My half of a trade w/  siafa. If you enjoyed this story, check out his flashes and stories! They involve similar fetishes.

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Hundreds of worshipers would wind along the path leading into the poison dragon’s Lair at meal-time. They towed wagons and wheelbarrows of food, including cheese-wheels, honey-basted pigs choked with apples, plump peaches and pears and plums, guacamole wraps, raw fish, smoked sausages, and so on and so forth. Live meals, like cow, oxen, ensnared deer and elk, they brought too, and this greatly appeased Sini. The greater they appeased Sini, the greater his after-meal belches. The greater those, the less likely he’d devour their friends and families come Cycle’s end.

After every meal, Sini’s belches would echo across the Jagged Valley of The Land. “Bwruuuuuwuuuuuuwurrp!” Mountainsides would wobble. Snakes of toxic gas the color of plums would wriggle into the sky, polluting the atmosphere with a stench of meat and fruit too long marinated in stomach juice. Worshipers within an eighth a mile of his belches would grow nauseous. Some swooned on belch number one. Those more tolerant fled for oxygen. For at least fifteen minutes Sini’s purple middle would continue to lazily swell like a balloon and he’d continue eructing rude death. “Huurrrrrrrruaaaaaalck!” “Hruooooohoooooaaawck!” He’d punch his neck out with every belch, the corners of his eyes and mouth crinkling to the intensity of each gaseous roar. No matter how hard he burped, the rate of gas production would surpass that of gas release for almost half an hour after the last entree, and his poison belly would expand until it smothered his knees, until the burbling flab swallowed half his ankles. “GrrrrrrruwoooooooOooop!” Uncouth belch fired from from his slobbery maw time and again, and his worshipers coughed and wheezed post-meal prostration. By the time Sini finished the last belch of a meal, the Lair would be opaque and purple, the air hot and humid, the clothes of the worshipers sour and sweaty and sticky with Sini’s swampy meat stink. And areas of Jagged Valley a mile-long radius from the Lair wouldn’t be breathable. And anyone and anything who breathed the air of the toxified areas perished. And so Survival of the Sinist had long ago made extinct anyone both faint of heart and too stubborn to pack a mask on their person.

The first days of feeding the dragon, the worshipers did so not because they loved his vile burps. The first days, they had feared him. By and by, Sini grew on them both character-wise, belly-wise and belch-wise. Worshiping him became an increasingly large facet of their day to day, eventually the sole purpose of their lives.

Today, Sini’s name was synonymous with ‘god.’ So passionately his worshipers loved him, they’d choose to breathe his rotten venomous gas than to breathe without that. About fifty percent of The Land’s people, protesters, refused to worship Sini. Would that things were up to them, they would slay the dragon. But with every meal, the atmosphere around his Lair grew ever more raunchy and ghastly, and the dragon’s fortress of loyal worshipers larger. Planning Sini’s demise proved impossible.

Look to the mountains parallel to those of Sini’s Lair. Dwelling in a small Cave was a lesser poison dragon named Fowg. Fowg stood 14’ to Sini’s 13’2”. And every of Sini’s after-meal orchestras, Fowg would hear from his humble Cave, watching pollution spew into the Valley below. Fowg had never come shadow’s reach from Sini, but he both loved and hated the other dragon: he loved the belching wyrm for his noxious bellows, but hated him because he was the bellower, and not Fowg.

“I live in Rejection’s shadow, so far from Sini’s I can’t even be by him overshadowed. Forget trying to be him.”

Every meal, Fowg tried to binge to the same extreme as Sini. But he couldn’t stomach more than a goat or two per session. If he could, it’d not matter: Sini’s eating habits made game scarce in the Jagged Valley. You’d have better luck finding a four-leaf clover than game in the twenty-mile-long territory despoiled of food by Sini’s worshipers. Fowg chose to leave the rats be than to instigate a quarrel with the Belching God himself.

In the gurgling aftermath of a meal, Fowg would pace his Cave, his canyon-maroon belly nicely hung. Now and then, he’d have the hunch he had to fart. He’d arch his rear real far back, force a noise from grinding teeth, and say, “Here comes . . . a huge, potent fart that’ll send Sini’s worshipers flocking to my arse to praise . . .” Then he’d make this constipated face, flaring his wings which scraped shrilly along the roof, pushing hard on his tail-vent.

Ffffft . . . prrfpht!

Flat wet gas would vent from his tail-hole, puttering out with a weak bwpff . . .

A couple of fumes would rise over his tail, fading as quickly as they came. Huffing, Fowg would wheel around, see the amount of produced gas, then give up a practised sigh.

One day, Fowg heard rumors. Awful news for The Lands. Newfound hope for Fowg.

Supposedly an amorphous monster was destroying and devouring everything in sight, growing more monstrous and more gluttonous every feast. When Fowg caught wind of these words, his face brightened. “Sini may be gassier, but I’ve got my combat skills. I’ll track down this monster and slay him. And in their gratitude Sini’s worshipers ‘ll come flocking to me — gorge me with food me as token of thanks. Once Sini’s diet is mine, I’ll blow his burps out of the water with my back-end.”

Fowg set out. While Sini was busying himself with his worshipers [head so high in the clouds of his own belches, he hadn’t heard the rumors], Fowg traveled The Lands, skirting the shadowy edges of villages, eavesdropping on convos and gathering clues.

Evidence pointed him East. He flew that way, but along the way he got distracted. He saw a Den jutting out of the same mountainside as his Cave — how hadn’t he seen that Den before? Curious, Fowg for this moment forgot his quest and entered.

Dragon eyesight adjusted to the dim lighting. Fowg scouted the place out. Suddenly, something sticky and moist like aloe but gooey like honey splatted on his snout. It had the warmth of a beast’s blood, the smell of lime gelatin. This Something’s strong, acrid smell made him cringe before it dribbled to his lips. Reacting on impulse, Fowg licked This Something up. This Something’s taste was just as strong as its smell, causing him to shudder. This Something — a hazardous green goo — continued to drip from above. Fowg caught each drop like a dehydrated dragon under a gutter post-storm, crooning to thick, soothing texture oozing down his gullet. He ate and ate. And as he did, This Something — this slime — plopped drop by drop into his stomach acids. And as it did, Fowg felt pressurized air begin to balloon the fleshy sausages inside his G.I tract. Then his tail lifted, revealing an un-puckering star.

A punchy fart shuddered the Den, echoing through the space for a couple of seconds. Its sour, acidic smell put wrinkles on Fowg’s muzzle. “Ew. That was . . . that was great.”

Fowg heard his belly grumble. He smirked, ducked down and spread his legs, lifting his tail again. A second one rapped noisily out of his deflating intestines. The stench was palpable only to poison dragons and masochists. “Phew . . . did I do that?”

He decided to fly to the tier of rock the slime dripped from. Ahead of him lay an upwards-sloping tunnel. A trail of slime ran up the tunnel’s length, disappearing into the heights. Fowg followed the trail, bobbing his nose, lapping up all the slime on his climb up. Halfway up the tunnel, his belly became slightly distended, curving like the beak of a bird. He halted, listening to toxic gases croaking and squeaking inside his hanging middle at low baritones. They spoke politely, but grew impatient, knocking and knocking and swelling against his rectum. He grunted then pressed a paw to his paunch.

PrrAaAapf!

It felt like he’d farted up five full-course meals. Fowg made an echoing moan. Both the force and the stink of that one had a cow’s kick. Satisfied, Fowg resumed mopping up the slime trail. And every minute or so he’d produce a punchier, smellier fart, strangling the cave’s stale smell to death with his own raunchy, noxious one.

FwroOomph! The tunnel’s stone acoustics amplified Fowg’s echoes of flatus, so you could hear them from the doorway of the Den below. Fft ppff booMMpht! “Oof. Hear that, Sini?” FRrRuumbt. Humping the ground on his belly, Fowg squeezed out a rattly FFffffT! that sounded like a band of brass horns, the reverberation creating a phantom chorus.

Belly now swollen to have a canoe’s curve, Fowg exited the tunnel. Forest light basked him. With his eyes he sketched the trail of slime. It wound into the Woods, the trail thickening to about the girth of his thigh. He wandered through the trees, erasing evidence of the slime gulp by gulp. His stomach bulged with slime and gas, burbling nearly halfway down his thighs. The gas trapped inside had something to say.

FrrrrRrrt! . . . FfblArrrt! Humming deeply as he supped, Fowg dispensed gas of the same force, length and stink as previously, but thrice as quickly now: every fifteen to twenty seconds. As his tart lime stink wafted through the woods, foliage withered, and berries fell from the decalcifying branches of browning berry bushes.

The poison dragon’s colon whined to a buildup of gas. His ass had the gaseous heaviness of five full-course meals. Fowg spread his limbs lithely and prostrated, fat pucker perked against a tree-hole; his middle gave a moist, gargling sound. Out came a heavy, deep, intestines-massaging frRrRrrrrrRp! followed by a dramatic sigh. The brawny blast filled the tree-hole with stinky gas, choking a pair of squirrels inside; nuts clattered in the hollow, the squirrels falling limp atop them. Fwwt fwRrRRrrnt! Even with his ass still in the trunk of the tree, the sound made nuts on the forest floor jitter about. The acre of forestry itself rumbled. Fowg panted in his own gassy exhaust fumes, then squeezed out another ripe blast. BrrRrrooMmmp! Critters nearby grew faint, and with sloth tried to hobble away from the tendrils of toxic filth.

PrrMMmmmfph! Frrrff! ff! bfrrrRrRrrph!

Fowg grunted lewdly, another series of hot farts booming from his backend. Shaking from the thrill of release, Fowg returned to feeding, as obsessed with the slime trail as a druggie with dust. He farted again and again, growing ever more proud of his farts. Now he was hardly able to take four steps before swinging his snout to the grass, screwing his eyes and ripping another vicious blast to taint the surrounding Woods. He was pumping out stomach gas liberally, constantly hauling pneumatic weight from his posterior.

BrrRRoommuRph!

Yet Fowg was hungry. He planned on getting even more gassy. He ate and ate, breaking wind, glowing fumes steaming from his asshole and smelling of rotten eggs and dead chicken and decayed beef. Despite his stomach’s capacity to compress gas, it bloated to halfway down his thigh, gurgling and shaking sporadically. “Mmf!” A symphony of toxic gunk echoed from his gut. Digging his forepaws deep into the ground to brace himself, Fowg hammered out a long, wet, slimy, rumbling fart that bruised his tail-flap. Trees were dying; creatures were suffocating. But his stomach kept growing, and it felt too good to stop.

The trail led him to a tavern in the center of a clearing. Slime wandered through its ajar front doors. He went inside, and as soon as he did he felt the urge to let everyone know who was in the building. FffbrrurUUURUrmpt! It was the longest, loudest fart he could muster, yet there was no reply; seemingly the tavern was empty.

Fowg slung himself over the bar, panting happily in his sweaty haze of gas. He clawed into the edge of the bar, clenching his paws every time he let out a boisterous blast of gas, and by and by, the first floor of the tavern resembled a sauna of green haze. Once done, he returned to pursuing the trail of slime, gulping and gulping the substance up a set of stairs; gulping and gulping into a hallway flanked with many rooms. A light breeze blew from a bedroom straight ahead, coincidentally where the slime led.

Fowg went inside. One of the bedroom walls had been removed — smashed completely away — but Fowg gave the empty space a fleeting glance. His eyes were mesmerized by the slime trail, which wound itself into a round wooden tub. Instead of water, this tub bubbled at the brim with the lime-green slime. Now, unimportant details — such as a single slobbered boot on the floor, and bedsheets dragged from the bed over the edge of open wall — left Fowg’s care. He concerned himself only with the slime, with pecking his snout into its sweet surface and then wildly, thirstily glugging. Gas roiled ever more anxiously in his innards. He panted hard, then a heavy bwwRrrRRRRooOOMmph! shook the room. Bulky, nasty gas congested the space. Once full, the space ejected the rest down the hallway, flooding the stairs with the swampy concoction. Some of the gas vented from the open wall, scaling toward the higher-ups of the Woods, where birds and squirrels fainted or fled before breathing too much of the nauseating fumes. FFFRRrrrrroooot! . . . PrruMMmmurrupmPHT! . . . FwwwwRRRRrbmmbf! The brassy legs of the bed vibrated violently. Paint peeled from the walls facing his pucker. The poison dragon’s digestive system toiled arduously, churning up more toxic gas than he could fart. Rapidly dissolving the slime he ate, his stomach distended to his knees, bloated with poisongas.

The fog never fully cleared. To this day, the upper floor of that tavern smells like Fowg’s lunch.

He coughed and hacked on the fumes of his own toxic smokescreen; dying for fresh air, he staggered to the edge of the open space then took a deep breath. He sighed but began choking on laughter halfway through the sigh, thinking about how potent his gas was becoming. Here he was, sending thick gaseous plumes up from a threshold like Sini belching at the foot of his Lair.

“Soon . . . I’m going to become even gassier than Sini could possibly dream of.” He let out a loud PrrrFFFFFfoofFFFpt! without little effort, and snickered evilly. “To hell with that monster hunt — this slime trail will make me gassier than any of Sini’s worshipers with their cheese-wheels and their honey-basted pigs ever could.”

Thick green goop cascaded down the wall of the second story, smearing that side of the building and beyond it bulldozing across a landscape of trees. Farther out, the landscape grew greyer and gloomier. Belly gurgling deeply and grossly, Fowg alighted on the grass. He got to devouring the trail again. Here the trail thickened almost as wide as Fowg himself, yet with his high metabolism and gas-compression capacity, he lapped it up yard by yard.

Head clouded with lust [and his own steady output of farts], Fowg hurriedly ingested the trail, finding himself in a decaying Grove. Ashen trees stood around him, along with dead stalks of grass flanked by fresh, bubbling pools of green ooze; and the air, just like the air constantly being broken from his tail-vent, thickened in the form of a swampy green mist. But Fowg neither dawdled to slurp up every pond or inhale the potent, acrid air; he exacted pleasure from the slime trail, which grew as heavy and as adhesive as tar.

FffFFt! FrrrRRrrrrrRRrrrRRRRRt! Hefty, swampy gas quaked the grove; and young trees and thin trees crackled, leaned, wrenched free from their roots, and thundered down. FffBBBbbRRooOOOmphurt! Overloaded with swampy gas, the poison dragon’s belly ached with pressure. The compacted wind inflated his gut to his knees. Now, he trudged with the difficulty of a moderately intoxicated person, his tummy shoving against his thighs.

It got so bad, he couldn’t walk straight. Panting, Fowg put his forepaws on one of the fallen trees that hadn’t withstood his flatulent quakes. It inclined his gas to roll to his rump, which temporarily relieved his stomach of weight while further burdening his intestines. The fleshy barrel of his ass was almost kissing the ground. Presently, a deep, howling fart mortared the earth, sending a lightning-shaped fissure zagging for five yards back. Malodorous green curtains rose from the fissure, which steamed like a volcanic crag. Then, to prove that first fart wasn’t beginner’s luck, Fowg heired a great BRrrRuOOoOORUrrRrRTT, and then a PrrRUMMooMpPpHHHHHHHHH, both of which toppled nearby trees and gassed the lands with their sweaty, festering stink. Then Fowg let a lewd huff of ecstasy out. For a second, he felt emptier, somewhat relieved. Before he could say aah, his stomach warbled, groaned and grew yet again; it not only regained the bloat it had just farted out but transcended it.

Wobbly at his legs, now, the poison dragon squeezed his bowels, dropping fart after raunchy fart, the force like battleship anchors striking shores. Hot gales blew tree bark off the hides of trees and immediately then chopped clean through their trunks, toppling more trees, sweeping dying leaves and dead critters into the air, the latter of which fell back to the ground more quickly. While exhausting his gas undepletable, Fowg felt his stomach grow to the thick part of his lower legs; he thought to himself:

At this rate, not only will I become gassier than Sini; I’ll become immobile. If I’m too far away to show everyone who’s the gassiest, what good is that?

So Fowg ripped, expelled, ejected, and eructed farts as furiously as he could. FwwWWWwwWRRROOOOMmPH! BwwrRRrrrrrRROOOOUUMMFT! BoooOOOooOOOOOOOOOooOoM! Roots of trees rose like the fingers of falling rakes; trees fell over landslides, sliding themselves down, along with trickles of raccoons, squirrels, foxes, deer, bears, and such; and wherever the fog of gas rolled, plants withered and flowers died and lakes boiled and fish turned side-side-up. Yet, Fowg’s gut only increased in size, now down to about sock-level, would that dragons wore socks. And the air turned a fervid green shade. Whose territory this was was now indisputable.

Except, it was. Something amorphous, something monstrous, something that had caused this Grove’s decay and this Land’s trail of slime: it sensed a threat. It sensed a spreading of poison. Poison of its own making, yet vaster, stronger. Activated to its full potential by a creature more powerful. It knew this instantly, the way that one knows their leg — or another important part of them — has become numb, what with it cramping up.

A ghastly, blubbery, sickly blob. It stretched to twice Fowg’s height [to twenty-eight feet high]; and it sweated vile green sludge inherent to its genetics. Infuriated that some creature had thrived off its residuum, it smoldered, and its surface sizzled and burped wrathfully, a whole congregation of blurp-blup-bwlb-bwl-burp playing, harmonizing, smoking over its smelly, translucent, dome-shaped figure.

This creature — the Slime Mother — had absorbed cave-dwellers, forest creatures and forestry, tavern-inhabitants, and sacred creatures and flora of the Grove, and had grown to a size beyond the dragons’ from the size of a thumbnail within a few days. This creature — the Slime Mother — had been cut from the cloth of Envy, Jealousy, thoughts of Greed and of Gluttony, woven by a poisonous dragon.

[You’re reaped by what you sew.]

The giant, gelatinous green dome shoved through trees, shaking them and absorbing additional flora as it went, growing to twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one feet high. If Fowg had no ears, no nose, no sense of feeling, maybe he would’ve been caught unawares. Maybe, if the Slime Mother did not sound like a cauldron of boiling goo, smell like the sweetest of festering filth, or with its approach shake the earth like a seismic fit. But Fowg had ears, a nose, and a sense of feeling. So, although his own dense gloom of gas clouds and the screwing shut of his eyes [with every one of his delicious farts] blinded him, he couldn’t ignore the approaching presence. The very stink of that venomous Slime Mother demoted Fowg’s flatulence to “Fresh Air” and the dragon himself to “Daisy.” Smelling the Slime Mother, Fowg’s head grew light and his vision dark. That very stink revealed the underlying dichotomy of unpleasantry to a poison dragon: how fetid it was, yet how simultaneously aromatic . . .

He worried. Sure, he was alert. But with the fog of his own gas he was blind. He did his best to block out the surging presence of the Slime Mother, closing his eyes. My sight can adjust to darkness, he thought to himself. What it can’t adjust to is this stink. It’s like trying to see through a thick sheet. And then,

[You reap what you sew.]

In his own words, Fowg thought of this statement converse to the previous parenthetical aside. Suddenly, his solution was too clear — literally to clear.

The poison dragon spread his wings, like a flower blooming to thoroughly photosynthesize. Just so, he planted his feet firmly then braced his muscles, beginning to glow. Farts erupted from his arse still, but he’d started absorbing his own poison gas through his scaly pores. The rate of consumption raced a hundred times faster than that of production. Surely enough, the gas clouds cleared; and the dragon himself evolved from his own toxic nourishment, growing to fifteen, sixteen, seventeen feet tall. The huge desert-maroon horns, claws, and thorns jutting from his body blossomed wildly, thickening and elongating like bramble vines. The result was a more terrifying, more toxic dragon. His capacity to hold and force to release flatulence had skyrocketed.

PRRRRRRFFFRFFRFRRRRFFFRFT! A roar of destructive gas forced the dragon’s pucker open wide as a log. The clap of thunder rang through the Grove, leveling trees, causing small landslides, and gassing fleeing birds out of the sky. “Hrrrngh!” BWWWWRWRRRRMMMMMMMOOMMMMMPHH! Rotten, rancid filth polluted the air with poisonous, opaque green. The air had received no opportunity to enjoy its momentary status as “fresh.” Dreadful plumes spread. PFFTFTFT BRRRROOOMMPT FRRRRRRRRUMMMMMMMMMMMRRRUURHHPT! Mighty, unearthly gas escaped from the hellish portal of his asshole, wreaking havoc on the Grove. As heavy and thick as the ancients, the smell of flatulence now overwhelmed the stink of the Slime Mother. Trepidation seeded deep in the Mother’s core.

Yet, trepidation was cousin to thrill. Should the Slime Mother consume Fowg in its [and his] gluttony, the Slime Mother would become the strongest, gassiest creature in The Lands three times over: the greatest threat to The Lands in recorded history. The Slime burbled excitedly, continuing to absorb whatever lay in its wake; and it had swelled to thirty-two feet high by the time its shadow drew over the farting Fowg.

Their encounter was unceremonious. Fowg kept releasing thunderous claps of wind, leveling forestry. This the Mother did not mind: it was a creature of instinct, unbound to the trivialities of intellect. It wobbled, warbled, wriggled toward its catch. And Fowg went on with his life, blasting hot gas right into the Slime’s body, like a farmer fattening up a cow. With every FRRRRRRRMMMMMMMBMPTPTPTPTPTPH and BWWWPWFFFFFFTTFTPPWWBPWBPWBPWT from Fowg’s gaping rim, the Slime Mother swelled and blimped, becoming bigger, more blubbery, and thirty-eight feet tall.

The way the Mother had pulled over cave-dwellers, forest creatures and forestry, tavern-inhabitants, and sacred creatures and flora of the Grove, the Mother now pulled over the poison dragon Fowg. If we recognize the pattern and decide that the trend shall continue, then surely Fowg’s about to be absorbed by Mother.

That didn’t happen. Gelatinous green enveloped the poison dragon, and seismic quakes of gas continued to explode, bubbling, brewing, expanding the Slime Mother’s form. But what the Mother had instinctively knew would happen next did not happen. Fowg did not dissolve. His hide did not so much as tingle to the press of gel.

Yet, Fowg did dissolve — the Slime Mother itself. This he did as he swallowed the heavenly goo from both ends, his oral and anal orifices. He gulped and sucked, gulped and sucked, his tail-hole now consuming instead of producing, his mouth-hole inhaling quickly as capable. Slime rushed inside his esophagus and intestines, so forcefully, the influx muffled even his mountainous breakings of wind. Fowg felt the Mother struggling for its sentient life, felt its amorphous weight crashing and bouncing, thrashing the surrounding Grove side to side. The anal pleasure surmounted that of an inverted fart: a hot, sticky hydrant of gel bloating and cramping his intestines, beating on his colon, blowing up his stomach with size. Fowg attempted to gasp, instead inhaling the frantic Mother all the quicker. The evolved dragon’s throat inflated like a lengthy balloon, giving him the Sini equivalent of one meal — one day of meals — one week of meals . . .

With slurps as strong as storm gales from either end of Fowg, the Slime Mother vanished completely into Fowg’s belly. He sat atop a huge, round, hill-sized gut of desert-maroon, comparatively the size of an infant to his own middle. Fowg gasped aloud, collapsing over his megalithic belly, whimpering. There was too much pressure, and it needed to go; it needed to be freed . . . Fowg was going to shame Sini so badly, his gas would sweep Sini out of the history books . . .

“Hmnngh!”

FRRRRRRRRMMMMNNNNNNNRRRRRRPHPHPHPHT! Heavy, flashing quakes took the Grove. BWWWWRRPPPPPPPMMUUPPFFRRRRRTFFUFRMPH! The destructive force of the fart chopped the boles of trees clean away, knocking those trees down like tripped giants; as vegetation drummed and boomed and thundered, a hot streak of rancid gas rose from the Grove’s imploding canopy. Gas surged and whirled and swirled over ponds and lakes, boiling their surfaces, turning their waters green and their fish and their frogs onto their sides up top. PPRRRHF PPRRT BRRRRRRRRRRRFRFFFFFFFFUUUMMMMMPT! Unlike before, Fowg’s gut now shrank with every gaseous combustion. The dragon roared, clenched his teeth. BBBBWBWRRRRAAAAAAARHRRMMMMFFFOOOOOM! The single break of flatus shrank his gut to one story tall, and feeling his terrible burden of pressure fall on the forest’s shoulders, he shouted joyously, and embraced and bounced on his belly for the grand finale. PPPFPFFT PPRRRRRAAAAAAAAWFFFFPHTPHPHTPHTOOM! Plague winds abusing his colon, gushing from his barreled backend. RMMMMMMMMMOOOORURURUUFUURURURUPPPPPTPPH!

All the grove looked like a pie baked to a crisp from bird’s eye. The smoke was glowing and green and omnipresent, wafting up from charred and swampy lands for miles. No tree stood save those outside blast radius, and any within it were grey, leafless, decaying and festering, would that you could see beneath the heinous miasma.

Fowg himself felt greater than before. He lay in a burnt, crusted circlet now, and his belly seemed emptier than it’d been since before he found the slime in the Den. A false appearance. The evolved dragon had in fact evolved again. He had harvested from the Slime Mother a Slime Heart. The Heart beat and beat, producing gas while storing some of his gas inside itself like a bank. This gas could be withdrawn to inflate his belly at any time, but could be released through farts without his belly ever needing to swell very large. The poison dragon withdrew some gas, then rested on a blimp of scales with paws hovering off the ground. He enjoyed the rumbling, grumbling, gas-producing symphony beneath him; and he bade his time for the next two hours, knowing now that procrastination was not his enemy, but his friend.

“The longer I wait, the more sealed is Sini’s fate . . .”

* * *

“Sini!”

Sini opened a stern purple eye. A pleb frantically shoved through the unkempt masses, who shoved right back. Thrown to the ground before the poison dragon — the gassiest poison dragon EVER, mind you — this pleb looked up and saw Sini paused with an elk’s hindlegs dangling out of his mouth, with his worshipers crowded around the dragon and dealing the pleb looks so venomous, it’s safe to assume they borrowed them from Sini. Brushing himself off, the pleb sprang up and cried suddenly:

“O great dragon. There is a threat befouls The Land. I’ve seen it with mine own two. This threat it has got a big round body, like a frog’s throat before the croak. I know it, for it ran me from my wife, oh, my sweet sweet Belinda. Oh! You should have seen the wicked trail! The tavern people, all gone! Oh! I pray you punish that monster, that hideous, odious thing! Pray you end it before the thing it devours and destroys more.”

Sini had decided to finish his elk, and had gulped a bucket of caramel apples and handed the bucket back to an honored worshiper before the pleb could conclude his cry. “All right, that’s not gonna fill me up, and obviously this guy hasn’t anything for me — get ‘em outta here! Bruuuoooooowooooooop!”

He wafted the stink the protesting pleb’s way, while worshipers ganged up on him and kicked and threw stones at him, escorting the pleb out with a frenzied clamor and physical force.

The feedings continued. Folds of scaly, purple belly fat spilled out from Sini’s sides, and the dragon could embarrass a beached whale. He leaned into the masses and groaned out deep, reverberating belches that’d shake your favorite beverage free of carbonation in seconds. Every belch grew louder, richer, deeper; think of the practised control of a sonata performer, going through the pesky exposition and development to ultimately climax with the recapitulation and coda.

“Blaaaaaawwwrrrrrrrrch!”

Worshipers crooned and coughed in his perfume of amiable poison.

But that was the recap, not the coda. Sini was nearing that part when another fucking pleb bust through the crowds, hollering and bantering Sini’s name. Sini growled to the pleb, “You’d best have something better to say than Pleb #1, or you’ll be becoming the belch of my coda. Spit it out!”

“O great dragon. There is a threat befouls your legacy. I’ve seen it with mine own two. This threat it has got a big round belly, like the full moon almost. I know it, for I saw the Grove and it was burned and clouded with plague gas, and when I put my monocular to-ward it this threat I saw it a-laying in the plague itself, spewing more from its posterior. It is also from what I could tell a dragon, and —” he gulped “— leagues and leagues gassier than you.”

Sini maintained a calm face, but fumes of toxin simmered from his ears. “Leagues, huh?”

He simmered on this for a second, then suddenly snapped up the pleb in his jaws and devoured him whole. Everyone cried and stumbled away, for they’d never seen Sini swallow a man before. Licking his lips, Sini furrowed his brow and closed his eyes, focusing on speeding up his metabolism to make his point. Presently, he let out a raucous belch, and the pleb’s bones joined the cows’ and the elks’ and the pigs’. He then said to the worshipers:

“My legacy’s to live for thousands of Cycles past your own lives. Do I make my point clear?”

They cried and nodded, but had lost some respect for him. Fear invaded their minds, shoving adoration from the nooks and crannies of knowledge. Sini seemed appeased, but from then on ate the offerings of his worshipers sluggishly, weighed down by that rumor last.

The feedings continued until there was heard from out on the mountainside a loud THOOOM, like an elephant the size of an elephant herd toppling onto its side. This sound was succeeded immediately by a powerful, gassy FRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRWRWRWRRFFFFFRRMMMMPHHPHPHHT! The boom hit like a projectile from a dragon-slaying trebuchet; deathly green gases flooded into Sini’s Lair, smothering all light and sound. What became of Sini’s worshipers is uncertain, as no evidence of their existence remains in archaeological sites; however, we do know that the overwhelming force of the fart chucked Sini like a sack of potatoes into the back of the Lair. Hitting the wall, he groaned weakly, choking on the nauseating gas. It was toxic — which should have been to him a treat — however, Sini required oxygen and couldn’t find any. He inhaled and inhaled, absorbing as much of the poison air as he could, but it was so thick, so powerful, so potent and so hard to harness . . .

Dragon eyesight adjusted to the gaseous blackout, only swiftly enough to see a huge dragon’s rear back into the entrance of the cave. The dragon’s tail shot up, and with a loud, lewd grunt the dragon hiked back his enormous pucker. “H-here c-comes!”

BWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRORRRRRMRMMRRPPPBRPT! Slamming winds pinned a squealing Sini to the wall. He got a few-second break to slump to the floor, whimpering, before, PWWFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFWFWFFWPPHTTPHTTPHTPHTPHF! Fowg gasped in euphoria. FFRR FFFF FF FRRRWWUUUUUUUURURRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP! Loving that last one [which sounded like an anal belch], Fowg backed into Sini’s Lair even farther and hitched his pucker right at the suffering dragon, letting loose a volley of similar destructive farts. The mountains quivered. They cried stony tears, quivering and avalanching with every mere sniff of Fowg’s gas.

But Fowg was only getting warmed up; his stomach had been completely flat, without any pressurized gas withdrawn from his Slime Heart. He withdrew some now so his belly swelled halfway down his thighs, backing a fourth-the-way into the Lair. “You like poison too, little guy?” Fowg chimed. “Why don’t I share with you? Mnnnnmph!” He howled, his face screwing into a delicious snarl. An explosion of gas slapped Sini about the back of the lair, the noxious blast stinking of swamp water.

The smaller 13” poison dragon was drowning in Fowg’s gas, sweating, gasping for breath. It was hardly the time to exhale instead of inhale, but Sini needed to counterattack; and his pride drove him to try. He began to produce a “Bwwreeeeaeeaaaaaaaaaa —”

But Fowg clapped him silent with a mountainous PHHWHWWRFFFFRRWRWRWWWWWWRRRHHRRRRRRRRWHHWWWRWRRWROOOOPHFT! What a joy it was for Fowg to have the poison dragon Sini begging for him to stop, after an effortless toot of toxin. The larger poison dragon cackled darkly.

“What’s that, Sini? You want more? Much more is on the way . . . so much, it might just kill you.” And he laughed, and he released another fart, and another, his flatulence gradually growing louder, stinkier, and deadlier. To every bombardment, the mountains trembled in fear, and soon enough they were sobbing landslides, cascading avalanches laden with bears, yetis and mountain-climbers.

Sini was suffering. The rumbling, reverberating gaps between each fart [which still sounded as loud as distant thunder] became his serenity. In these gaps, he’d be let down to the floor and splosh in his own pool of tears. He was not whiny bitch, per se: his sinuses simply couldn’t resist the blazing, nostril-numbing stench. However, every hot fart would pin him to the wall again, like a blast of winds from a sewage desert; and that would dry him off, so he’d be ready to splash in his own tears the next gap.

Not all hope was lost. Sini was being martyred alive, for sure, but with every concussive burst of Fowg’s gas, Sini managed to absorb 10-15% of the poison. He got gassier, stronger, more resistant to the force of the gargantuan farts. His belly blimped out beneath him, lifting him off the ground, and Sini started to belch liberally. “BLUUUUEEWWWWWREEEEEHHHHP! HRRRROOAOAAAAAAAAAARRRRWWURK! GLAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUWCH!” Each belch shook the Lair like a small aftershock of Fowg’s gassy blasts.

Fowg looked back, seeing a smudge of purple poison leak out of the terrible green fog. He smiled, the way an adult dragon smiles at a young drake who has just said, Look what I can do before doing something. “Yes . . . absorb my poison, Sini. Absorb it all, and deal it back. But the consumer will never outproduce the producer.”

* * *

I will never outproduce the producer. Sini nodded slowly. As much a forfeit as this seemed, the gears inside him were whirring.

From some alternate reality, a voice beckoned to him: Seize the means of production!

How? Sini’s question rang through the abyss of his own mind.

Seek the Heart of Production . . . Thus, the voice, belonging to the ghost of some Marxist, retreated into the alternate reality.

* * *

Fowg withdrew more gas from the Slime Heart. His stomach swelled and swelled, finally slapping the floor.

“Closer and closer comes the time that I wipe you from history with a single fart. Look how pitiful you are compared to me now, Sini.”

Fowg transferred more gases from the Slime Heart to his belly. His midriff expanded like a helium balloon, stretching its skin. Its owner felt the hot, heavy, hellish odors flogging his stomach walls like storm gales. Fowg backed up toward Sini, each of his footsteps soft as a child’s whispers in a drum ceremony compared to the droning ambience of his bloated bowels. Stopping five yards from Sini, Fowg aimed his hyper-large pucker point blank at Sini’s face. It wasn’t close enough to wipe Sini from existence [perhaps, but not guaranteed]. But this range would ensure that Sini’s sinus-tears turned into bitch-tears.

The rotten, festering fecal musk of Fowg’s ass caused Sini to sob uncontrollably. These weren’t mere sinus-tears but bitch-tears; hearing this, Fowg evilly snickered and took another step backward. With the gaping portal of ass flesh fixed on Sini like a canon, Sini’s body sweated profusely and eyesight grew fuzzy. Room temperature had left the building about thirty degrees fahrenheit [or fifteen degrees celsius] ago; Fowg’s natural ass odor had such a sweltering heat.

A paralysis of fear took Sini. Fowg’s inflamed pucker slowly clenched into a fist of swollen, rumbling flesh, preparing to crucify the smaller dragon. This fit of rumbles infected the intestines, the colon, the mammoth stomach itself. Trembling with the mountains themselves, Sini felt the horror of a pleb at the mercy of a god.

Get ‘em outta here!

You’ll be becoming the belch of my coda.

These thoughts smacked Sini upside the head. I treated those who worshiped me this way. Like fuel for my gas, and that only. Now that thing they call karma’s come for me. Mercy on his pride, he wouldn’t dare dwell it too long in thought, but his subconscious knew the truth: he lay beneath the ass of a god, a god of poisongas.

The only savior was repentance. Sini began to utter a cry for mercy. That was exactly what Fowg had been waiting for.

FRRRRRUUUUAUAUAUAUUUUUUAUAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMPH!

A godly, apocalyptic torrent of poisongas destroyed the heads of mountaintops, driving them down the mountainside. And the fart quaked down sequoias on the mountainside’s opposite side. The quaking, machinegunlike prattle of gas drilled Sini’s Lair fifty feet deeper, and the smaller dragon flopped repeatedly against the wall being chiseled eastward for the duration of the fart. Scholars haven’t a surefire way to approximate the length of this fart, mind, since Fowg’s gas was constantly getting stronger and tough to measure; however, modern archaeologists know how hard flatulence has to strike a wall to drill into it. Based on the added length of the tunnel, they approximate this fart to have been a hearty forty-five second one. Fowg, however, was unhappy with how future archaeologists would rate his fart, and strove to do better.

BRRRRRWRWRWRWRWWWWOWOWOOOOOAOAOAOAOAAAAAAAAWWWRMPFFH!

That one rang so loud, legend goes you could hear it from halfway into the Sea [though recorded accounts of the sound would claim it to be a dragon’s roar, or a great kraken belching up a literal storm]. The rumble threw big white tides over battleships and threw sea-creatures lounging on pink coral peeking out of the ocean into the ocean. Back in the Lair, Sini was passing the hundred-feet-of-new-tunnel-length mark, being swatted about like a ragdoll and becoming very seasick indeed.

Fowg’s demigod flatulence lasted so long, it dragged into a second paragraph. The insanely gassy fart lasted about forty-nine seconds, abusing Sini till his black scales had black bruises and purple belly looked like a plum that had fallen from a tree onto a hard rock. He hoped for it to give him a break twenty-five seconds in. Instead it grew stronger, gurglier, and gassier, as if Sini’s suffering had sparked some hidden power inside of Fowg’s asshole.

PPPWPWWPPWPWWWWWWWWWWWWWRWRWRRROOOOOOOOOOORRMRMRMPT.

Sini blacked out.

He glimpsed the afterlife. He heard the voice of the Marxist who’d told him, Seek the Heart of Production.

Sini was confused. A lack of oxygen does that to you. Where’s that? he asked the Marxist’s voice, looking around but seeing no one there.

The Marxist’s voice hummed. Then, the voice said to Sini:

Enter the portal, seek the Heart
Fumigate the Belly of the Beast
And reclaim what is of you a part

How the Marxist had crafted such a fine poem in three seconds, Sini wasn’t sure. What he was sure of was that any Marxist who could whip up something off the dome like that was smart and to be listened to.

Sini woke up livelier than ever. Fowg’s asshole was aimed ten, then nine, then eight yards from him and still counting, the larger dragon backing up; green death still steamed from his cannon hole. Now or never, Sini thought. He wanted a running start but wouldn’t get such a thing if the other’s pucker was practically kissing his lips. Lo, the dragon sprung to his feet then dashed at Fowg’s ass with olympic speed.

Fowg briefly glimpsed Sini bound straight for him, but thought this to be the start of a sneak-attack. The thought of one on one with the little dragon did not lean Fowg in the slightest, so he felt confident and allowed Sini to strike. He had never imagined that anyone, let alone a dragon, would dive gung-ho into his asshole. Sini sure showed his ass.

The larger poison dragon’s asshole dilated to over ten times its log-sized diameter. The poison dragon Fowg had earlier today considered the gassiest creature alive was, in this fractal of a second, falling to his ass as a meal. A bestial howl of both surprise and elation broke the long-sustained string of farts. Why did Sini — ? Quickly as the question formed in Fowg’s mind, a reason exploded, abrupt and wordless as a belch: Sini had indeed tried to sneak-attack him, but his gaping asshole was so huge, the smaller dragon accidentally plunged inside. Having been created in a hundredth of a second, this reason was not sound. But logical soundness is a tedious thing for a dragon whose ass has just been plugged by a dragon nigh the same size, and thus orphaned.

Fowg’s strategy detoured from farting Sini to death to squeezing Sini deeper into his gas-bloated intestines. Come to think . . . if he could get Sini inside his gut and digest him, the resulting fart would be godly. The larger dragon mused on the improvisation. He became beyond thrilled. Shamelessly, he groaned like a defecating mammoth, his odorous insides clasping over Sini, hauling him through the miles of fleshy rope. And with every groan his body rhythms defibrillated, his stomach convulsing to the burbling clicks of his G.I. tract. This close up an accidental fart would wipe Sini clean from existence. The thought loosened Fowg’s bowels. Gases flooded the fleshy passageway like arrows into a quiver. Sini coughed and hacked, praying the Marxist had kept it 100.

“More . . . moooore . . .” He heard Fowg say.

Sini was moving through Fowg’s G.I. tract too slowly. The feeling of consuming the smaller dragon anally was so sweet, but doing so at this rate was like trying to cherish an ice cream cone too long. Stuck in the entrance of the cramped anus, Sini’s rump vibrated violently. It compressed and compressed. The vacuum won. The throbbing tailhole suddenly ricocheted shut, farewell to Sini’s hindlegs and tail.

“Oh, fuck, yes,” Fowg said.

Snaking through the great pink serpent inside of Fowg, Sini couldn’t stop crying sinus-tears. He tried covering his eyes, but his nose needed masking more. He tried that, but that prevented breathing, a lose-lose no matter how his paws shifted. But outside, Fowg was having the time of his life, moaning and whimpering against the urge to destroy Sini with a fart.

Sini’s muzzle poked into Fowg’s stomach. It smelled like some Slime Monster had died, resurrected as part of the stomach itself then produced a million farts. He finally had to breathe, beginning to choke. Stomach muscles spat him out, spilling him into the pool of stomach acids, which immediately began to burp and belch with excitement, but Sini didn’t worry. With his scales he had a few hours yet until the acids started burning his flesh.

He waded through his the stomach, but stayed in the same place beneath its latex-like grasp; shapes of the dragon would briefly emerge now and then on the stomach’s ovular exterior, the dragon appearing to be squirming and struggling. He was. But he would soon find what he was looking for. So he hoped . . .

Fowg was only getting gassier, the rate of gas production skyrocketing with Sini now inside. Fowg didn’t know how much longer he could brace his quivering ass. But he wanted to digest Sini first, to have the biggest fart of all time . . .

He almost did . . .

Sini burst with excitement inside of Fowg’s belly. Fowg felt his meal fumbling quickly over the pillowy internal flesh before hearing a SCHLLRRRRP. Suddenly, Fowg felt like he’d been punched square in the belly. Simultaneously, dread pulsed through him, and the pressure on his colon stopped increasing . . .

“But . . . my Heart.” Fowg groaned, clutching his belly with a forepaw. The warmth of that second pulse abandoned him. “The Slime Heart . . . it’s gone . . . what have you done, Sini?”

Sini laughed a devilish laugh. He stretched himself from stomach wall to stomach wall, plugging the sphincters leading in and out of Fowg’s gut with a paw on either end. He’d locked himself above Fowg’s gurgling acids, positioned free from harm. Now, Fowg had no way to release gas. And without the Slime Heart, he had no way to store excess gas. Having eaten the Slime Heart, Sini already felt his belly beginning to swell bigger. Torturing Fowg was going to be a blast.

A huge, toxic blast.

“You’ll see,” Sini hummed.

The black-and-purple dragon groaned. Brrmph . . .

He rarely farted, and his inexperience showed with both the flat, wet gassy noise and the small burst of toxic gas from his tail-hole. Fwwwrrrt! PhhHRrrrrmmph! Then lo, his gas grew in strength, stench and stamina. He farted and farted liberally now, building a stockpile of gas as large as Fowg’s had been when he’d followed the slime trail out of the Den. BRRRRRooooooooomph! PHHHHRRRooomphhpht! The squealing, saturated farts exploded, expanding Fowg’s belly; and Fowg, feeling his gut blimp to his ankles, whined and attempted to fart. The plugs on his sphincters crushed his efforts. Fearing he’d inflate too big for the cave, Fowg lumbered backward into the outside fog of toxic green he’d created earlier.

“Sini,” Fowg said sadly, “Please . . . I am feeling sick . . . I’m sorry; I truly am . . . Just let me let it out.”

“Nope!”

A “BRRRRRRRRRRRRUuuuuuuaallch!” followed. The abrasive bass pounded Fowg’s ears and spine. Before finishing his belch, Sini let loose his heftiest, deadliest FRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrpptpt! yet on his resume, the ass equivalent of twenty tubas. The terrible gas flushed into Fowg, whipping madly through his stomach like a maelstrom. The gas pushed his belly skyward and his belly thrust his paws into the air, beaching the dragon helplessly. His stomach ached and churned as sickly as Fowg now felt. Another of his attempts to plead Sini to stop, Sini muted with a behemoth “BLLLLLLLUUUUUUAAAOOOOOOOOOOOP!” and BRWWWWWWWWWWWRRRRRRRRRRPHPH!

Both gaseous releases knocked Fowg another story higher atop his massive, inflating belly.

“I’m only gonna get — BLLRLRRRWP — gassier and gassier . . . Karma’s a bitch, ain’t she?” And Sini clutched his torpedo-shaped belly with his free paw, and then gave up a trumpeting eight-second belch, partnering it with a great, geysering fart that dilated the fleshy star of his ass to the diameter of a column. The fart amazingly lasted almost as long as his belch, cutting off a second short. But immediately after that Sini launched a second fart, his intestines inflating into fat, throbbing sausages with gas; longer and longer this breaking of wind went on, even longer than his last belch; yet, despite the length and power of the anal eruction, his belly only blimped bigger and bigger, the dragon unable to keep up with his own hyper-rapid production of stomach gas.

Outside, Fowg’s belly grew over three stories tall, greater than the original Slime Mother itself. Tears he squeezed from his eyes, making up for his inability to squeeze out a fart or even a belch. No matter how hard he gritted his teeth, or how shaky and constipated he looked, his backed-up sphincters denied him a release. With the Slime Mother he had been able to bank gas of this amount. Now, Sini swelled Fowg’s belly even beyond the extent it had reached post-consuming-the-Slime; the crushing pressure of thousands of meals threatened to explode him from the inside, yet Sini did not relent. Fowg hyperventilated, trying with every fibre of his being to belch, even if just softly. If the pressure did not kill him, his straining and suffering would.

“I beg you, Sini: let me let it out!”

“You’ll retract everything you said about yourself being the gassiest,” Sini growled.

In his great agony, Fowg considered this. He shook his head. “My legacy is forever!”

“Your legacy, huh?” Sini grinned widely at that. He had a ways to go before he surpassed Fowg’s greatest fart, and he had his reason to torture Fowg to that length.

BRBRBBRRRRMMRRRRRRRRWRRWRWRWRWWWWWWWMMMPHPHPHTTPHPHFPHF! It felt like a small nuclear warhead exploding inside of Fowg. [Lucky Fowg, he’d never experienced such an explosion; unfortunately this would not be the only time he did.] His belly boomed with size, soaring to the heights of great towers and young kaijus. Fowg let out a cry of pain you could mistake for a bellow of lust. Though he tried hard to compose himself, he ended up flowing with tears of intense emotion, loving the awful burden of being so full and yet hating it so much at the same time.

“I plead again, Sini: let me let it out!”

“Say it,” Sini shouted. “Say it! Say you’re not the best!”

“Forgive me!” Fowg cried.

“No forgiveness until you give me back my legacy!”

PRRRRFFFFFMRFRFRRRFRRFRFFFFWWWFWFWORRRRRRWWRRWRRBRBWRWBWRT!

FFFFWFWRWWWWWWOWOWOOOOOOOOWWRURRLRRRWWLWLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!

Sini followed up with more gargantuan explosions of wind, a statement that he meant to take back his legacy at whatever the cost. The dragon’s flatulence got as terrible as Fowg’s was when he was torturing Sini. What had been small atomic blasts mere minutes ago had evolved almost one hundred times faster than Fowg’s had [over the course of a few minutes v.s. a few hours]. Being the center point of the blasts, Fowg was shaken and thrown about evenly in every direction, thus was never hit with enough force to be toppled over; however, all around him, the mountainsides and the woods and the trees [which we can’t see, in the great plumes of noxious green gas] were quaked and buckled; and huge spreads of forestry and of mountainsides crumbled down. The rumbling cacophony was enough to suggest some gods were battling themselves.

And Fowg’s belly grew large as the smallest of the surrounding mountain peaks, mostly filled with the bloated Sini himself: Sini held so much gas, and yet it hardly bothered him; but Fowg, he was flooding out tears now at such a rate, they would result in a salt mine if cried into the mountainside.

“Alright, alright! You’re the gassiest dragon — gassiest creature — gassiest thing to exist in the world, the universe, agh! Please! Sini — you’ve proved your case! Now let me let it out, or I shall pop against my will!”

And Sini smiled and said: “That’s what I like to hear. But wait just a sec! We haven’t had the finale yet.”

Fowg knew immediately what that meant; he felt his belly expanding even farther, and saw the mountaintops falling below him. “What? I said you proved your case! Please! Oh no! Slime Mother have mercy!”

“Wait for it . . .”

“Sini, God of Poisongas, for the sake of the planet!”

“Wait for it . . .”

Sini waited for it . . . and then . . .

FFFFWWWWWWWWWHWHWWWWWWWWWWRWRWRWRRWWBBBBRRBBRRBRRRMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMPPHHHTTHTPTPTPTPTPTPTPTHH!

The apocalyptic quake of the gas shook Fowg’s stomach furiously, buckling both of the surrounding mountainsides. Fissures ripped over The Lands. Hell-fire erupted from the fissures. Suddenly, Sini unplugged both of Fowg’s sphincters, and gas roared out of each of Fowg’s orifices in both belch and flatus form. Great gusts of purple assaulted The Lands West and East, disintegrating all that lived and fading all that was green. Forests transformed into festering swamps of plague creatures, towns and cities into foggy purple wastelands. Terrible mists crept off the shores, blotting out the lights of Light-Houses; and vile purple waters seeped slowly into the sea.

For weeks Fowg would be unable to smell out of his nose, the stench was so goddamn potent. Despite being a poison dragon, Fowg apparently had no immunity to having his sense of smell overwhelmed and eradicated.

He lay now on his side, absolutely dumbstruck. Sometime during the release of gas, Sini had apparently blown himself out of Fowg’s insides, for he lay next to Fowg. They both equaled normal size now, same as their bellies. When Fowg finally got up, he would stare at Sini as he would an elder, long and hard; and just as Sini began to think it creepy, Fowg would prostrate and dip his head to the other dragon, and then he would speak to Sini as he would to a god:

“You win! Everything about you is greater! You’re the best belcher, the best breaker of wind — the best everything!”

Sini was taken aback. He had desired Fowg to forfeit, but he had not expected the other dragon to ride his dick like he did now. To compensate for Fowg, since Fowg was on no route toward compensating for himself, Sini began: “Well, technically you did release the greatest fart in history with me, what with it coming out of your ass, too . . .”

But Fowg dismissed the idea, viciously, figuratively sucking Sini’s cock. “It was you who conceived the fart in the end. You’re the greatest to ever do it. You’re the one that must be given praise.”

And so the green poison dragon gave praise to Sini.

And this praise he gave to Sini for days and for weeks and for months, and by that time more human worshipers traveled to the toxified lands to praise and worship the god Sini, not simply due to the fear of having their families eaten if they did not, but because of genuine reverence for the poison dragon’s awesome gaseous powers. Foods got carried to Sini in arms, carts, wagons, chariots, you name it; and the food included pineapples, lamb-chops, grapes [which the worshipers fed to Sini by hand], avocados, salads, sandwiches, peppered cheese-wheels, fresh yellowfin, you name it; cakes, cream-pies, crepes, candied apples, ice cream [kept cold with magic of the North], you name it for dessert; and everyone was glad to feed him. And Sini was glad to be fed. And Fowg was glad that Sini was glad. And this is the way it was until the end of days.

And the end of days would most likely come when Sini churned all the food mentioned above into poisongas.

Sequel here.