"There, how does that feel?" "Oh, you put

"There, how does that feel?" "Oh, you put it in already?" Chuckle. "Yes, I told you it was small. We're going to put another one in. How's that?" "Fine, I guess." Acupuncture

had nothing on this, a clear sexual encounter probably between three consenting persons, at least two of them male. They called room service to bring down an acupuncturist because

he was HOT. The receptionist's voice was unhuman. "You will dress and go to the back of the hotel to be shot. This is the revolution and you are the first against the wall." The 3

00 Spartans would not go down without a fight. The Spartans dressed as the receptionist requested but found the hotel could not accommodate all 300 so they needed to organise

a raid on the entire civic center. The pansies of the economic district fell easily to the brawn of the 300 Spartans (dressed as the receptionist had requested). Victorious, they

lost what mattered to them: their respect for others. The Spartans had learned a cruel thing in time travel: their heirs and the heirs of their heirs were soft. Spoiled. Weak.

The Spartans' military training was a thing of the past. They became fat, irresponsible, lazy epicureans, throwing lavish parties 3 times a day, wallowing in vats of liquid cheese,

and spending countless hours admiring the ferocity of each other's belches. In spite of this, there were still small factions of Spartans who believed it was important to

establish some kind of organization. This is the beginning. This is how the Gastolympics began. Every gaseous contest started here, now. This is your history. Long live the burp.