THE ORIGIN OF POOPERSCOOPER
A ponderous tale of farts
My eyes are torn open by some sudden, calamitous noise. Face down in the pillow, I can’t see anything. I turn my head to glance at the clock: 4:23 AM. I sniff the air and that old, familiar scent strikes my nostrils. I’ve just had an incident. I turn my head around and see the brown stain on my sheets centered on my backside. Interesting. This one seems to look just like Mother Teresa.
But something’s wrong. This isn’t one of mine. There’s only a faint hint of that rich, chestnut aroma. It’s almost as if my own was responding to�
An artificially induced discharge. Instantly alert, I leap out of bed, grabbing the colo-rectal activator from under my pillow. I set it to wide area sweep and fire. I hear cries of latino dismay and the terrible sound of a man’s guts being propelled out his anus. Turning on the lights, I see three men wearing sombreros writhing in agony on the ground. One was handling a large hose attached on one end to a large tank marked EL METHANO.
I reach for the phone and punch in four numbers. “Copronauts Control,� says a voice, just as I put the earpiece against my head.
“This is McLure. I need a cleanup team, now,� I tell the voice. “I think the Mexican’s been here.�
“Yes, sir. Shall I alert Commander Treble of the situation?� the voice asks me.
“Yeah, get the whole team together and have them warm up the war room. We’ve got a long night ahead.�
Two hours later, I step out of the ready room fully suited and ready to go to work. I’ve got my standard issue Poopsuit, my colo-rectal activator, my shovel and my hyperspace disposal unit. I step into the war room.
“Good…morning, campers,� I announce, eyes darting to the clock labelled CONTROL high on the wall. Copronauts Control Centre is in its own time zone, though time doesn’t strictly apply to a place like Control. “Here’s what we’re looking at: at 0423 GMT today, the Spaniard and his team hit the entire leadership of Copronauts across the western world. They’re all gone except me. Right now, I’m effectively in charge for this hemisphere. We’re going to hit back and hit back hard.�
“Everyone, sir?� asks young Dengler. Dengler’s a good kid and a natural Copronaut. “Even General Colostomy?�
“As far as we can tell,� chimes in a technician watching a computer screen, “everyone. Those who weren’t kidnapped died from methane poisoning or spontaneously combusted. Frankly, it’s a miracle Major McLure is here.�
“The Mexican never could get competent fartsmiths. And don’t count Commander Treble out yet,� I caution.
“Treble, sir?� Dengler’s eyebrows rise. “But he completely disappeared last week.�
“I’m sure he’s up to something, Dengler. Treble always has something up his sleeve. I remember, this time back in the Angolan Gas War of ’88, he spent three days up an elephant’s assho�but that’s still classified all the way to hell,� I say, holding back the chuckles. “In any case, right here and now, it’s just us, and we’ve got to get our people back.�
“Sir?� A corporal snaps his heels and salutes me. “CoproSat 4 caught images of the Mexican’s airship leaving Russian airspace two minutes ago. We’re tracking it now.�
“Russia?� My brow furrows. “The Mexican’s never been that far east before. He just hasn’t got the balls for it. He must have someone backing him on this.� Then, I freeze.
"Technician!� I snap. “Get me Colonel Vaspudeyich, right now!�
“Calling now, sir,� the operator answers. “Nothing. We have to assume Vaspudeyich has been compromised, sir.�
“God damn it!� I smash my fist into the war room’s big table. “All right, kids, looks like the situation is now global. The Mexican, likely aided by parties unknown, is taking our top rank out bit by bit. We need to know where to find them. I want CoproSats one through four tracking that airship. Get the rest looking at the Mexican’s known bases of operations.�
The war room staff scrambles to their instrument panels and phones and starts making my orders happen. I march off to the north wing of Control.
“You’re going because you’re the best we’ve currently got, Rolf.� I try to growl this as menacingly as possible. “Now quit arguing with me and get ready to go out in the field.�
“But I just got back from a job!� whines Rolf. “Fucking Finland, man. You know how full of shit that place is? And I haven’t even had a chance to empty out my ‘space!�
“You can bitch about it all night long, Rolf, you’re still going. This job is too important to hand off to some replacement.�
“Fuck it! Fine. But tell me I’m not going in with that shit Molevski.�
“You’re going with me, Rolf,� I tell him.�
“Thank fucking God for that, Captain, I was gonna fucking kill Mol��
“Me and Molevski.�
“Aw, fuck.�
Two hours later, I’m riding shotgun next to Molevski in a Severe High Impact Transport helicopter�a shitcopter. Rolf is in the back, muttering and throwing murderous glares at Molevski. I glance at Dengler, sitting opposite Rolf. I don’t really want to bring him along on this one. He’s still too damn green for this sort of job. I wanted to wean him off that crap he learned in the Academy slowly, with a few simple cleanup jobs. Covering for a world leader’s incontinence, emergency TP runs, that sort of bush league stuff. Not something this big, not this fast. But I have to work with what I have and hope that Dengler’s natural ability will get him through, even if he hasn’t got Rolf or Molevski’s experience.
Molevski speaks up on the radio, breaking into my thoughts. “We’re almost at the LZ, cap. Landing in one-oh minutes.�
That’s my cue.
“Okay, boys, here’s the deal: the Mexican has joined up with forces from beyond this world to cause harm to humanity’s digestive cycle. We’re talking constipation on a global scale. We haven’t seen anything this bad since ’46. We’re going to go in there, get our people out and dislodge the blockage�by any means necessary. Check your gear, set your colo-rectal activators to eleven and make peace with whatever God you care to.�
We hit the ground in the middle of a shitswamp. The shitcopter, looking like a giant turd as it does, instantly becomes invisible, melding seamlessly into the fetid background. I breathe deeply, experiencing that unique smell as if for the first time. It’s been a long time since I was out in the field. It’s so easy to forget, riding a desk back at Control, what it means to be out here, knee-deep in the stuff that we give our lives for all the time. The regular and safe flow of poop throughout the world. It may not be glamorous, but it’s my job.
“Cap,� Rolf grabs my shoulder. “We gotta move. The Mexican’s guys might have made us on our way in, and we don’t want to be standing around any longer than necessary.� I shake off my momentary reverie. Like I said, it’s my job, so I’d better get to it.
We set off through the jungle, and the madness of the Mexican’s plans finally hits us. We can see his base off in the distance, and even out here, the bowel irregularities are shocking. We see wildlife subjected to unthinkable levels of blockage. We don’t have time to stop and help them. We have to think of the greater good and press on. God, even the trees seem to be cramped and bloated. I grit my teeth. The Mexican will pay. I will see to it.
“Captain,� Dengler looks at me with eyes filled with the horror of the rookie who never wanted to become a veteran this fast. “Captain, this… this isn’t right.�
“No, son, it absolutely is not. It’s never been this bad. Not even in Angola. Christ, I wish Treble was here.�
“Could he help, Captain?� I consider this for a moment.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But he’d sure as hell want to see it.�
I hear a cry from up ahead. It’s Rolf. I tell Dengler to get down and stay put and I silently stalk forwards to see what’s happened. I immediately wish I hadn’t. Rolf is rolled up into a little ball, his face contorted by terminal constipation.
“He just keeled over, Cap,� says Molevski. “I don’t know what happened!�
“God damn it, Rolf, you idiot!� I bellow. I’ve seen this before. You can’t be hit by constipation unless you’ve got something in your guts. “Didn’t you take your fucking enema before going out?� All too often, Copronauts get cocky, start thinking they’re invincible. They’re not.
There’s nothing to be done for Rolf. I level my colo-rectal activator straight at him and fire. He goes quickly after that. I give a low whistle and two clicks and Dengler appears next to me moments later. He glances at Rolf’s twisted corpse and his features harden visibly. When he looks me in the eyes, I don’t see the scared little boy anymore. I see a man, ready to take revenge on the Mexican and whoever the hell is helping him. I see a Copronaut.
We move out and head for the Mexican’s compound.
The walk through the jungle is difficult, but uneventful. We encounter no patrols; the Mexican can’t send men out into the constipation field his operation is generating or they’d die like Rolf did. Fortunately, we Copronauts are protected, assuming we follow procedure properly.
We get inside the compound and quickly find the prisoners. Most of them are in bad shape and unconscious. Some seem comatose. Eventually, I find General Colostomy. The tough old bastard’s the only one still in any kind of shape to talk to us. Even he’s battered and bruised, though, and can barely sit up to see us.
“McLure? Is it you?� rasps the aged Copronaut hero. “By the Flush, son, I didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to waste your time on us.�
“No time for self-pity, General,� I say, refusing to acknowledge Colostomy’s mirth. “We need to know what the Mexican has been doing to you in here.�
The General takes a rasping, rattling breath. “Terrible, terrible things, son. Some kind of new constipation field, unlike anything we’ve ever seen. He’s been… testing it on us. It’s just not natural. This thing is breaking our toughest guys, McLure. You’ve got to stop him.�
“Don’t worry General, we’ll get the Mexican as soon as we get you�� starts Dengler, but the General cuts him off.
“Not the damn Mexican! The Mexican’s just a pawn here. Someone else is pulling the strings.�
“Who? Is it C.R.A.P.? Is it the League of Irregularity from Beyond the Stars?� I inquire, burning with the desire to know.
The General’s breathing becomes increasingly laboured. “No… it’s… T-Treble.�
“Treble?� I’m stunned. Treble is one of the greatest Copronauts we’ve ever had. For him to turn is inconceivable.
“He did disappear two weeks ago, sir.� Molevski is aggravatingly correct. Rolf was right. Molevski really is a shit. “I guess that vacation to Aruba was a front.�
I say nothing, grappling with the betrayal of my dearest friend. After a few moments, I realize this doesn’t change anything. We’ve still got to get the job done. “Dengler, get our guys out of here. Molevski, you’re with me.�
“No, McLure, don’t bother.� The General seems to be expending his last breaths. “We’re already gone. Just… just get that fucking Treble for us.� And then he says nothing. As his last breath leaves his lungs, he releases a massive, earth-shaking fart like an odorous exclamation mark at the end of a terrible sentence.
I cock my colo-rectal activator and revel in the crisp, clear, weapon-like sound it makes. I turn to Dengler and Molevski. “Let’s finish the job.�
We make our way down the hall to a guard station. We really should sneak past these guys, infiltrate this place’s command centre, sabotage this constipation field and make it back out quietly. There is no chance in hell that’s going to happen. I blow in the door with a maximum pungency blast from the activator. A roomful of the Mexican’s poncho-clad flunkies stare at me, faces frozen in terror. I’ve got to do this fast before they realize they have the advantage here.
“Where is Treble?� I roar, timing the query to arrive upon the muchachos at the same time as the noxious battlefart I prepare and unleash. Half of them are killed on contact with the powerful aroma. The others are highly talkative. I make their intestines explode anyways.
The three of us make our murderous way through the base, leaving vile smears of blood and excrement all over the walls. We mow down every living thing we encounter, whether guard, scientist or tormented experimental subject: every single one is likely better off dead.
Finally, we arrive in the control room. It is a large, circular room with an amazingly high ceiling. Its perimeter is lined with massive computer terminals, all monitoring some vile, inhuman experiment intended to perfect the most deadly and evil weapon ever created: the massive constipation field generator in the centre of the room. The generator seems so innocent. It is a gigantic silvery sphere, brimming with antennae. The way it captures light and sparkles, even in the harsh neon light of the Mexican’s installation, is hauntingly beautiful. How terrible it is that such a breathtaking construction should be used for such evil.
At the very top of a sphere, a platform upon which rests a deceptively simple command console. The console is manned by an all too familiar man.
Commander Treble.
He still wears his full Copronaut uniform and rank insignia, a cruel mockery of the proud and noble rank he used to hold.
“McLure!� The traitor feigns surprise at my arrival. “How good of you to arrive to see my victory sealed.�
“Treble, we worked together for ages. We put down all kinds of crap all over the world for the better part of twenty years. So I want you to remember all the most vicious turds, farts and blockages we dealt with in that time and understand just what I mean to say when I tell you what you’re the most disgusting little shit I’ve ever seen.�
The bastard just laughs. “Oh, McLure, you were always so prone to dramatics. You always had this ridiculous idea of nobility, that the work we were doing was important and meaningful.�
“You know damn well that keeping the world’s crap moving is paramount to the world’s stability! That’s why the UN formed Copronaut Command in the first place!�
“Oh, I don’t doubt that it’s important to stability,� titters Treble. “But the thing that straight-laced tools like you never quite seem to grasp is that anything that’s important to stability of the world can just as easily be used to hold that same world at your mercy. To control it. To demand anything you can imagine of it. I’m tired of quite literally dealing with other people’s shit. I’m tired of being up to my neck in cacky for these ingrates. I want to get what’s coming to me. I want to be in control of whenever anyone takes a crap��
“And that always was your problem, Treble.� I spit on the ground. “You never understood it. Look at how you say it: ‘take a crap’.� I glance at Dengler. I especially want him to listen to this. “You can’t take a crap. When you poop, you’re giving something to the world, something meaningful, something wonderful. I had always hoped you got that at some level. I can see now that I was wrong.�
Dengler steps up next to me wearing a determined look on his face. I smile inwardly. He’s about to give his first heroic speech. This boy will be a fine Copronaut. “Give it up, Treble. We’ve torn through your entire operation. All your men are dead. All your scientists have choked on their own farts. All your equipment and research is destroyed. Your mad project is finished. Surrender and we’ll go easy on you.�
“Who’s this, McLure? Your fucking sidekick? A ward for you to mould in your own image? Well, McLure, all your fanciful ideas and preachy fecal morals won’t mean much in a moment. The constipation field generator is complete.�
“No!� exclaims Molevski. “That’s… no!�
“Oh, Molevski, you always were a shit. Yes! It’s ready, and as soon as I turn it on, the entire world’s bowel movements will be at my mercy. That idiot Mexican didn’t understand the glorious vision I had. He was weak.� Treble smiled. “Though he did make an excellent test subject. But I think I’ve talked enough. It’s time for the world to learn to fear Commander Treble, nay, Emperor Treble!�
I stamp my feet, once each. As I begin to rise into the air, powered by an atomic fart channelled into jet engines in my boots, I let out a mighty yell and rocket towards Treble.
I lose track of the next few minutes, but at the end of it, Treble is laying on the ground, his belly wide open and his corpse covered in his own feces.
He coughs up blood and emits tiny farts. “You fucking… boy scout. I can’t fucking believe… you won.� He dies as his exposed intestines burst. Flecks of Treble’s last remaining poop splatter on my visor.
I turn around and see Dengler staring at me. His mouth gapes. “Cap… McLure… you’re…� He wordlessly points at me. I look down and notice for the first time that odd bulges are travelling up and down my torso. I grimace and collapse. Treble must have got me after all. My inner organs are rapidly decomposing into shit. I have only a minute or so left. I can barely speak as my lungs collapse into waste.
“Dengler… destroy this place… all this evil… don’t ever let anyone come back here… make it my tomb.�
“Yes, Captain,� he sobs, “I’ll do it, Captain.�
“And Dengler… take care of the Copronauts… make sure they’re always around… because we’ll… always… need… them.�
Dengler nods. I can no longer speak as my vocal cords disintegrate into diarrhoea. I just stare straight into his eyes and hope that everything I want to tell him is getting across, that he understands what all of this means. I hope that he’ll be able to take my place.
The last thing I see before my eyes disappear in little puffs of methane is Dengler snapping off my dogtags and reciting the motto of the Copronauts:
SEMPER FART
From ideas by Pooperscooper and Aptyp
With apologies to Warren Ellis for blatant theft of the rectal disruptor.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Upon finishing writing this awful, awful story, I quickly went to enjoy a good shit. I dedicate this shit and all my shits to follow to the brave men and women of the Copronauts.
The Origin of Pooperscooper
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POOPERSCOOPER
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POOPERSCOOPER
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Goretheglowingone
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