I quite enjoy eating Chinese dumplings, and as a general rule, the grubbier the shop is, the more authentic the menu.

Grubby can bring consequences that are not always apparent. A surprise that was well worth the trouble.

Standing on the platform at Strathfield waiting on a train to Murwillumbah. That’s about 850 kays and 16 hours. My brother let’s one rip, the cloud wafts, like a force field gently moving through the crowd as people step out of the way.

Imagine Moses.

“You’ll keep” I tell him. My nose stinging. The rancid scent somewhere between battery acid and road kill. Tears well in my eyes. I was really suffering.

“Did you like that?” He asks. I stoically remain still, breathing shallow while I plot my revenge.

The old timber trains with drafty compartments have long since been replaced by the now ageing XTPs. Windows fixed in place. Air conditioning for commuter comfort. I had him trapped.

Now, farts are one of those rare things that can be both really bad, and really good at the same time. A really good fart can be perfectly undetectable, or it could peal the paint from a wall, and kill a brown dog.

A Dutch couple sat behind us, we could hear from their conversation that they were on a whirlwind adventure to Townsville, he being a true train buff.

At Broadmeadow the train stopped to allow Newcastle people the chance to enjoy the ride north with us. Owen stepped onto the platform for a cigarette, farted again. The Dutch couple thankful to be spared just one slice of Chinese cheese. Owen laughs, just like an evil genius would on Saturday morning cartoons. I screw up my face. He cocks his leg and another falls out.

The guard blows his whistle as Owen blows one too, and we step back into the train. In the doorway I grab the handrail. The sound of a trombone announces Eric’s Revenge. I pull myself forward on the handrails, one evil genius trapped in the doorway behind me, his hand over his nose. The door shuts off both ventilation, and escape. One evil genius gagging on the smog.

“Arse Master” He groans and pushes me to one side. He heads for the seat.

The sun sets and the passing landscape gives way to the mirror effect of the tinted glass. Boredom ratchets up to the next level. The window could not be opened. My brother leans to one side and unleashes a whopping great rip snorter.

“Need some paper for that ?” I ask

The fixed window begins to fog up as my arse answers his, like a badly tuned brass band. Two arseholes singing together.

I rip once more.

It’s been my observation that the higher quality wind seems to be hotter, and hurt just a little on the way out. The latter could be caused by the frequency of the flatulence. My contemplation interrupted by more bottom music. And yet another.

The nighttime conversation drifts from one thing to the next. I shove one deep into the seat. Silent but deadly. The fabric rises slightly, then settles back down. The married couple behind are swearing at me in Dutch. Not silent enough.

I pop once more, answered with more words in Dutch.

We’re hungry and state rail can really cook up the sorts of things people usually avoid. Knowing we’ve had something that has likely caused food poisoning, diarrhea, or bowel cancer, we head to the dining car. The Dutch couple sneer.

Jet propelled, we advance through the train. Crop dusting to mark our way, in case we become lost. Upon return, nauseous from the baked cheap pies, it dawns on me how reverse cycle air conditioning works. The air is cooled in a package unit above the carriage and pumped back inside. Some fresh air comes into the carriage too, but not enough to offset my own fresh ones. The door opens and we enter our own carriage space. The place smells like a public toilet.

“Mmmmm” a sound from Owen let’s me know we are home, back to our own space. Another slips down the leg of my jeans and into the nostrils of our traveling companions. A second slips out. Have you seen the airlock on a home brew kit? I was like that. A constant discharge of odour.

The train steams forward, my brother and I belching black smoke.

Owen squeezes out one more. I’m running out of gas. The sun begins to rise. We are in Byron Bay. “Oh God”, a Dutch accent announces.

I drop another to keep her happy.

At Murwillumbah Station, Mum meets her two lovely boys. We step through the crowd of weary travellers who kindly step aside to let us through, our force field is well tuned and in tip top shape. I pop once more.

We open the windows in the car on Mum’s request. I’m strapped in the back, my brother facing forward. The open windows do not help. He rips one more and I begin to gag.

“I am not amused” Mum remarks, but I am amused. I inject a lethal dose of mustard gas into the seat of Mum’s car. And another. Mum veinly tries to opener window further from open to open even more. A third stings my arse as it exits my back passage. The rushing of wind on the expressway could not drown out my little brass band.

Owen toots in reply.

Stopped at the lights, I let an evil monster loose, my brother down wind of my position. He immediately fires one back like in The Hunt for Red October. Mum moans.

I rip a truly rancid fart out of my exhaust, homing in on my brother’s nostrils. He answers as Mum starts the car again to cover the final 8 clicks. She winds the window down. We boys do not. The car now smells like a public toilet.

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