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

 

Duffy and Duppy

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 ‘Eau de Dead Rat.’ 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 aroma 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.

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.

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