Fart Force: Mitchell Edition —
The Hero We Didn’t Know We Needed (But Totally Deserve)
Grab your whoopee cushions and get ready, because Fart Force is here to save the day—Mitchell-style. He’s part toddler, part chaos gremlin, and 100% pure comedic energy. Armed with Velcro sneakers, a pretzel in one hand, and Sir Fuzzington (a blanket with serious emotional weight) in the other, Mitchell is basically a walking mood reset button. When the city gets too cranky, too serious, or just plain blah, Mitchell’s not-so-silent talent arrives to shake things up—literally. It’s loud. It’s proud. And it’s here to remind the world that sometimes life just needs a little more laughter. Cheers to breaking the silence with Mitchell, the flatulent force of joy we didn’t know we needed.
A story of unspeakable powers and questionable choices.
Chapter One: The Call Nobody Wanted
Let's get one thing straight before we start. This is a serious superhero story about three brave heroes, one very important investigation, and a smell that nobody has ever fully recovered from.
You've been warned. Hold your nose if you need to.
High above the wet, busy streets of the city, three heroes lived in a secret headquarters. Technically, the headquarters was the apartment above the laundromat on Ninth Street. But it had a password, a doormat that said KEEP OUT (MOSTLY), and a refrigerator full of string cheese. That's a headquarters.
The three heroes looked almost exactly alike. They all had blonde hair, the same nose, and the same chin. People stopped them on the street all the time to ask if they were triplets, clones, or one guy who walked really fast. The answer was none of the above. They were just best friends who happened to match. It was weird. They didn't talk about it.
First, there was Sergeant Steadfast.
Sergeant Steadfast wore a blue and yellow tactical suit with enough padding to survive a fall off a building, or at least off a medium-sized ladder. His utility belt had eleven pouches. Each pouch had a label. One label said PENCILS. Another said BACKUP PENCILS. A third said EMERGENCY PENCILS, DO NOT TOUCH. He had messy hair, fingerless gloves, and a face that had not smiled since a Tuesday three years ago. He carried a clipboard everywhere. The clipboard had a clipboard.
Next came The Gale.
The Gale wore a green hood, brown leather gloves, and pants with knee pads, because heroes kneel down to look at clues a lot. On his chest was a puffy white cloud. When people asked what the cloud meant, The Gale said, "Wind." When people asked what kind of wind, The Gale said, "The mysterious kind," and walked away. His superpower was his nose. The Gale could smell a burnt piece of toast from four blocks away. He could tell you what you had for lunch yesterday just by standing next to you. This was a gift. It was also a curse. Mostly a curse.
Finally, there was Captain Tailwind.
Captain Tailwind wore an orange and gray suit, a brown mask, and aviator goggles pushed up on his forehead. He never actually pulled the goggles down. They were there for style. His brown cape hung off one shoulder because he said that was "the cool way." He smiled at everyone. He smiled at pigeons. He smiled at parking meters. He once smiled at a raccoon so confidently that the raccoon gave him back his sandwich.
Together, they had no team name. They had tried. Oh, they had tried.
"Team Blonde," Captain Tailwind had suggested once.
"No," said Sergeant Steadfast.
"The Breeze Boys," The Gale had offered.
"Absolutely not," said Sergeant Steadfast.
"The Three Guys Who Look Weirdly Similar," Captain Tailwind tried again.
Sergeant Steadfast wrote something on his clipboard. It said NO in big letters, underlined twice.
So they were just three heroes with no name, a lot of string cheese, and a growing sense that something big was coming.
That afternoon, the big thing came.
The emergency phone rang. It was a red phone shaped like a hot dog, because it had been on sale. Sergeant Steadfast picked it up.
"Headquarters," he said. "State your emergency."
A shaky voice answered. "This is Gloria from the community center. Something happened at the Tuesday Craft Circle. One minute, everyone was gluing macaroni. The next minute, the whole room was empty. Nobody knows why. Everyone just ran. Somebody left their macaroni behind, Sergeant. Half a necklace. Just sitting there."
Sergeant Steadfast gripped the hot dog phone tighter. "Was anyone else in the room when it happened?"
There was a long pause.
"Mitchell," said Gloria. "Mitchell was there."
Sergeant Steadfast slowly hung up the phone. He turned to the other two.
"Gentlemen," he said. "We have a case."
Captain Tailwind grinned. The Gale sniffed the air. Somewhere out there, a mystery was waiting.
And it smelled a little funny.
Chapter Two: Who Exactly Is Mitchell?
Every good investigation starts with a suspect board. Sergeant Steadfast rolled a giant corkboard into the middle of the living room. He pinned up a photo of Mitchell. Then he grabbed some red string, because suspect boards need red string. That rule isn't negotiable.
"Let's review what we know," said Sergeant Steadfast. "Who is Mitchell?"
Here's the thing you need to understand about Mitchell. He was their friend. He had always been their friend. He showed up to every birthday party, every movie night, and every game of backyard catch. He also showed up to several things he was not invited to, including a dentist appointment that wasn't his.
And Mitchell was big. In some ways.
He was tall. Taller than all three of them. He could reach the top shelf without a stool. He could open any jar, even the pickle jar that had beaten Sergeant Steadfast in a fair fight. He could eat an entire family-size pizza and then ask what was for dessert. He had a deep voice, broad shoulders, and a handshake that could crush a walnut.
So yes. Mitchell was a big boy.
In some ways.
"But," said Captain Tailwind, raising one finger. "He's also mostly a big baby."
Nobody argued. This was simply true.
Sergeant Steadfast started a list. He titled it EVIDENCE OF BABY.
Mitchell still wears sneakers with Velcro straps because, in his words, "Laces are a trap."
Mitchell has a blanket. The blanket has a name. The name is Sir Fuzzington. Sir Fuzzington goes everywhere.
When Mitchell is hungry, he doesn't say "I'm hungry." He lies face-down on the floor and makes a noise like a sad whale.
Mitchell needs a nap at 2:00 p.m. every single day. If he doesn't get his nap, he becomes what the team calls "Crankasaurus."
When you ask Mitchell to do something, he looks you dead in the eye and says, "No, you do it."
The Gale squinted at the list. "Number five is a big one."
"Number five is the biggest one," said Sergeant Steadfast. "Last week I asked him to carry his own plate to the sink. He said, 'No, you do it.' Then he handed me the plate. Then he handed me Sir Fuzzington. I don't know why I was holding the blanket. I just was."
Captain Tailwind leaned back on the couch, cape flapping. "So we've got a guy who can lift a couch but cries when his juice box straw won't go in."
"Correct."
"A guy who's six feet tall but needs someone to cut the crusts off his sandwiches."
"Correct."
"A guy who once fought off a goose at the park to protect a small child, then cried because the goose was mean to him."
"That goose was really mean," said The Gale quietly. "I was there. That goose had problems."
Sergeant Steadfast tapped the board. "Big boy. Big baby. And now, a mysterious room-clearing incident at the Tuesday Craft Circle. Something doesn't add up."
The Gale stood and pulled his hood lower. He looked at the photo of Mitchell for a long time. Then he took a deep sniff of the photo.
"What are you doing?" asked Captain Tailwind.
"Checking for clues."
"It's a photo."
"I'm very thorough."
Sergeant Steadfast clicked his pen with great purpose. "Here's the plan. Tomorrow, we follow Mitchell. We watch him. We take notes. We figure out exactly what happened in that craft room. And under no circumstances does anyone let him know he's being investigated."
"What if he asks us what we're doing?" asked Captain Tailwind.
"We lie."
"I'm a bad liar."
"Then smile," said Sergeant Steadfast. "You're good at that."
Captain Tailwind smiled. It was, honestly, a great smile.
The case was officially open.
Chapter Three: The Stakeout at Sal's Snack Shack
The next morning, the three heroes hid behind a mailbox across the street from Sal's Snack Shack. Mitchell loved Sal's. Sal's had pretzels the size of your head and a sign that said NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO PROBLEM, which Sal said was a typo but never fixed.
The mailbox was not a great hiding spot. It was a regular-sized mailbox. There were three grown heroes behind it. One of them had a cape.
"Your cape is sticking out," whispered Sergeant Steadfast.
"The cape is always sticking out," Captain Tailwind whispered back. "That's what a cape does. It sticks out with confidence."
"Quiet," said The Gale. "I smell something."
"Is it Mitchell?"
"No. It's a pretzel. But I'm very excited about it."
They waited. And waited. A pigeon landed on Captain Tailwind's head. He smiled at it. The pigeon seemed charmed and stayed.
At exactly 10:14 a.m., Sergeant Steadfast checked his watch. "He should be here by now. Mitchell comes to Sal's every morning at ten. Where is he?"
"Hey, guys!"
All three heroes screamed. The pigeon screamed. Somewhere, a car alarm went off, possibly in sympathy.
Mitchell was standing right behind them. He was holding a giant pretzel in one hand and Sir Fuzzington in the other. He had mustard on his chin.
"What are you doing behind the mailbox?" Mitchell asked.
Sergeant Steadfast panicked. "Mail."
"You're mailing something?"
"We are the mail."
Captain Tailwind smiled as hard as he could. The Gale stared at the ground. The pigeon flew away, embarrassed for everyone.
"Cool," said Mitchell, who accepted this answer completely. "Want some pretzel?"
He held out the pretzel. Then he pulled it back. "Actually, no. It's mine." Then he held it out again. "Okay, one bite." Then he pulled it back again. "Never mind."
He wandered off down the street, humming.
The three heroes sat in silence. Sergeant Steadfast pulled out his clipboard with shaking hands. He wrote:
OBSERVATION #1: Subject appears without warning. No sound. No footsteps. Just suddenly… there.
"How did he sneak up on us?" whispered Captain Tailwind. "He's huge. He wears Velcro shoes. You can hear Velcro from space."
"He was just there," said The Gale. "One second, nothing. The next second, Mitchell. Like he came out of the air itself."
Sergeant Steadfast tapped his pen against his chin. "Interesting. Very interesting."
"What's interesting?"
"I don't know yet," said Sergeant Steadfast. "But I wrote it down, so it's official."
Chapter Four: The Library Incident
They followed Mitchell all day. This was harder than it sounds. Mitchell did not walk in straight lines. He walked in squiggles. He stopped to pet every dog. He stopped to look at every puddle. He stopped once for eleven full minutes to watch a man fix a fire hydrant. He clapped when the man was done. The man bowed.
At 1:00 p.m., Mitchell went into the public library.
"The library," whispered Sergeant Steadfast. "The quietest place in the city. If anything strange happens, we'll notice right away."
The three heroes slipped inside. They hid behind a shelf of books about birds. Captain Tailwind picked one up and pretended to read it upside down.
The library was perfect and peaceful. A grandma was reading a mystery novel. Two college students were studying. A little kid was quietly looking at a picture book about trucks. The librarian, Mr. Pemberton, was stamping books with the slow, loving care of a man who had stamped books for forty years and would stamp books for forty more.
It was the calmest room in the whole world.
Then Mitchell sat down.
He sat in the big squishy armchair in the middle of the room. He opened a book. He got comfortable. He wiggled. He wiggled some more.
And then it happened.
There was a sound.
You know the sound. Don't pretend you don't know the sound. It was long. It was loud. It went up at the end, like a question. It echoed off the high ceiling and bounced around the shelves like it was looking for a way out.
For one second, the library was completely silent.
Then the grandma stood up. The college students stood up. The kid with the truck book stood up. Mr. Pemberton put down his stamp.
And then the smell arrived.
The Gale, with his super-powered nose, felt it first. His eyes went wide. His knees buckled. He grabbed the bookshelf for support.
"It's here," he gasped. "Oh no. It's everywhere."
It was. The smell rolled through that library like fog over a swamp. It was warm. It was mighty. It smelled like hard-boiled eggs that had been through something emotional. It reached every corner, every shelf, every book about birds.
Within thirty seconds, the library was empty. The grandma left her mystery novel. The college students left their notes. Mr. Pemberton left his stamp, which he had never done before, not even during the fire drill of last spring.
Only four people remained. Three heroes, gagging behind a bookshelf. And Mitchell, still in the armchair, still reading, with the peaceful look of a man who has done nothing wrong ever in his entire life.
He looked up. "Huh," said Mitchell. "Where'd everybody go?"
The heroes crawled out of the library on their hands and knees. Outside, they lay on the sidewalk, breathing fresh city air like it was the finest thing ever made.
Sergeant Steadfast pulled out his clipboard. His hands were trembling. He wrote:
OBSERVATION #2: Subject cleared an entire room. Instantly. With no apparent effort.
"That's what happened at the craft circle," said The Gale weakly. "That's why the macaroni was left behind."
"Poor macaroni," said Captain Tailwind.
"Poor us," said The Gale. "I'm going to smell that until I'm ninety."
Sergeant Steadfast stared at his clipboard. Two observations. Appears without warning. Clears a room instantly.
A strange idea was starting to form in his mind. It was a ridiculous idea. It was an impossible idea. He decided not to say it out loud yet.
But he did underline both observations. Twice.
Chapter Five: The Nap Time Disaster
At exactly 2:00 p.m., Mitchell needed his nap.
You need to understand how serious this is. Missing Mitchell's nap is like missing a volcano warning. It's not technically your fault, but you'll still be standing in the lava.
Unfortunately, Mitchell was at the park, and his nap blanket, Sir Fuzzington, had fallen in a puddle.
The heroes watched from behind a tree. (A much better hiding spot than the mailbox. Sergeant Steadfast had checked.)
Mitchell held up the dripping blanket. His lower lip started to shake.
"Uh-oh," whispered Captain Tailwind. "Here comes Crankasaurus."
Mitchell's lip shook harder. His face turned pink, then red, then a color that doesn't have a name yet. He sat down on the grass. He kicked his Velcro shoes. And then he let out a wail so loud that every bird in the park left at the same time. It was a noise like a fire truck trying to sing opera. It was a noise like a teakettle with a broken heart.
Joggers stopped jogging. Dogs stopped barking and started looking concerned. A man selling balloons let go of all of them at once.
"He's so loud," whispered The Gale. "How is one person this loud?"
Sergeant Steadfast was writing very fast now.
OBSERVATION #3: Subject is impossible to ignore. No matter where you are, you know when he's arrived.
Then something strange happened.
An older lady on a bench pulled a dry towel from her bag and walked over to Mitchell. "Here, sweetie," she said. "Dry off your blanket."
A jogger stopped and offered him a granola bar. A kid gave him a sticker of a dinosaur. The balloon man, who now had zero balloons, came over and patted Mitchell on the back anyway.
Within five minutes, there was a little crowd around Mitchell. People who had never met each other were laughing and talking. The jogger and the older lady discovered they lived on the same street. The kid and the balloon man discovered they both liked dinosaurs. Somebody started passing around crackers.
Mitchell, now wrapped in a dry towel and holding a soggy Sir Fuzzington, fell fast asleep right there on the grass. Snoring. Loudly.
The heroes stared from behind their tree.
"He just brought a bunch of strangers together," said Captain Tailwind.
"By screaming," said The Gale.
"By screaming," agreed Captain Tailwind. "It's kind of beautiful."
Sergeant Steadfast wrote:
OBSERVATION #4: Even though subject is loud, sudden, and a little bit gross, people gather around afterward. People LAUGH. People CONNECT.
He looked at all four observations. He looked at the sleeping Mitchell. He looked at The Gale's chest, at the puffy white cloud on his costume.
The ridiculous idea in his head grew a little bigger.
"Gentlemen," said Sergeant Steadfast. "Back to headquarters. It's time to compare notes."
Chapter Six: Mind, Body, and Spirit
Back at headquarters, the three heroes gathered around the suspect board. Sergeant Steadfast had drawn a giant chart. It had two columns. One column said MITCHELL. The other column was covered by a sheet of paper.
"I've been studying the evidence," said Sergeant Steadfast. "And I've reached a conclusion. It's going to sound ridiculous."
"We live above a laundromat and our phone is shaped like a hot dog," said Captain Tailwind. "Try us."
Sergeant Steadfast took a deep breath. "I believe we need to examine Mitchell in three ways. Body. Mind. And spirit."
"Like a doctor?" asked The Gale.
"Like a scientist," said Sergeant Steadfast. "A very tired scientist."
He tapped the first row.
BODY.
"Let's start with the body," said Sergeant Steadfast. "What do we know about Mitchell's body?"
"He's big," said Captain Tailwind.
"He's warm," said The Gale. "He's always warm. Like a heater. Sitting next to him on the couch is like sitting next to a baked potato."
"He makes noises," added Captain Tailwind. "All kinds of noises. Squeaks. Honks. That whale sound when he's hungry."
"And his hair," said The Gale. "It's so fluffy. It's like he's made of air."
Sergeant Steadfast nodded and wrote it all down. Warm. Noisy. Mostly fluffy air. Shows up at the worst possible time.
MIND.
"Now the mind," said Sergeant Steadfast. "How does Mitchell think?"
Captain Tailwind laughed. "Whatever's in his head comes right out of his mouth. No filter. No warning. Last week, at his aunt's fancy dinner, he stood up and told everyone that the soup tasted like feet."
"Did it?" asked The Gale.
"It really did," said Captain Tailwind. "But nobody else was going to say it."
"And he never plans anything," said The Gale. "He just happens. One minute he's calm, the next minute he's telling a waiter about his dream where he was a sandwich."
Sergeant Steadfast wrote: Unplanned. No filter. Says what everyone else is holding in.
SPIRIT.
"Finally," said Sergeant Steadfast, his voice getting very serious, "the spirit."
The room got quiet.
"Mitchell doesn't care what anybody thinks," said Captain Tailwind slowly. "He's just… free. He lets it all out. He's never embarrassed."
"He makes every room feel different," said The Gale. "You can't stay serious around him. Even when you're mad, he does something ridiculous and you end up laughing."
"And when he shows up," said Captain Tailwind, "everybody notices. Everybody reacts. Everybody ends up talking to each other about it."
Sergeant Steadfast stepped back. He looked at the MITCHELL column, now packed with notes.
Then, with great drama, he ripped the paper off the second column.
It said:
A FART.
Captain Tailwind gasped. The Gale fell off the couch.
"Look at the evidence," said Sergeant Steadfast, pointing with his pen like a lawyer in a very weird courtroom. "Body: warm, noisy, mostly air, shows up at the worst time. Is that Mitchell, or is that a fart?"
"Both," whispered Captain Tailwind.
"Mind: no plan, no filter, comes out whether you're ready or not, says what everyone else is holding in. Mitchell, or fart?"
"Both," whispered The Gale from the floor.
"Spirit: totally free, never embarrassed, impossible to ignore, changes the whole mood of a room, and somehow, every single time, gets people laughing together. Mitchell? Or fart?"
"BOTH!" yelled Captain Tailwind and The Gale together.
Sergeant Steadfast set down his clipboard. For the first time in three years, the corner of his mouth twitched. It was almost a smile.
"Gentlemen," he said, "after careful scientific investigation, I can officially declare that Mitchell is identical to a fart. In mind. In body. And in spirit."
There was a long silence.
Then Captain Tailwind started laughing so hard his goggles slid down over his eyes for the first time ever. The Gale laughed so hard he snorted. And Sergeant Steadfast? He made a small noise. It was a short, quiet "heh." But it counted. It definitely counted.
When they finally calmed down, The Gale sat up. He looked worried.
"Wait," he said. "Is this a bad thing? Are we saying Mitchell is… bad?"
Sergeant Steadfast paused. That was a good question. That was, maybe, the most important question of the entire case.
"I'm not sure yet," he said. "We need one more test."
Chapter Seven: The Most Serious Day in City History
As it turned out, the city had the perfect test planned. It was called the Grand Ribbon Cutting of the New City Fountain.
This was the most serious event of the year. The mayor would be there. Important people in important suits would be there. A brass band would play a slow, serious song. Everyone had been told to "please remain dignified." It was printed on the invitation. In bold.
The three heroes were asked to stand guard. Mitchell was invited too, mostly because he had won a raffle, and nobody could figure out how to un-invite a raffle winner.
From the very start, things were bad. Not dangerous bad. Boring bad. Grumpy bad.
It was cloudy and drizzly. The mayor's speech was forty-five minutes long and mostly about pipes. The important people in suits were frowning. The crowd was cold and cranky. A baby was crying. A man in the front row had fallen asleep standing up. Two neighbors who had been arguing about a parking spot for six years were standing right next to each other, refusing to make eye contact.
"This is the saddest crowd I have ever seen," whispered Captain Tailwind. Even his smile was starting to droop.
"Nobody's talking to anybody," whispered The Gale. "Everyone's just standing there being miserable on purpose."
Sergeant Steadfast scanned the crowd. "Where's Mitchell?"
They looked around. Mitchell was nowhere to be seen.
Then, suddenly, without warning, there he was. Right in the front row. Right next to the mayor. Holding Sir Fuzzington and a pretzel. Nobody had seen him walk up. Nobody ever did.
"Uh-oh," said all three heroes at once.
The mayor raised the giant golden scissors. The brass band played a slow, serious drumroll. The whole crowd held its breath. This was it. The big, dignified moment.
The mayor opened the scissors.
And Mitchell, who had eaten three bean burritos and a pretzel for breakfast, sneezed.
That's it. Just a sneeze. A big one, sure. But a sneeze.
The problem was what the sneeze knocked loose.
The sound that followed was historic. It was a rumble. It was a trumpet. It was a tuba falling down a flight of stairs. It lasted so long that the brass band stopped playing to listen. The drummer dropped his sticks. The sleeping man in the front row woke up and said, "What?" The pigeons on the fountain all took off at once in a single feathery explosion.
The crowd froze.
The mayor froze, scissors open.
Every single person turned slowly to look at Mitchell.
Mitchell looked back at all of them. Then, in his big, deep, honest voice, he said:
"Excuse me. That one was for the fountain."
There was one second of total silence.
Then the mayor snorted.
Then the important person in the suit next to him giggled. Then the brass band started laughing. Then the baby stopped crying and started laughing. Then the whole crowd was laughing. People were bent over. People were wiping tears. The two neighbors who had been fighting about a parking spot for six years looked at each other, burst out laughing, and hugged. Somebody started a slow clap. The slow clap turned into a fast clap. The fast clap turned into cheering.
The mayor laughed so hard he accidentally cut the ribbon, and the fountain turned on and splashed everyone in the front row, which only made them laugh harder.
The sun came out. It really did. Right then. Like it wanted to see what all the fun was about.
Within minutes, the saddest crowd in city history had turned into the happiest party anybody could remember. Strangers were sharing snacks. The band played a bouncy song. Kids splashed in the fountain. The mayor gave Mitchell a high five and asked if he'd be available for next year's ceremony.
The three heroes stood there in the drizzle-turned-sunshine, completely stunned.
"He did it again," said The Gale. "He appeared without warning."
"He cleared the air," said Captain Tailwind. "Well. He changed the air."
"And he brought everybody together," said Sergeant Steadfast quietly.
He looked down at his clipboard. He crossed out the question at the top of the page, the one that said IS THIS A BAD THING?
Underneath it, he wrote one word. In big letters. Underlined three times.
NO.
Chapter Eight: The Truth About Farts
That night, back at headquarters, the three heroes sat on the couch eating string cheese. Nobody spoke for a while. They had seen a lot in one day.
Finally, Captain Tailwind broke the silence. "So. Mitchell is a fart."
"In mind, body, and spirit," said Sergeant Steadfast.
"And that's… good?" asked The Gale.
Sergeant Steadfast stood up and walked to the suspect board. He flipped to a fresh page. "Think about it," he said. "What does a fart actually do?"
"Makes a room smell terrible," said The Gale, who would know.
"Yes," said Sergeant Steadfast. "But what else?"
The heroes thought about it.
"It makes people laugh," said Captain Tailwind. "Every time. Doesn't matter how old you are. A fart at the wrong moment is the funniest thing on earth."
"It breaks the tension," said The Gale slowly. "When everyone's being too serious and stiff and grumpy, a fart reminds everybody that we're all just… people."
"It's honest," added Captain Tailwind. "A fart never pretends to be something it's not. It just shows up and says, 'Here I am.'"
"And here's the most important part," said Sergeant Steadfast. "Everybody does it. Kings. Queens. Mayors. Grandmas. Heroes. Every single person you've ever met. A fart is the one thing that makes all of us the same."
He tapped the board. "That's Mitchell. He's loud. He's sudden. He says 'No, you do it.' He naps on public grass. He has a blanket named Sir Fuzzington. But he's honest. He makes us laugh. He never pretends. And every time things get too serious, he shows up and reminds everybody to lighten up."
The Gale wiped a tear from his eye. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said about a fart."
"Or about Mitchell," said Captain Tailwind.
"Same thing," said Sergeant Steadfast.
Chapter Nine: The Naming of the Force
Therewas a knock at the door. It was the secret knock, which was just knocking normally but with a little extra attitude.
"Password?" called Sergeant Steadfast.
"Uh," said a deep voice. "Pretzel?"
That was not the password. The password was thunderclap. But it was close enough in spirit, so they let him in.
It was Mitchell. He was holding Sir Fuzzington, which was finally dry, and a bag of leftover pretzels from the ceremony.
"Hey, guys," he said. "I saw you at the fountain. Were you following me today?"
The three heroes looked at each other.
"Yes," said Sergeant Steadfast. Heroes don't lie. Not for long, anyway.
"Why?"
So they told him everything. The craft circle. The mailbox. The library. The nap time disaster. The mind, body, and spirit chart. The conclusion.
When they finished, Mitchell sat very still. The heroes held their breath. Maybe this had been a mistake. Maybe he'd be upset. Maybe Crankasaurus was about to make a surprise appearance.
Then Mitchell's face broke into the biggest grin they had ever seen.
"I'm a FART?" he said.
"In mind, body, and spirit," said Sergeant Steadfast.
"That's the COOLEST thing anyone has ever called me!" Mitchell jumped up so fast that he hit his head on the light fixture. He didn't even notice. "Farts are hilarious! Farts are free! Farts go wherever they want!"
"That's the spirit," said Captain Tailwind.
"It's literally the spirit," said The Gale. "That was on the chart."
Mitchell flopped back down on the couch, hugging Sir Fuzzington. Then he looked at The Gale's chest. At the puffy white cloud on his costume.
"Hey," said Mitchell. "Is that a fart?"
The Gale looked down at his emblem. He had always said it was wind. Mysterious wind. But now, looking at it with fresh eyes, after everything that had happened…
"Yeah," said The Gale. "Yeah, I think it always was."
Captain Tailwind sat straight up. His goggles bounced on his forehead. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Guys. We've been trying to come up with a team name for years."
"Do not say Team Blonde," said Sergeant Steadfast.
"I'm not saying Team Blonde. Listen. We're heroes. We protect the city. We just spent all day investigating the greatest fart in the world. And we found out that farts are honest, funny, and bring everybody together. That's what heroes do too!"
Sergeant Steadfast slowly lowered his clipboard.
"Say it," said The Gale.
Captain Tailwind stood up. He threw his cape over his shoulder, the cool way. He struck a pose.
"From this day forward," he announced, "we are… FART FORCE!"
There was a dramatic pause.
Sergeant Steadfast looked at his clipboard. He looked at the team. He looked at Mitchell, beaming on the couch with pretzel salt on his face.
Then he wrote two words at the top of a brand-new page.
FART FORCE.
And he smiled. A real smile. The first one in three years. It was a little rusty, like a door that hadn't been opened in a while, but it worked just fine.
"Approved," said Sergeant Steadfast.
The Gale cheered. Captain Tailwind cheered. Mitchell cheered so loudly that the laundromat downstairs banged on the ceiling with a broom.
"Can I be in Fart Force?" asked Mitchell.
The three heroes looked at each other.
"Mitchell," said Sergeant Steadfast, "you're not just in Fart Force. You're the reason Fart Force exists. You're our inspiration. Our honorary member. Our Chief Fart Officer."
Mitchell gasped. "I get a title?"
"You get a title."
"Do I get a costume?"
"We'll talk about it."
"Can Sir Fuzzington be in Fart Force?"
"Sir Fuzzington can be our mascot."
Mitchell clutched his blanket to his chest, overwhelmed with joy. "This is the best day of my whole life."
Then, right on cue, without any warning whatsoever, Mitchell let one rip.
It was a small one. A happy one. A little celebratory toot, like a party horn.
The Gale grabbed his nose. Captain Tailwind fell off the couch laughing. And Sergeant Steadfast calmly wrote one last note on his clipboard.
OBSERVATION #5: Evidence continues to support conclusion.
Epilogue: The Legend Lives On
These days, if you walk down Ninth Street, you might see them. Three blonde heroes who look a little too much alike, standing on the sidewalk in their colorful suits.
There's the serious one in blue and yellow with the clipboard. He smiles a lot more now. Not a ton. But more.
There's the hooded one in green with the puffy white cloud on his chest. When people ask what the cloud means, he doesn't say "wind" anymore. He says, "Exactly what you think it means," and winks.
And there's the confident one in orange with the cape and the goggles. He still never pulls the goggles down. Some things are just for style.
And somewhere nearby, usually without warning, you'll find Mitchell. Big in some ways. Mostly a big baby. Wearing Velcro shoes, holding a pretzel, dragging a blanket named Sir Fuzzington, and making every room he walks into a little louder, a little sillier, and a whole lot friendlier.
When the city gets too grumpy, Fart Force shows up. When people forget how to laugh, Fart Force reminds them. And when things get way too serious, way too stiff, and way too quiet, you can bet on one thing.
Something is about to break the silence.
Hold your nose. Open your heart. Cheers.
THE END