The Great Stinkathlon
Illustrated by Gus Gordon
As the super-flatulent Baked Bean Bandit, Marty has never lost a professional farting match. And now he is about to achieve every champion fartist's dream – representing his country at the Smelympic Games.
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The Great Stinkathlon

Simon Mitchell

Chapter 1

BRAAAAAAAAAP! I spun my bum towards Mr Windybottom and sent a five-star stinker sailing across the training room. My farting coach barely had time to tighten the straps of his gas mask before my thundergust hit him square in the face.

‘Goodness, Marty, that is potent!’ he said, screwing up his nose as my fart seeped through the mask. ‘But you’re still aiming too far to the right. Try using your left cheek a bit more next time.’

I groaned. ‘Can’t we take a break, Mr Windybottom? We’ve been practising for hours.’

Mr Windybottom shook his head. ‘We need to get this right,’ he said. He adjusted his bowler hat, which had been knocked crooked by the force of my methane bomb. ‘You’ve never lost a professional farting match, but that doesn’t mean you can slack off at training, especially not with that big match against Smellexander the Great next week. Have another spoonful of beans, and we’ll work on your quiet-but-deadlies.’

Still grumbling, I gulped down a mouthful of Li’l Bangers Baked Beans from a nearby can. As the spokesperson for the Li’l Bangers Corporation, I was lucky enough to get six free crates of beans every week. Before I could cut loose with one of my silent-but-violents, I heard the high-pitched ring of Mr Windybottom’s mobile phone.

‘Hold on, Marty,’ he said, lifting the gas mask and fishing around in the pocket of his faded brown suit jacket. He pulled out his phone and peered at it. ‘New-fangled technology,’ he muttered. ‘I never know which button I’m supposed to …’ He stabbed at the keypad and held the phone to his ear. ‘Hello? … Who? … Oh my goodness … Yes, of course … He’s right here.’

Mr Windybottom handed me the phone. ‘It’s for you,’ he said.

I put the phone to my ear. ‘Hello?’

‘Is this the Baked Bean Bandit?’ asked a female voice. It sounded very familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.

‘Well, my friends usually call me Farty Marty,’ I said, ‘but when it comes to World Championship Farting, I’m the Baked Bean Bandit.’

‘The same Baked Bean Bandit who won his first-ever tournament by knocking out the undefeated El Stinko Diablo?’ said the voice. ‘The Baked Bean Bandit who can produce a pitch-perfect rendition of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 from a single can of beans?  The Baked Bean Bandit whose high-speed machine-gun blasters have been clocked at over four thousand pops per minute?’

‘That’s me,’ I said. ‘Who is this?’

There was a slight pause. ‘This is the Prime Minister, Hilary Buttsquawk,’ said the voice. ‘I’ve been a fan of professional flatulence for many years, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed watching you compete.’

‘Oh … thanks very much,’ I said. What else do you say when the Prime Minister of Australia compliments you on your farting skills?

The Prime Minister cleared her throat. ‘Marty,’ she said, ‘we’ve got a problem at the Smelympic Games in London. The Australian team needs you!’


    Penguin (Aussie Bites)
    Junior Fiction
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