Fart wallets be warned!

My farts are a biological war crime.They don’t just smell bad. They smell like a dairy farm on a hot day after a power outage, crossed with a dumpster full of expired eggs and the final breath of a rotting whale washed up on a beach in August. One quiet release from me can clear a room faster than a fire alarm, leave grown adults questioning their life choices, and make houseplants lean away in self-defense.The scent doesn’t simply linger—it colonizes. It crawls into fabrics, embeds itself in the air ducts, and waits. Hours later someone will walk into the room, freeze, and whisper, “What died in here?” while I sit there with a grin on my face , the silent architect of olfactory devastation.Scientists have yet to isolate the exact compounds, but early theories include fermented sulfur, pure spite, and whatever dark matter is made of. You'll want to leave the room. Beta's weep. My farts don’t announce themselves politely; they kick the door down, punch the air in the face, and leave a crater where dignity used to be.In short: my farts don’t smell bad.
They smell legendary. And the rest of the world is just trying to survive the fallout.