Morfark, the assassin, invited his closest friends, Prunhiline and Britina, to dinner. He enjoyed sitting and conversing with both of them. The pub he chose suited them perfectly. Britina could savor her fine wine, while Prunhiline could indulge in her beloved cheap ale.

“Thank you for inviting us,” Britina said, sipping her wine. “It’s nice to unwind with good wine and good company.” She held her glass up, toasting her host.

“And with you, that is always true, Lady Britina,” Morfark said as he raised his glass in a return toast. They had ordered a good vintage wine sold exclusively by the pub, which had partnered with some entrepreneurial satyrs who loved wine as much as they loved gold.

Prunhiline wrinkled her nose. “What you need is a good ale,” she said, raising her mug. “Come on, Morfark, drink with me. It’ll put hair on your chest! And you need all that you can get!”

Morfark laughed, “Sure, I’ll be happy to drink with you too.” He singled for the bartender, who brought over a large tankard of ale. He saluted Prunhiline with his mug and took a long pull from it. Prunhiline laughed and did the same. They slammed their mugs down together.

Suddenly, Prunhiline’s eyes crossed as she unleashed a thunderous belch, cutting through the pub’s din. The bartender paused mid-pour, and nearby patrons erupted in cheers.

Prunhiline laughed, “That’s a five.” She held up her hand, showing five fingers.

Morfark rolled his eyes, then unleashed an equally thunderous belch. “That’s easily a six,” he said smugly, sticking his tongue out at Prunhiline.

Britina shook her head, “Children.” Morkark and Prunhiline laughed.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

Another round arrived. The rivals exchanged wicked grins before downing their ales in record time. Slamming their mugs down, they belched in unison to the roar of the pub.

“Seven!” Shouted Prunhiline.

“Ah, that was a six for me again.” Morfark laughed, shaking his head.

More ales were brought over. Now, the pub was cheering them on. They chugged the ales and slammed the mug down. The pub became quiet, waiting for the burst of gas.

Prunhiline released a loud belch, and the pub shouted, “Eight!”

Morkark released his with the pub shouting, “Eight!”

“A tie!” Prunhilne said, “Again!”

More ales were brought over. More chugging and (yes, you guessed it) more belching. The crowd was now shouting “Chug, chug, chug!”

Morfark went first with a good, solid bass. The pub cheered with “Nine!” He stood up, pumping his fists in the air.

Prunhiline felt it churning in her gut, and she released too quickly, and the burp didn’t have enough force. The pub booed, “Seven!”

“What?” Prunhilne shouted, “It was a good one.”

“Not good enough!” Morfark laughed.

Britina rolled her eyes with a frown and said, “Juveniles. Both of you are juveniles.” Neither paid any attention.

More ales were brought with more belching by the contestants. The pub was taking money on who would reach a ten first.

Prunhiline felt this was the time to rise to the occasion. She released the Kraken of Belches. The pub cheered with a “Nine!” Prunhiline stood with her arms above her head and let out a cheer.

Morfark knew the pride of his assassin’s order was on the line. Summoning all his might, he unleashed the most epic belch of his life. The pub erupted, shouting, “Nine!” He stood, triumphant, arms raised in victory.

Morfark and Prunhiline started each other down. “This one's it!” they said together.

They sat as more ales were brought and more cheering from the pub. The contestants stared into each other’s eyes. This was the one. This would be the last round. They tipped back their tankards and guzzled the ale. Slamming the mugs down, they glared at each other. The feeling of the gas rising was immense.

The belch was enormous. The loudest sound the city had ever heard. The windows for the pub rattled. Dogs hid under beds. Some said it lasted for five minutes. Others said it was heard in the dwarven kingdom. But all agreed it was the mother of all belches.

Britina stood as she raised her tankard high, grinning as she declared, “Twelve, bitches!”

The pub went wild.