Stinky McFootson's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Stinky McFootson wanted one thing: to stop being the stinkiest person in Flatuland. The shoes made that impossible. They had fused to Stinky's feet three days ago, and they would not come off. Every minute, like clockwork, they let out a wet, rumbling fart. The smell was pure sewage. Stinky yanked at the heels until both hands blistered. The shoes stayed glued. Another minute passed. Another fart. People crossed the street to avoid the cloud. Stinky sat on a curb and pulled again. The laces snapped. The tongues tore. The shoes held like they were part of the skin. A sharp whistle cut the air. A battered RV rolled up and stopped. Its paint was covered in cartoon doodles and bright stickers. Rounded windows caught the light. A door swung open with a squeal. A man leaned out. His skin was pale gray, and his eyes glowed bright purple. He wore a lab coat over a dark shirt. He sniffed once and grinned. "You've got the shoes," he said. "I had them too, years back. FartStain. I cured myself." Stinky stood fast. Hope burned through the shame. "You got them off? How?" "Not pulling. Never pulling." FartStain stepped down. He held a small jar of swirling black dust. "Dark matter. It eats the curse, not the foot. But it's picky." He crouched and studied the shoes. Another fart ripped out between them. He didn't flinch. "You need a living pull. Something with the same curse in its blood." He whistled again. From the RV waddled a small creature with a lumpy, painted shell. It puffed a cloud of gas from its mouth with every step. It smelled worse than Stinky. It stared up with droopy eyes. "That thing?" Stinky said. "It shares your stink. It can grip what you can't." FartStain poured the black dust around the shoes. The dust soaked in and hissed. The leather softened. "Now. It bites the heel. You pull up. On three." Stinky's stomach twisted. The creature opened a wide mouth full of flat teeth. Stinky braced both hands on its lumpy shell. "One," said FartStain. "Two." The creature chomped the right heel. "Three." Stinky hauled. The shoe peeled off with a long, sucking pop. Stinky fell backward onto the curb. The right foot was bare, pale, and free. They did the left the same way. It popped off too. Both cursed shoes lay in the gutter, twitching, still farting on their own. Stinky wiggled ten bare toes and laughed out loud. No fart came. The air was clean. For one perfect breath, Stinky stood odorless in Flatuland. Then the smell crept back. Stinky looked down. The bare feet themselves were turning gray. A soft hiss rose from between the toes. The curse hadn't died. It had moved. It was in the skin now. FartStain stopped grinning. "Oh," he said. "That's new."