Closet Fetishist's Stories


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Ghost Writer
Author: Closet Fetishist

Written: September 16th, 2011

"Mr. Daniels; Congresswoman Bachmann would like to see you."

"Right away," I said into my intercom.

What did she want? It seemed like I'd only see her if I was in trouble...or if I had done really well.

I opened her door with a smile; I was greeted with a scowl.

"Dave, did you see what they are saying about my new book?"


"Well, it's not pretty...," she says with an accusatory tone.

"Well without a lot of guidance and with such a heavy page requirement, this was bound to happen."

"I see. Dave; I think we're done here. Go down to office 204 and get your last check."

"You're firing me?"


I wanted to say something but I chickened out and just walked out; closing the door softly behind me instead of slamming it as I wanted to.

I began walking only to find office 204 was right next door. Hm.

I open the door to what is an empty room. On the far wall is what looks like a booth with a small circular opening like bulletproof glass at the bank.

I approach the booth. I stand right next to it to see if I can see through the one way glass when suddenly something grabs me by the shoulders; arms extended from the wall hold me close to it now.

My face is pressed up against the hole.


An obnoxious sound emanates from the hole as my senses are filled with a pungent gassy aroma; familiar yet noxious. My eyes start to water.

"HELP!" I scream.


Another blast; I gag on the smell which mixes with the other to create such thick heavy fumes that never seem to go away.


As another rings out I feel dizzy; my vision blurs with tears running freely down my face. I try to break free but my fight is gone; I'm weak.


I start to fade; I am released by the arms that gripped so tight. My dead eyes are left staring at an enormous photo manipulation of the Congresswoman as a giant, farting on the United States of America.

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