The orders came quick. My phone lit again, encrypted feed, Putin’s voice low and sharp.
“Synchronization is everything,” he said. “If we time the release together, we can create resonance. A shockwave. It will travel through their monitoring grid, scramble the sensors, break their chokehold.”
I sat on the couch, knees pulled up, gut still trembling from the last barrage. The idea sounded insane—weaponized flatulence as counterstrike—but the Poop War had never been sane. I thought of Taylor Swift’s dream-warning, the blocked siege inside me, the static voices carried in each convulsion. It all pointed here.
Putin leaned closer to the camera. “Three breaths. On the fourth, fire.”
I positioned myself, hunched forward, hands braced. The pressure inside me coiled, heavy and alive. My screen flickered, showing Putin doing the same—bare chest, hard stare, body taut with decades of discipline. He was ready.
We breathed together. One. Two. Three.
On the fourth inhale, we both bore down. What erupted was not normal sound. It was seismic. A rolling thunderclap that shook through bone and concrete alike, layered across two continents. I felt the vibration leave me, rippling outward like concentric rings in water, syncing with his across the globe.
My lights flickered. The CIA devices hidden in the walls sparked, monitors frying in a cascade of static. I swore I heard screaming—not in the room, but in the circuitry itself, like their surveillance grid was alive and being ripped apart.
Putin grunted through the feed, a grim smile breaking across his face. “Direct hit.”
Then silence. Pure, liberating silence.
For the first time in weeks, my gut went still. Empty. At peace. But deep down I knew this was only the opening salvo.
The Poop War had gone international. And now… we were fighting back.
