The meatball went flying through the air to raucous applause. It bounced off the wall and they were asked to leave Fredo’s family restaurant. After drinking bottles of Italian red wine, they moved on to drinking buckets of Miller Lites. The cheap beers at Stallion’s dive-bar gave way to dollar shots, and the night became a blur. Daryl woke naked in the hot tub.

Icicles encrusted the hair along the back of his neck. He shivered, his lips blue, and stood. With one foot on the icy ground and the other in the tub, he slipped and fell on his nuts. He whimpered, sliding off the rail. After two slow breaths, he grabbed a towel, crept to his bedroom and turned out the lights.

Four hours later his phone’s alarm rang. With his head in his pillow, he blindly felt around the nightstand and knocked the phone onto the floor. It stopped beeping, for eight minutes, then it started ringing again. Daryl swung his legs over the bed’s side and silenced the phone. He stretched walking into the common space.

His buddies were busy in the kitchen making egg burritos with reheated steaks and refried beans. They teased Carl about the pinkeye he had developed after hooking up with yesterday’s fat stripper in the hot tub. They threw utensils and crumpled napkins at him if he got too close. He sat in the corner, wearing ski goggles and waiting for his food. Daryl rubbed his eye as he was handed a burrito dripping with cheese.

Daryl devoured the burrito and ripped a fart that shook the ski house’s foundation. His friends squealed. Even those upstairs in the loft yelled at him for the awful smell. He ripped another fart and laughed as his friends gagged.

Once dressed, all of the friends including Daryl stumbled from their rented chalet and hopped onto the shuttle bus, which whisked them away to the mountain. Daryl ripped a fart, and Carl wretched so hard, his ski goggles became crooked on his face. Daryl’s laugh was cut short when the bus stopped and a family clambered on board. He crossed his arms over his stomach and tightened his lips, sweating as he looked out the window.

As soon as they hopped off the bus, Daryl let rip a giant roar. It was like a heavy, humid green fog choking the ski slope’s fresh mountain air. No one wanted to sit next to Daryl as they shuffled onto the lift, but the lift operator ordered the boys to get on. They were taking too long and the line was too long.

The lift swung around and the chair scooped them up in a hurry. As soon as they cleared the boarding area, Daryl busted ass. The chair behind them cried out at the foul smell wafting downhill. Daryl laughed uncontrollably as his friends swore. He lifted one cheek off the bench and gritted his teeth as he squeezed out another fart. Shit exploded in his pants.

The color drained from Daryl’s face almost as quickly as the pooh exploded from his bottom. He lowered his buttcheek and sat exceedingly still. He stared off at the trees as one of his buddies punched him in the arm, angry that the smell wouldn’t go away. Daryl’s lip trembled and he rubbed his eye.

As the ski lift rattled into the arrival station, Daryl’s friends readied themselves. They raised their ski tips and hopped off the chairlift. Daryl remained seated as the chair swung around, descending the mountain. His friends called to him; he remained expressionless.

The ride down seemed to take twice as long as the ride up. Children riding the lift with their parents pointed at him riding in the wrong direction. Teenagers teasingly shouted, “You’re going the wrong way!” He hesitated at the bottom, worried what might happen when he stood. He mumbled to himself, debating if he should ride the chair back up and stay on it forever.

He stood as his ski lift pulled into the departure station, and the poop in his pants slid along the back of his legs, pooling around his calves. The snow pants’ elastic bands, designed to keep snow out, clung to the top of his boots and did an excellent job of keeping the pooh in. Not a drop of dark brown sludge hit the bright white snow.

Slowly, Daryl skied past all the waiting eyes staring at him. At the ski lodge, he popped off his skis and shuffled like a duck through the crowded dining area as he headed to the bathroom. Moms and grandparents had set aside bags, hats, and jackets to reserve tables. Several mothers picked up her babies, smelling their diapers. Daryl kept his head down as he waddled past the lunch sign—today’s specials: meatball subs and spicy burritos.