I saw a big blue FCI glinting from the badge as the man in navy collared wool coat retracted it. “Mr. Tsogt. I’m agent Mukherjee. This is agent–” he intoned; I didn’t catch the second name because the FCI acronym bothered me. Isn’t it supposed to be FBI? I wondered.
Company lunch time was ending and my co-workers were lumbering out of the court, some of them glanced at me like an old Saint Bernard checking if you’ll give him any treat.
“Can we ask you some questions?”
“Sure,” I said, stuffing my footlong steak and cheese sub into the side pocket of my khaki. “How can I be of help?” I asked, after we took seats.
“We want to know where you were between 4 and 5 pm yesterday,” Agent Mukherjee started, as the other conjured a small notepad and pen and started scribbling. None of them took off their coats.
“The office. I was finishing up the annual sales plan. I had to present the plan at 4.30 to the executive team.”
“The camera footage tells us you took the elevator to the 10th floor at 4.34, is that correct?” Asked Mukherjee. My stomach growled for the sub.
“Yes. Is something wrong? Did somebody get hurt?” Did somebody die?
“Do you remember anything odd happening in that elevator during that particular ride?”
“No, I don’t. It was a usual ride.” I tapped my feet and looked at my watch. “Gentlemen, if it’s all right. I’m late for my lunch time.” The other agent stopped scribbling and looked at me funny.
Agent Mukherjee leaned closer and said, “Do you remember anything unpleasant, olfactory-wise?” asked.
“We’re investigating a case of anonymous olfactory terrorist. Chimgee, an assistant in your company reported suffering high-degree rectal gas in that elevator. For fifteen seconds she was subjugated to stank scent of turkey meat flatulence. Along with 8 other victims, one of which is you”
“You mean somebody farted and you’re investigating it?” I said, stifling a laugh.
The other agent slammed the desk. “We at Fart Culprit Investigation don’t think it’s a laughing matter, mister. So you better tell us if it was you or not, sub-lover.”
I covered the sub in my pocket under the table.
“I’m sorry. Ahem. I actually remember the fart. Oh, man. Horrible feeling. But I think it was more Mexican food, you know?” I continued as I made a mental note to cut back on subs.
Seemed like I would be recounting this event many times.
Manzushir Darganar was born in Lhasa, Tibet, and lives in Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia.
Natso Baatarkhuu lives in Mongolia and writes in English. His works have appeared in Cracked.com and The UB Post, and he started this website. He dreams of publishing novels and selling screenplays someday.