The day after the Flatulenz Fairy Princess Tremorroid Titiana absconded with his enchanted jock strap, the Fartmeister (dba The King of the Fart Ghouls) was in a foul mood, and at such times he was extremely disagreeable. Everyone avoided him, even his loyal royal flackfizer, the bluish-gray naked-except-for-sneakers-and-glasses raptor Kankersaur.

  Therefore the Fartmeister stormed and raved all by himself, stewing and stomping around and around in the luxurious home theater of his fartcano headquarters and getting more and more steamed all the time. Then he remembered that it was no fun being in such a miserable mood unless he had some one to frighten and make even more miserabler than he. One wall of the home theater was dominated by a multi-faceted control panel, the Fartmeister rushed to it and gave a big fleshy horn on the right side a big moist honk.

  "Pppp-pph-pph-fffffrrrrt-t-t," went the horn.

  Through the lobby-facing orifice (which had been stuck open since Titiana left) came Kankersaur, trying not to show the Fartmeister how frightened he was.

  "Kanker! I’ve been in a snit ever since that namby-pamby fairy tremorroid and her dumb brown cocka-dum-dum bird defeated me with those accursed terds, liberated the Farshtunkeners, and stole my enchanted jock strap! Every few minutes I want to do something thaumaturgical, and find I can't because the jock strap is gone. That makes me apoplectical, and when I'm apoplectical I can't have a good time. Now, what do you advise?"

  "Some people," said Kankersaur, "enjoy getting apoplectical."

  "But not all the time," declared the king. "To be apoplectical once in a while is good, but to be apoplectical morning, noon and night, as I am, grows monotonous and prevents my gaining any other pleasure from life. Now, what do you advise, flackfizer?"

  "Why, if you are irked because you want to do thaumaturgistic things and can't, and if you don't want to get irked at all, my advice is not to want to do thaumaturgistic things."

  Hearing this, the king glared at his advisor with a furious expression and tugged at his bushy black beard.

  "You are a dork-butt!" he finally exclaimed, and farted with rage and stamped his foot.

  "I am a lowborn, miserable, insecure, jerk-face dork-butt," declared Kankersaur, humbly, bowing his large head.

  The Fartmeister could think of nothing to say next, so he puffed away at his roachberry pipe and paced up and down the theater. Finally he remembered how enraged he was, and cried out: "How are we to get the jock strap back!?"

  "You will have to go to Bonertania to recover it, and your fartiness can't get to Bonertania in any possible way," said Kankersaur, yawning because he had been on duty for sixty-nine hours, and was sleepy. "There is a toxic wasteland all around that fairyland, which no one is able to cross. You know that fact as well as I do. Never mind the lost jock strap. You have plenty of power left in the books and tomes in your library, and many alchemistic tools and ingredients. I advise you to drink a frosted martimmy, to quiet your nerves, and then go to bed."

  The Fartmeister grabbed a big petrified poostick from the theater’s umbrella stand and threw it at Kankersaur's head. Kankersaur ducked to escape the heavy poostick, which crashed against the door just over his head.

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  "Get out of my sight! Vanish! Vamoose! Go away- and send the new kommandant in here," screamed the Fartmeister.

  Kankersaur hastily withdrew, and the Fartmeister stamped up and down until the leader of his ninja armies appeared. This gaunt fellow was named Kommandant Whiff, and had gotten his promotion the day before when Kommandant Zant exploded into a cloud of gore. This fart ghoul was known far and wide as a terrible kung-fu fighter and a cruel, desperate military leader. The fifty thousand ninjas, all well drilled and trained in the use of weapons and kung-fu, feared nothing but their stern master. Yet Kommandant Whiff was a trifle uneasy when he arrived and saw how piqued the Fartmeister was.

  "Ha! So you're here!" cried the Fartmeister.

  "So I am," said Whiff.

  "March your army at once to Bonertania, capture and destroy Schmegma City, and bring back to me my jock strap!" roared the Fartmeister.

  "You're crazy," calmly remarked the kommandant.

  "What's that? What's that? What's that?" And the Fartmeister danced around, he was so enraged.

  "You don't know what you're talking about," continued the kommandant, seating himself upon a couch. "In the first place, we cannot march across the deadly toxic wasteland to Bonertania; and, if we could, the ruler of that country, Tremorroid Titiana, now has powers so great that they would render my army helpless. Had you not lost your jock strap we might have some chance of defeating Titiana; but the enchanted athletic supporter is long gone."

  "I want it!" screamed the Fartmeister. "I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it! I want it! What I’m trying to say is I must have it."

  "Well," said Kommandant Whiff, thoughtfully. "There are two ways to get to Bonertania without traveling across the toxic wasteland."

  "What are they?" demanded the Fartmeister, eagerly.

  "One way is over the wasteland, and the other way is under the wasteland."

  Hearing this the Fartmeister farted a fart of joy and leaped from his recliner, to resume his wild walk up and down the cavern.

  "That's it, Whiff!" he shouted. "That's the idea, kommandant! I'll make a secret tunnel under the wasteland to Schmegma City- and you will march your armies there and capture the city!"

  "Whoa, whoa, whoa, your majesty. Don't go too fast," warned the kommandant. "My ninjas are good fighters, but they are not strong enough to conquer Schmegma City."

  "Are you sure?" asked the Fartmeister.

  "Absolutely certain, your majesty."

  "Then what am I to do?"

  "Give up the idea and mind your own business," advised the kommandant. "You have plenty to do trying to rule your fartcano kingdom."

  "But I want that jock strap- and I'm going to have it!" roared the Fartmeister.

  "And I'd like to see you have it," replied the kommandant.

  The Fartmeister was by this time so exasperated that he picked up another petrified poostick and threw it with all his force at Kommandant Whiff. The poostick hit the Kommandant upon his forehead and knocked him flat upon the ground, where he lay motionless. Then the Fartmeister honked his moist meaty horn and told his guards to drag out the kommandant and run him through the giant meat tenderizer; which they did.

  The Fartmeister had resolved to destroy Schmegma City, conquer Bonertania, enslave Tremorroid Titiana and all the Sifillis Celebrities, and recover his stolen jock strap. The Fartmeister could not forgive Titiana, and he had determined to be revenged upon her.

  He farted, moistly and determinedly.