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Lola Bung-Hilda, the beautiful heiress to a wooden denture fortune, knew there would be no way to get out of Damocles Fitzpatrick's Christmas party. The expectation of its inevitable awkwardness caused, as it often did with her, a faint wetness in her panties - not in the front, but rather in the back.

"We're so glad to see you," lied Damocles at the door, ushering Lola and her accompanying stench into the foyer. A brown cloud (like Pig Pen's, but stinkier) filled the antechamber. The string quartet screeched to a stop. An old lady with a monocle gasped. A little kid barfed. All eyes were on Lola, but she kept a stiff upper lip, determined to triumph over the inexplicable awkwardness. Despite her best efforts, however, her bowels continued to weaken. Eventually the crowd merely kept its distance, relegating our Lola to a lonely corner of the drawing room.

Unbeknownst to Lola, a certain Viscount Olfactsky had arrived with his footman. The dashing Viscount had, as a child, been the ward of a famous duchess who kept the poor boy locked in an outhouse. As often happens in such circumstances, the boy adapted to the situation by losing his sense of smell entirely; it was the only way he was able to stay sane.

The Viscount and his footman, an elfish pedophile with a taste for blood, entered the drawing room with much aplomb. The footman twisted up his nose, unable to comprehend what could possibly be the source of such a rank odor.

"Master, something is not clean in this house," said the footman.

"Nonsense! A cleaner house I have never spied," declared the Viscount, billowing volumes of fecal particles into his lungs with naïve appreciation. "But look, who is that charming woman alone in the corner?" The Viscount pointed to Lola.

"That's Lola Bung-Hilda, heiress to the Bung-Hilda wooden denture fortune," said the footman with a superior snicker, though he had not yet identified her as the source of the stench.

"Ech! Merchant class! That's so September 10th!" The Viscount turned his nose in the air and made his way over to a Baroness who was holding court by the cocktail weenies.

And so, though she never knew it, there ended Lola's only possibility for happiness.

Date Written: December 20, 2002
Author: Ewan Snow
Average Vote: 4.875

12/20/2002 anonymous (5):
12/20/2002 anonymous (5):
04/17/2004 John Slocum (5): Wonderfully spun tale, thoroughly enjoyable and very funny. The only blemish on this otherwise acne-free short, in my opinion, is the utterance, "...That's so September 10th!"
05/1/2004 Ferucio P. Chhretan (5): Antechamber. (Sighs dreamily...)
06/1/2004 TheBuyer (4): nice delivery, too bad about the payload.
11/17/2004 Mr. Joshua (5): Unfortunate pentultimate paragraph, but still a classic.
08/4/2005 Partytime (5): I think Esnow is becoming my favorite aytfriur.
08/4/2005 Jon Matza (5): I forgot about this one. A titan of a classic on the order of Stairway, Dream On or Nuge's Stranglehold.
04/21/2006 Master Bates (5): Whoop! Whoop!