BILL CADY Word Count: 149,227 - At My Friend's Place

Bill Cady, The Early Years … by Bill Cady 123
car to the other. He was also snoring, which caused me to entertain thoughts of homicide
for about a hundred miles. However, Pete had something more noxious and offensive to
foist on us, and did it repeatedly. For those not in the know, an SBD is what‟s known as
a “silent, but deadly” fart. You can‟t hear a thing. I suppose, if either of us dared watch
Pete as he slept, we might‟ve seen greenish-yellow fumes rising from him, but there‟d be
no other advance warning.
Pete launched his first salvo only a few miles out of Milwaukee. It crept up on us,
and I noticed it first. Since I smoked and Bob didn‟t, I kept my window ajar an eighth of
an inch to draw the smoke out. It also summoned Pete‟s residue. When it hit me, I
turned to Bob, looking at him as if it he, not Charles Manson, did the Sharon Tate
murders. “You fuckin‟ prick, did you do that?”
He glared back at me. “Did I do wh oh, fuck me! What the hell is that?”
We eyeballed each other a second, then accepted our penalty. We knew what we
had to do, even if it was a gruesome idea. At eighty miles per hour, with a chill index
around twenty degrees below zero, we opened our windows. Rolled „em all the way
down. Bob spun and gave Pete a look of loathing. “Wake up, you fat motherfucker!
Wake up and stop that shit!”
Pete never once interrupted his snoring. Not even when Bob shook him. Every
mile, all the way back to Lansing, three-hundred miles or more, he farted. It seemed
we‟d just get the air cleared enough to remove our noses from our coats, put the windows
up, and we‟d smell another stink bomb. I‟m not sure I can recall an uglier trip in my life.
So, here‟s to you, Pete. You earned the title of World Champion Farter, at least, as far as
Bob and I were concerned, that weekend.
Leviticus, Limited 33-0505963