The Great Wind

It was the 18th Supreme People’s Committee since the high-level state steering committee was reestablished. It was a big deal, and all members of the elite cadre in attendance knew it. I, for one, felt an extreme sense of unease at the whole thing, as did everyone else, although you wouldn’t know it by the exaggerated enthusiasm on display. Each man in the packed assembly room strived to outdo the others in the rapturous applause given to the Supreme Leader as he strode up to the pulpit. So much so, it became absurd, as no one dared to stop clapping before another.

My hands became numb as I smacked them together as hard as I could. The look of adoration on my face—that I had practiced in front of the mirror for so long—strained my facial muscles, and my eye began to twitch. Even after the Supreme Leader raised his hands to quell the frenzied crowd, no one would stop until the man on either side stopped first. The result was over five minutes of nonstop, chaotic applause in which the Supreme Leader himself joined in, sending the hall into even more of a frenzy. This ridiculous charade eventually ended only when the Supreme Leader stopped clapping and again signaled for the audience to sit.

The room fell into a hushed silence while our Dear Leader began his speech. Now began the tedious process of listening to his boring, halting voice go over the same tiresome tropes we had all heard a hundred times before. I maintained an expression of awed attention while silently stifling yawns. This was fine for me, as I was confident I could achieve this for the usual two hours our Great Leader liked to drone on for. For the older men in the room, this would be more of a challenge; there had been more than a few who nodded off for the briefest of moments, never to be seen again after the meeting's end.

About one hour in, as the great man was reeling off various economic goals from his list, an uncomfortable feeling began to form in my belly. Before we entered the hall, I had devoured a large bowl of kimchi—a very large bowl, in fact. I would not usually have been this greedy, but times had been hard and I was hungry—always hungry. I simply couldn’t stop myself as it was delicious and my belly was empty; a bad combination.

Now, I could feel painful cramps starting just below my belly button that traveled downward in burning trails. My body was telling me that I needed to expel gas. I shuffled in my seat with imperceptible movements, hoping not to gain attention from the ever-watchful guardsmen who flanked every corner of the room, watching for anyone perceived to be not paying the Dear Leader their utmost attention. I kept this up for half an hour or so—although it could have been five minutes—but only got minimal relief.

The pain was worsening, the pressure in my gut inexorably rising. I could feel beads of sweat on my forehead and temples as the agony twisted and churned inside me. I began to daydream of sitting on a white toilet in a huge bathroom, blasting out the foul gas into the bowl and the instant relief it would bring me. My Dear Leader was still reading from his sheaf of papers—something about more rice for the military? I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than keeping my buttocks clenched. I knew if I let this fart out during the Dear Leader’s speech, I’d be dead, and my family would be, too.

I just needed to hold on; surely the great man would not go on for much longer. But the pressure in my lower intestines was becoming critical. The gas was building up more and more, piling up in a desperate attempt to escape. I felt sweat beginning to trickle down my cheeks; God only knew what I looked like. I kept my eyes only on the Dear Leader as he droned on. My face wore the same expression I’d practiced as best I could, but I could still feel the guards' eyes on me. Maybe they would take my extreme perspiration and clenched jaw as fanatical zeal? I could only hope.

Five or ten minutes later, with no end in sight, I knew I was losing the battle. The gas was starting to pry my cheeks apart like some rabid monster trying to break into a house. Still, I pushed myself down harder into my seat and clenched as hard as I could. By now, my stomach was like a nuclear reactor going into meltdown; I could picture alarm bells sounding and pressure valves failing one by one. I was losing hope. I could only pray my family would be spared; as for myself, I knew there was no hope.

Finally, the Dear Leader closed his ledger. I was startled by the sound of everyone springing to their feet, applauding and cheering. I jumped up as quickly as I could and joined in. This was the moment; I could wait no more. Surely the sound of the rapture would cover this explosion from my anus. As for the stench, who could say which butthole it was from?

I beat my hands together as hard as I could, unclenched my buttocks, and unleashed the most powerful, thunderous fart I have ever produced. My underwear flapped like a flag in a storm, and I could actually feel the air coming down my pants leg in a hot, glorious gust. The relief was intense and beautiful. I beat my hands even harder, and for the first time, my face was genuinely beaming with joy in front of the Great Leader.

As the applause died down after the Dear Leader left the hall, I could hear the poor men behind and beside me gagging, choking, and retching. No one was ever officially blamed for the fart at the 18th supreme people’s committee, although I heard a few were questioned.