Mitchell's Cleanup Adventure

The daycare room looked like a battlefield of childhood chaos. Blocks were scattered like fallen soldiers, art supplies spilled across tables and floor, and tiny chairs lay toppled in random directions. Christopher, the camp counselor, stood in the doorway, his eyes scanning the destruction with a mixture of frustration and calculated decision.

The other children had been model students that morning—following instructions perfectly, sharing toys without argument, and participating enthusiastically in group activities. As a reward, Christopher had sent them to recess, their excited voices echoing down the hallway as they burst through the doors.

But Mitchell remained.

“Mitchell,” Christopher said, his voice low and deliberate, “you’re going to clean this room.” There was something in his tone that suggested this was more than just a simple cleaning task.

Mitchell’s eyes lit up with an eager desire to please. His adult-sized body moved with the enthusiasm of a child, ready to prove his worth. He began picking up blocks, carefully stacking them in their designated bins. His large hands, typically awkward, now moved with surprising precision.

Christopher watched, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. As Mitchell bent down to pick up some scattered crayons, Christopher stepped closer. Without warning, he leaned in and released a long, thunderous fart directly into Mitchell’s face.

The smell was overwhelming—a putrid mix of morning coffee and something distinctly unpleasant. Mitchell flinched but didn’t stop working. His pamper, still clean at the start of the task, began to shift and warm with the sudden stress and surprise.

Christopher continued to hover, periodically releasing more gas as Mitchell cleaned. Each fart was strategically timed—sometimes a quick burst, sometimes a long, rumbling release that seemed to hang in the air. Mitchell’s shirt became slightly damp with sweat, his concentration never wavering.

As he worked, Mitchell’s own pamper began to load. The stress, the smell, the concentration—all combined to create a warm, soft sensation that spread across the back of his pamper. Yet he continued cleaning, sorting crayons by color, returning chairs to their proper positions.

The room slowly transformed under Mitchell’s careful attention. Each toy found its place, each scattered item returned to order. Christopher watched, a mix of amusement and something else—perhaps satisfaction—crossing his face.

By the time Mitchell finished, the room was immaculate. Blocks were neatly stacked, art supplies organized with mathematical precision, chairs aligned perfectly. His pamper now hung heavily between his legs, loaded and warm, his shirt slightly rumpled but his spirit unbroken.

Christopher approached, standing close enough that Mitchell could still smell the remnants of his earlier gaseous assault. “Good job,” he said, his hand landing heavily on Mitchell’s shoulder.

Mitchell beamed, completely unaware of the mess in his pamper, completely oblivious to the torment he’d endured. He had completed his task, and that was all that mattered.