Bloody Shit Farts: A Love Story by Calvin Yordy

Heath was sick. He didn’t know what he had but he knew it was serious. He had been having bloody shit farts for several weeks now and he was concerned it was something fatal. On Monday morning, his alarm went off. His hand hunted for the snooze button like a sperm seeking an egg. He silenced the alarm and pulled the blankets back over his head to block out the sunshine. He hated himself for not buying blinds earlier. He enjoyed stepping out of the shower and flashing his wang to the neighbor next door, but now he is paying the price for his perversion… sunlight. He promised God if he ever got over his bloody shit farts that he would be a good boy and buy the thickest curtain he could find and relieve his neighbor of the unwanted shots of snakey flesh.

His neighbor seemed like a nice enough girl and at times he even felt bad for what he did. She was born without an asshole and had to vacuum feces into a little bucket once a day. But she still had that dirty girl look to her. Heath liked her and enjoyed times when he accidentally got her mail so he could have an excuse to see her and snoop around her house. Heath is a real creep. But he has a good heart.

"Uh-oh," he thought. Heath could feel another one coming on. He knew if he didn’t find the motivation to move his failing body from the bed to the shower, he would need to later find the energy to wash a pile of bloody shit sheets. As he leveraged a leg to pull himself out of bed without his asshole exploding, the phone started to ring. "Who could it be now?" he yelled. Sweat began running from the top of his forehead and pooling at the top of his mustache. He always hated that thing, but his ex-girlfriend Margaret loved the scratchy feeling against her mouth when they kissed. He still thought about Margaret, but now was not the time. He had a decision to make!

Heath, knee to knee, started to hobble his way to the bathroom. But his feet became tangled in the previous day’s dirty underwear and his balance waned. The phone continued to ring. His feet went sideways. His head bobbled like a drunk infant. This was it. He knew he was going to take a tumble and prayed a bloody turd wouldn’t erupt out of his ass. As he fell, he could hear the answering machine pick up… It was his neighbor.


Heath hit the floor. Tears erupted from his eyes.


"Hey, Heath. This is your neighbor. The girl born without an asshole. Anyway, I need a battery for my butt vacuum and was hoping you could spare one. Call me back, cutie!"

"Cutie?" he thought. Heath was smitten. So smitten that he almost forget that just a few moments ago his sphincter was about to tear open a bloody shit fart with the force of Mount Vesuvius. The leftover ash would create an unlivable atmosphere in Heath’s apartment for centuries. Only the cockroaches would survive. He feared they would find his bones, clenching his ass, mummified in various ass debris. Future scientists and philosophers would refer to him as "buttus eruptus" in their research papers. They would ask questions like, "Who was this man?" And they would examine the insides of his stomach to try to determine the contents of his last meal. All in attempt to explain his fatal bout of bloody shit farts.

At this point, Heath was only a few feet away from the bathroom and he realized that everything was still intact. “I can make it,” he thought. Like a soldier avoiding gunfire, he placed one elbow in front of him. And then the other. Then the other. Pulling his bag of shit and bones forward. Each elbow forward was a universe of ass pain. As if orchestrated by the god who hates him, there was a knock on the door. Faces raced through Heath’s mind.

"Who could it be?" he thought.

The knocks didn’t stop. They grew louder and louder, each one more intense and needy than the last. With each knock on the door, his sphincter grew weaker and weaker. Heath’s body was beginning to lose confidence and he knew that he had reached the point of no return. Time stopped. Everything moved in slow motion. A drop of water fell from the faucet. The long hand on the clock ticked a minute forward. He felt the pain of a thousand births tear through his asshole. After what felt like an infinity of ass pain, he opened his eyes…

He was alive! Suddenly, everything seemed brighter to Heath. Colors were more intense, sounds were more pleasant, smells were richer. Although his apartment now looked like a scene from Dexter, Heath was OK. His asshole felt like an open wound and he knew it would be months before he could gather the courage to inspect the damage. He lifted his body and without hesitating made his way to the front door.

He opened the door, various ass debris dripping from his trousers. Behind him, his entire apartment was a Pollock painting of blood and shit. All great art is the result of immense sacrifice. Whoever is on the other side better be prepared to view a masterpiece. It was his neighbor!

There she was, the girl born without an asshole. And there he was, the guy with the bloody shit farts.

"Here," she said, "I will help you clean up this mess."

"And after that," Heath said, "I will show you where I keep the batteries for your ass vacuum."

And together, chunk by chunk, they cleaned up Heath’s apartment. And they didn’t miss a single spot. When they were finished, they held hands and watched The Matrix on DVD, because it was his favorite movie.