Marriage Stinks by Donald Rump

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Mackelroy Puggsley thought he'd heard it all until an odd man named Bilby Bloob shows up in his lobby one morning. When Bilby demands a marriage license for his gassy wife, the old man puts his foot down. Sure, it's one thing to marry your high school sweetheart, but a fart? Who in the world marries farts?

"Well I'm not going anywhere until you give us a marriage license," Bilby insisted.

"Is that so?" Mackelroy cracked his knuckles.

Marriage Stinks is a work of fart fiction. It is intended for mature audiences, and is approximately 3,500 words in length.

EXCERPT FROM MARRIAGE STINKS

“Hey there, buddy.” A middle-aged man with thick, unkempt sideburns stepped up to the counter. He wore a coffee-colored t-shirt with palm trees on it and crinkly, blue shorts that fell past his knees.

“Well, good morning.” Mackelroy Puggsley took in the odd view. “How may I be of service?”

“You sell marriage licenses, right?”

“Unfortunately, we do.” Mackelroy stroked his short, snowy beard. The mere mention of marriage brought back bitter memories of his recent divorce. “But if you’d prefer a quick death, perhaps I can interest you in a motorcycle license instead,” the old man quipped.

“Nah, that’s all right. A standard marriage license will do.”

“Are you sure? It isn’t too late to change your mind. No one else has to know about it but us. It can be our secret,” Mackelroy whispered, careful not to offend any of the female patrons within earshot of him.

“Don’t worry about me. I won’t be changing my mind anytime soon. She’s a really great…uh…woman.”

“Is that so?”

“The absolute best.”

“Trust me, that’s what they all say.” Mackelroy considered the wiry, pathetic man for an instant. “Very well. But when you’re lying on your deathbed, just remember that I tried to talk some sense into you.” He reached into the drawer and pulled out a fresh certificate.

“Could you make that to go?” the man asked.

“To go? What do you think this is, some sort of fast food restaurant? I realize that cannabis is legal in the great state of Colorado and everyone’s on a rocky mountain high, but this isn’t a drive-through. It’s the DMV! Would you like a side of fries while you’re at it? How about some extra cheese for that shit sandwich that you’re serving up?” Mackelroy crossed his arms.

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