This little comedy came from one of our first Write Nights. (Learn about the year one Write Night Anthology here >>) I had 30 minutes to write a story based on the following prompts:

Genre: Alien Romance

Location: Wild West Saloon

Problem: Huge fart on the way

Fold Already!

“Uhewww,” Milno muttered to himself and shifted in his seat for the twelfth time this minute. His two right legs bounced nervously, outpacing the melody coming from the banjo player in the back of the saloon. Just get through the hand.
“Gu ards tere, Mio?” Binksly muttered, barely able to get syllables past his enormous cigar.
Milno didn’t answer, studying the faces of the other players, the one other player’s face that he could see. The rest were hidden beneath leather bowls with disc-like rims. Cowboy hats they were called.
He checked. Come on, everyone! Just check, so we can finish the hand. Pelabur raised ten.
“Fow.” Binksly discarded his cards and sat back with a smug look on his green face. Or maybe that’s just how he had to shape his lips to keep the cigar in place.
Another player raised again.
“Fools,” Binksly pulled out the cigar to make sure they understood the insult. “Milno’s clearly got a hand. No poker face.”
“How can you read that?” Pelabur complained. “He just looks constipated!”
The problem was that they were both right. Milno could feel the gases building up within him—he felt ready to pop—but he could win this hand, and win it big. They weren’t playing for much, more for fun than money, but Milno was also playing for glory. Castoi, the friend he so wanted to be not just a friend, was watching the game with interest. She was perched on a stool at the bar, sipping from a mug. It didn’t even seem like she noticed how many times the bartender had refilled it.
“Check or fold, Huln,” Milno prompted the slow player, but his voice came out a touch higher than usual.
“What if I raise?”
Milno didn’t mean to roll all his eyes, but the strain of holding in the volatile gasses was bound to show itself. Huln and the last player at the table took it as faking confidence and raised the stakes.
“A-a-all in!” Milno wheezed, thrusting his chips into the center of the table. Pelabur folded, but the other two matched the bid.
He threw down his cards, revealing a four of kind, and stood, about to book it for the door.
The others raged.
“Well played,” Castoi grabbed Milno by the chin and turned him toward her. “Whatcha gonna do with all that money?”
“I—” It came out shill. Then it all came out. Putrid gas erupted, launching him and Castoi in his arms across the room and out the double saloon doors.
They ended up in the middle of the dusky street, coughs and yells in their wake.
“Come again?” Castoi asked like nothing had happened. Milno didn’t know if that was good or bad, she was too drunk to remember the fart but also too drunk to remember the win.