Last night, at like 3:30am, my stomach started killing me. It was that gassy type of pain, really sharp and burning, right about your navel. God, I thought that fucking critter from Alien was going to pop out of my stomach.
"Aarrrarraaaa!"
"Jesus, and I thought it was just a 48-hour bug..."
"Argrawr? Raaaawwawrrrr..."
"Sweetheart, will you go get the Raid? I think the strain has mutated..."

Yeah, so there I am, praying for death or explosive diarreah or anything to relieve the stabbing pain in my abdomen; and it happens. I mean, it was the most amazing event of its kind that I've ever been a party to, or even heard of. I floated one of the most amazing air biscuits in the history of air biscuitry. I'm no stranger to farting, as I come from a long and voluminous line of Norweigan farters and burpers. But this thing was amazing. It sounded like 5.1 Dolby Surround, I mean, I could swear someone had plugged a subwoofer jack into my asshole and turned that mother up to '11'.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEERRRRRRRRP.

The window panes shook in their frames, the bedspread flapped, the touch-lamp on the bedside table went through two three-stage cycles. The fiancee stirs: "Who the fuck is knocking on our door?"
"No one babe; but you just ripped horrendous ass." Evil grin.

Then the stench hit. No, it...swallowed us with the sorce of a tsunami. Smell 'o vision on steroids. Like so much landfill acreage, raw sewage, that sour smell of dead animals, the burning smell of propane, bad eggs, and spoiled bean soup. It was horrible, but totally amazing. I thought the woman was going to cry; I was doing all I could to keep from laughing (it would have given me away).

I woke up this morning feeling like a new man. I think The Fart was just the virus's death rattle. Not nearly deadly, but much more than a rattle; I can assure you that.