Where Fudge Is Made
by Stephen
Faulkner
When the Terran Interplanetary Diplomatic Service opened relations with
the major civilization on the planet Flomcarp in the solar system of
the median stellar body called Grantius by the Terrans, Whowhatso by
the Flomcarpians themselves, it was for a single economic reason.
Flomcarp’s sole interstellar export was one that could only be found on
their planet in such copious amounts and it was constantly being
produced as a byproduct through a basic biological function of the
planet’s ecosystem. This unique and highly prized substance was the
only reason that the combined world government of Earth (called Terra
by all other planets with whom the Earthlings had diplomatic relations)
had come to Flomcarp in the first place.
There was nothing more of Flomcarp that was in anyway appealing to the
travelers from Earth. Flomcarp’s landscapes, its people, its position
in the farthest arm of the spiral of the Milky Way (called the Fat Blob
of Lights in the Sky by the Flomcarpians in their guttural, distasteful
sounding language), their pedestrian food, art, literature,
architecture, music and fashion did not bring any sort of awe or
delight to the tastes of the Terrans. Much of it all was just bland and
unexceptional, if not totally vile and reprehensible. The only saving
grace of their putrid tasting Fomcarpian liquors was that they got you
blindingly drunk and with such amazing speed that you did not mind the
“flavor” and were left with no hangover; only a sour, sickly taste at
the back of the mouth.
But for the one export so far only alluded to, explorers from Terra
would have bypassed Flomcarp and its banal little star totally based on
the stories heard from a myriad of other spacefaring races with whom
the Terrans had contact. In the cacophonously echoing halls of the
Terran Embassy in Flomcarp’s major city, called Bigtown in their
tongue, the still amazed and mostly disgusted coterie of ambassadorial
staffers, assistants, flunkies and hangers-on could seem to speak of
little else.
“Once you hear of it,” said an Under-Vice-Counsel to his assistant as
they trod the loudly reverberating main hall of the embassy on their
way to the men’s room. “And you are finally made aware of what it is
and how it is so easily produced, you have no idea what to think of
such a product. It takes a while for such a concept to sink in and not
make you gag at the mere thought of it.”
“Right you are, sir,” said Hutchins, the assistant, as they entered the
main men’s lavatory on their floor. “The aroma of it is nearly
intoxicating but as soon as you reflect on its source, your first
reaction if to…to….”
“Vorf?” said the Under-Vice-Counsel, using an idiom that had recently
become trendy in the diplomatic corps. “Retch, barf, toss your cookies,
heave-ho and away it goes?”
“Mostly just retch,” allowed the underling. “Though I did get a nasty
case of the sweats the first few times when it came up in conversation.”
“Your constitution is stronger than most folks’, I’ll give you that. I
was laid up with a case of the galloping gut grabbers the first time it
was given to me as a dessert at a state function before I was told how
the stuff was – hrmph! – harvested.”
“You mean you actually ate it then? Oh, sir, I don’t know what my
reaction might have been if….”
“Pardon me, gen’m’n, but would it be possible for me to take advantage
of this facility? The loo for the native citizenry in this building
seems to be out of order at the moment and I cannot hold the flmfagidjic
much longer or I might just pop.” The Flomcarpian embassy worker was
nearly dancing on its three legs, the coloration of its face shifting
from violet to mauve to a deep cerise and back to violet in evidence of
its growing discomfort. Both men gestured toward a nearby toilet stall
and watched with shrugging accord as the creature rushed to relieve
itself.
“Flmfagidjic, indeed,” muttered the elder statesman.
“They can’t even say the word piss without turning nearly every color
of the rainbow.”
“A very self-conscious and easily embarrassed race, for sure,” said
Hutchins. “But aside from that they seem quite….”
“Boring as hell,” the Under-Vice-Counsel cut him off in a harsh
whisper. “Don’t give any credit where it isn’t due, Hutchins. We’re not
here to make buddy-buddy with the Floms, just to be sure that there is
a steady flow of pisch-schak back to Earth and
cargo ships coming here filled with whatever these three-legged ugloids
value enough to trade for their – hummn! – stuff.”
“Yes, stuff,” said Hutchins. “But why don’t we stop speaking so
euphemistically about this vaunted export of theirs and call it what it
actually is?”
The Under-Vice-Counsel was attempting to frame an answer to his
assistant’s query when, at that moment, a voluminous, whistling squeak
of flatulent expulsion issued from the toilet stall in which the
Flomcarpian was working his bowels.
Both Earthlings took a long, deep breath through their noses and sighed
in appreciative unison. “Better than the best that our Swiss
confectioners could ever offer,” said the elder man pensively. “Better
than Hershey or Mars or Lindt or Godiva or any others on Earth. Their
shit is simply manna from heaven.”
“Ahh,” said the younger man, waxing poetic. “I love the smell of
chocolaty farts in the morning!”
THE END
© 2017 Stephen Faulkner
Bio: Stephen Faulkner s a guy who loves to write fiction that
takes the world apart and puts it back together in interesting and
imaginative ways. He also loves to share his talent with all who
appreciate his singular style. He lives in Decatur, Georgia with his
wife and four cats. Steve has had the good fortune to have his stories
appear in such publications as Unhinged Magazine, Hellfire Crossroads,
Temptation Magazine, The Erotic Review, Liquid Imagination, Sanitarium
Magazine, The Satirist, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Tuck Magazine,
New Concepts and Fictive Dream.
This story originally appeared in Unhinged
Magazine, March, 2015.
E-mail: Stephen
Faulkner
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