Fart of Hero

The great superhero Fart with Reins was preparing his next day out, in order to fight for justice, and right wrongs. He swallowed the succulent pot of beans with noodles, that gave him the needed super strength to battle the evil and carry the day, as well as keeping his high watchful flight over big chilensis cities, thanks to the jet effect from the fierce flatulences that came out from his ass, and he was be able to handle at will (most of the time). A powerful engine of energy hardly exhaustible, and a deadly weapon against his enemies at the most suitable time.
Five minutes after that, he was overflying from north to south, and coast to mountains, that curious slice of chili-shaped land, leaving a trail of resounding and extended anal explosions followed by a sweet-smelling wake, that could easily rival a hundred Agrosuper factories with all their shit polluting-scented under the sun. Luckily for the teeming population down there, at that elevation the wind scattered any odor before it could landfall, and it rose the gases to high altitudes, where they were dispelled and absorbed by the ozone layer, abrading it further and increasing the greenhouse. But justice was foremost, and any cost was worth it by fighting to bring it to this world, and make this land a most egalitarian and safe place. And in order to balance over the matter, he always gave a Like in the Greenpeace Facebook page, making comments about the great work they were accomplishing, though he actually had a fucking clue about what they were doing.
Not time for that. His hypersensitive nose had detected a stinking carrion smell in some place down there, a clear sign of he was exactly on a point where the evil and vileness probably crowded like scum. He tightened his butts to stop the momentum given by the last super fart, and placed himself in a vertical position, letting out steady and short intestinal blasts, controlling its outflow so that they could hold him up on the same point, motionless (even though prevent the shaking and the slight hopping was practically impossible). He looked down and saw a wide spot of ground and tiny buildings. He knows that was useless making a rough guess at the precise place where he was stopped if he didn’t use the old trick of the thread of spit. So he got ready to a lonely concert of guttural noises, coming from the bottom of his throat, breathing in by the nose and clearing his throat to bring most of the flow of phlegm to the mouth, collecting saliva to the utmost (a spit too diluted would be easily rejected by the wind, and it would hit his face or anywhere on his body) so be able to reach the target smoothly.
When he was ready, he did the typical sound with his mouth to drive the thick slime forward, measuring it out so that it could going down as a thin and persistent trickle falling into the depths. There, exactly over that point, till there the thread of spittle was stretched out, if his calculations were correct. There was the perverted nest of evil, the fetid filth of villainy, there, just on that… Shit, he thought, giving a second glance, the National Congress again. It was the forth time that something like this happened in the week. Apart from all the other times when he was drawn by the smell of different public buildings, military installations, churches and others. Because his nose never made a mistake. The problem was that he just can’t take those roads, no matter if his nose gave him a red alert. Had Superman, Batman, Spiderman, and a lot of other superheros, fought against official institutions as supervillains tended to do? Never. Well, except in the last instalments of comics, but you can expect any kind of crap from them. No. The classic superheros, the true ones, didn’t do that. Quite the opposite, they fought side by side with the police services, the mayors, the presidents and all that load of well-off people. He would not be an exception.
Where were the terrorists? Those who used to plant bombs and threatened a coach full of vulnerable people, where? Forget about the so-called terrorists around here. No matter how hard he sniffed at them, they didn’t smell of anything. With a little luck, you found on them a little odor of benzine for molotov cocktails, and once in a while some of gunpowder, but it was mostly after they had been shot down for an agent or someone in uniform, not saying watch out for the bullet! And to top it off, the only thing that all those olfactory distractions did was to waste his time and fartoholic energy. Now he would have to come back to reload his stomach. Because that was another one: with one pot of those beans he used to eat years ago was enough for all day, but with beans he used these days he had to come back three or four times to reload. Damn Monsanto.
Enough complaints. A superhero was all temperance and fortitude. So he got prepared to give himself a last fartoholic boost before to reach one of his many lairs, where another meaty pot of beans with reins was waiting for him, and thus continue the search of good and justice. Something he went on doing, always trusting that so much reloading didn’t make him feel too ill, as it happened lately, because shit farts always shit everything, literally.