Reports coming from the fourth floor of Porterhouse and Mignon, an online steak distributor, known for fine meats and fast delivery, seem to indicate that the office of Brad Freeman, a mid-level executive, smells like fart.
The smell of rotting eggs mixed with subtle notes of burnt taco meat and rancid death began to waft from the general direction of Brad’s office at around ten o’clock AM local time. By eleven, the pungent blanket of putrid gas had begun to leak out of the office and according to his co-workers, now extends at least five feet beyond the entrance to Brad’s, small, rectangular office, with the big window overlooking the parking lot.
Brad has been seen in his office all morning, working on his computer, sipping coffee and occasionally shifting in his chair, as if to relieve some sort of pressure that may be building. Subtle facial expressions seem to indicate that farts are being released.
“It’s really disgusting,” said Sally Wheatfield, a junior accountant with P&M, whose position requires her to visit Brad’s office multiple times each day to obtain approvals for various employee expense reports. “I was in there earlier and it definitely smelled like a dead raccoon. I just tried to hold my breath, but then he asked me about my weekend and I was forced to tell him that it was pretty fun. When I did, I got a whiff of rotten butter mixed with spoiled milk. I’m going to vomit.” Sally, whom often wears a devastating amount of Mango Vanilla perfume, was said to have been seen dry heaving in the bathroom.
Gary Spandex, the company’s human resources manager, whose pit stains often resemble two nuclear power plant cooling ponds, was the next to visit Brad’s office.
“It was bad enough that I had to walk through that cloud of perfume that Sally wears, I mean seriously, that shit is more toxic than Chernobyl. Then to have to go into Brad’s office and smell what I smelled was almost too much. If I wanted to smell a rotting zebra corpse I’d fucking go on Safari. That smell in there is the smell of someone who doesn’t take care of their body, unlike me, I bike twelve miles to work every day, run at lunch and only eat granola and fiber,” said Gary, as he wrung the sweat from his bike shorts into the stopped up sink in the break room, “He’s got no respect for the people that have to work with him.”
By lunchtime, news of the farts had spread all the way down to the security office, a tight, cramped space shared by three guards, one of which Frank Fillmore, a man, affectionately known by the other guards as The Human Campfire, The Death of Breath and sometimes, Ashtray Frank, said, “I heard it smelled like the inside of a broken garbage disposal. That’s just horrific. I can’t believe that guy would just fart in such a small space and act like he didn’t even notice it. The nerve. That’s why when I smoke I do it outside so nobody can smell it on me.”
As the sun began to bake the inside of Brad’s office, raising the temperature to that of a Bikram Yoga studio, Jeff Jeremy Jacob, the kid from the mail room, known by everyone as the guy who smells like weed, dropped by to hand Brad his mail. Upon entering the humid, rotting swamp-like like conditions of Brad’s office, Jeff was overcome by the environment and began struggling to breathe. He stumbled from the office and made it to the break room where he splashed some of Gary’s now cooled sweat on his face. “I nearly died in there bro,” Jeff said, “It smelled like burnt hot dogs and corn. I feel like I just went to a barbeque in Brad’s ass. I feel sorry for anyone who has to smell that, now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go light some incense and douse myself in patchouli.”
“Jesus, I had to go down to the mail room, it smells Woodstock exploded in there,” said Sally as she rode the elevator back up to accounting. “I really wish people would just understand that other people can smell them.”
“I’m taking the stairs,” said Gary upon seeing Sally emerge from the elevator, “If I want my eyes to burn I’ll pepper spray them.”
As the day wore on several other people were seen going in and out of Brad’s office, including Moonbeam Frittata, the all-natural, IT tech, whose showering frequency can be described as less than never, as well as Kyle Timlin, the seventy-four-year old, semi-retired, VP of the company, wafting the stale odor of impending death, like a commercial grade pesticide sprayer. Reports are that Brad continued to release rolling rumbles of raucous rank ruin from his rectum throughout the day.
At five o’clock Brad’s final meeting adjourned. Fred Galvan, who often can be seen walking around barefoot in his office, while his faded, worn, business loafers, slowly release the unmistakable aroma of sweaty foot into the air, stood and sniffed. In an obvious attempt to bring the god awful smell, resembling that of a dumpster full of week old, warm sushi, to Brad’s attention, Fred asked, “Do you smell something?”
Brad replied, “I don’t smell anything.”