remembered the smell that hit him outside and shuddered. He thought this might be their worst job yet, but he was worried to tell Dumpy about it. He felt they would not come out unscathed, but he kept quiet and slapped his mask over his face too—not before smelling something that had died a hundred years ago.

The Final Confrontation

Dumpy and Lumpy hurried to the basement. As they neared the door that leads to the basement, the smell was so strong that Dumpy noticed his mask was cracking. He signaled to Lumpy, "My mask is about to crack; this is beyond us."

"Told you so," Lumpy signaled back. "I had a taste of the whiffs." He demonstrated the time he had passed out briefly when the smell had hit him.

"But the money is good," Dumpy signaled back.

"Yeah, at a risk of what?" Lumpy signaled.

"Let’s move on. This could turn out like last time; it was bad, but we made a quick buck," Dumpy signaled.

"Last time the smell wasn’t like this, and we did it without the mask," Lumpy shot back.

They pushed on, the prospect of triple pay motivating them. They reached the door and Lumpy wondered if they had been walking for hours because, by then, he was sweating. He could see that Dumpy wasn’t doing fine too, and he watched as he hesitated to open the door. He knew the door had been shielding them, and if it opened and the full force hit them, he didn’t want to think what would happen to him. He prepared his soul, hoping he didn’t have to defend himself from the Maker claiming he was killed by a smell.

In the basement, Duffy and Duppy froze and listened hard. They knew someone was at the door and Duffy had a nasty grin. He knew what was holding them back and he wondered if his scent or that fart of Duppy's is what would save them. He grinned again and thought, "Come in if you're man enough."

He mouthed to Duppy, "Now is the time to release that blast you are holding; I could feel you trembling holding it."

"Are you sure?" Duppy muttered, eyeing the door.

"Yes, do it now."

Duppy positioned his rear just in front of the door and bent a little. He waited for Duffy to give him the signal.

Dumpy had made a pact with his Maker after he had seen his mask cracking. He had prayed to change jobs, and as he stood there wondering whether to open the door, he knew he had bargained too little for the pay. This called for a truckload of cash. He steeled himself and opened the door a crack, and the only thing he heard before the blast hit him hard and shattered his mask was the word: "NOW!"

Duffy had been looking at the door and he held his breath, knowing he too wasn’t safe from Duppy’s fart. He parted his hair, touching the missing patch at the center. He wondered what the people at the other end of the door would feel. He watched as the door opened a crack, tapped Duppy on the head, and shouted, "NOW!"

He could feel the vibration as the air left his rear. He watched as it slammed the door and passed through the crack to hit the man he had glanced at wearing a mask.

Lumpy was lucky; he was standing behind Dumpy when the blast hit him. He was lucky he only had cracked ribs from the hit he got from Dumpy. He hurried to Dumpy and was amazed to see his mask had completely been blown off and Dumpy was out cold. That was when the smell hit his own cracked mask, and he could see the crack widening. He hurriedly carried Dumpy in a fireman's style and ran out of the room. He swore he heard a laugh and a voice saying, "Serve you guys right!"

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