The silence grew as suspicious eyes darted around the small waiting room, for there was another presence, and it was disgusting. Someone had callously expelled flatus through his or her anus. An educated guess was that the gas originated from either Mexican or Korean cuisine. No one dared speak because of the old adage, he who smelt it, dealt it. By this law, everyone was a suspect.

Tensions grew as the stench became more omnipresent, even permeating clothing like a campfire or grease in the kitchen of a fast food Chinese restaurant. It was becoming more evident that the old man in the corner, pretending to be asleep was the culprit. The overwhelming aroma fueled the anger among the innocent noses forced to confront such an atrocity. At this rate, the old man was going to take a beating from this mob, or worse.

The old man did not have a chance against the fury of these people. The only possibility of maintaining any sort of dignity was fleeing. The reality remained, his idea of flight would have been a waddle, barely methodical and especially slow, for this is how the aging process debilitates you.

As the old man who supplied it was in the process of denying it, a man stood up, waving the air beneath his buttocks. “I apologize profusely for inconveniencing all you all. My health is waning, and I can no longer control my actions.” That brave man was me. Having done this so many times before, I held my breath to make my face red as if out of embarrassment. This is what I do, for I am The Fart Empathizer.

For a cosmic reason that is difficult to explain, I have been an eyewitness to this precise scenario many times since childhood. With great responsibility comes great power. My story begins like so many others, on that fateful day, my father, God bless his soul, was a chronic cheese cutter, so much so, he was shamed to death by his peers. His dying words to me were, “You must not allow my cruel fate upon anyone else. Don’t deny the supply, accept it, accept it! You must become The Gas Receptacle.”

For many reasons, specifically copyright infringement, I was reborn: The Fart Empathizer.

The severe dust cropping lingered like radioactivity, but the mood of the waiting room shifted from dangerous mob mentality to sympathy for a physically troubled man. My job was done, for once again, a half-truth saved a man’s life.

Later, I was informed of what happened after my departure. Long story short, the old man farted again; he was ceremoniously lynched.