Redhawk Caldera Drive-thru

Sometimes it was a blessing not to be able to see or hear, and in this moment it would have been a blessing not to be able to smell either. His father's fart did smell, and it engulfed his poor nose so thoroughly that he let out a strangled squawk in protest. His sense of smell was not yet so developed that he could pick apart the gas cloud and detect the many scents that comprised it - all he could smell was nauseating stench. It quite literally stole his breath; he required oxygen, not methane.

It perhaps had the intended effect though. It spurred the little bandit's legs into action, and soon he was speed-crawling down the den, clumsily barrelling toward his mother and what he perceived as safety. Puppy farts had nothing on his father, but then, there was a rather distinct size and capacity difference there.