Ah, the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the not-so-gentle waft of breakfast beans lingered around Owen as he hummed a merry tune, clutching a creaky wicker basket that had seen better days. If ever there was a day made for fishing, this was it. But Owen? Oh, he had his own unique method. The burly, rotund giant of a man with a smile as wide as his appetite, shuffled out of his cabin and ambled towards the tranquil pool, his hefty diet of beans and mystery meat causing a symphony of ominous rumbles deep within his belly. A living, breathing, walking biohazard with the fishing plan of a madcap genius. Despite the clothes that clung to his frame like wrapping on a super-sized sub sandwich, Owen radiated unshakeable confidence. Yet, as the pond came into view, those distant whispers of fabric parted company with their corporeal comrade. Clothes catapulted through the air as Owen stripped down, the sun bouncing off his distinctly 'healthy' physique, casting shimmering highlights across his bountiful posterior. "Freedom!" Owen bellowed with glee. The fish, innocent to the impending calamity, momentarily forgot their aquatic ballet and turned wide-eyed, caught in the hypnotic shine of Owen's robust, moon-like backside, dipsy-doodling closer to investigate the fleshy full moon that dared invade their aqueous abode. Owen waded in, knee-deep, his pale cheeks akimbo, the cool water lapping around his mountainous midriff. It was showtime. Owen's face contorted, a maestro readying himself for the performance, his internal orchestra gearing up for the explosive crescendo. He leaned forward, a look of intense focus knitting his brow, his body quivering with effort as he channeled all his abdominal prowess. "Come to papa," he muttered through gritted teeth. With a trumpet-like proclamation, a fearsome fart erupted from the depths, bubbles racing to the surface in a frantic escape. The poor, unsuspecting fish flinched, shockwaves sending shivers down their scales. The pond turned silent for a moment, fish noses wrinkled--if fish noses could wrinkle--as the lethal aroma of Owen's personal brand of 'natural' gas seeped through the water. Owen, visibly relieved, stood triumphantly in the pond, his midsection deflating ever so slightly from the pressure release. "Yeah, that's the spot," he sighed, ogling the water's reaction. One by one, little belly-up floaters emerged in Owen's vicinity. It was as if Poseidon granted him a twisted Midas touch--everything his farts grazed was fated for a belly-up ballet. Every once in a while, a fish would twitch madly, a clear and silent scream escaping through its gills before succumbing to the noxious fumes from below. "Haha, gotcha!" Owen erupted with infectious laughter, scooping up his fallen foes. "This is way better than fishing with a pole!" As Owen plucked his 'catch' from the water, chuckling to himself at the absurd ease of the day's haul, a distant bird choked on the unseen, malodorous cloud and a family of raccoons fainted on the shore. "How about that? Owen, the Fart-Fishing Phenom!" he announced to no one in particular. With his basket brimming with the dazed and confused spoils of war, he left the scene of his triumphant, fragrant victory, unwittingly seeding myths among the pond life of the day the air turned against them and 'The Great Pale Moon' cleared the waters with the mere clench of his cheeks.