You head upstairs.

    No potential victims are in the kitchen, so you continue into the dining room.

    There you find Ghandi sitting at the table pounding down spoonful after spoonful of beans from an enormous bowl in front of him.

    "A-ha!" you think to yourself.  "I've got an idea."

    You walk over to Ghandi and politely wait until he finishes his meal.

    Some twenty minutes later, the beans are gone, and you feel it is safe to speak.

    "Hi, Ghandi," you say.

    "Hey, Brad."

    "Want to have a farting contest?"

    "Ha!  You gotta be joking, right?"

    "Naw, c'mon.  I'll take you on right here and now."

    Ghandi chuckles at the thought, but as you stand there with a serious expression on your face, Ghandi begins to realize you're serious about this.

    "All right..." says Ghandi, fully confident in his power to out gas you.  "Let's do it."

    "You two get the hell out of this house!  Ghandi just downed a whole vat of beans, and you're gonna having a farting contest?  Out!  Now!" shouts Poppy from the living room.

    "Let's do this in the back yard," says Ghandi.

    The two of you go out into the back yard.

    Back inside, Poppy lets out a small high-pitched wail of a fart and chuckles to himself.

    "So... you want to put some money on this?" you ask Ghandi.

    "Brad, you have got be kidding," says Ghandi.  "You don't have any money."

    "OK, well, fine" you say.  "A gentlemen's contest.  You go ahead and go first."

    "OK," says Ghandi.

    Standing in the middle of the back yard, Ghandi spreads his feet apart, leans forward to about a 45 degree angle, and then grunts loudly.

    He squeezes his muscles tight as he launches into a truly overpowering beef.

    About halfway into it, the ground begins to rumble beneath you, and you lose your balance, falling flat on your ass.

    Poppy walks over to the kitchen window to watch, shaking his head.

    Finally, after a full minute and a half, Ghandi can output no more.

    He stands back up.

    "Your turn," he says.

    "Phew..." you say.  "OK."

    You pick yourself up off the ground and assume much the same position as Ghandi did.

    Slyly you reach into the back of your undies and turn a dial on your bionic ass all the way up to full output power.

    "Better step back," you warn Ghandi.

    Ghandi chuckles, but then steps back, humoring you.

    "OK," you say, taking your final positioning, holding open your bionic ass cheeks with both your hands.

    "Hey, Brad," says Ghandi.

    You look over at him.

    "Good luck," he says earnestly.

    "Thanks," you say.

    You decide to really grunt loud just for effect, as your finger caresses fart button through your underpants.

    "GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!" you grunt.

    And then it's time...
 
    You press the button, and:

    <<KA-BLAM!!!>>

    Poppy's jaw drops as he sees a small explosion in the backyard.

    Smoke blocks his vision for a good thirty seconds, but eventually it clears enough for him to make out your ash-blackened figure still holding its pose in the center of the back yard.

    Ghandi is coughing up a storm.

    Poppy again just shakes his head.

    ...

    At your funeral, Ghandi stands before the small crowd with small bandages over his charred eyebrows and makes a touching short speech about how you were the only one to ever beat him at his own game.

    You are lowered into the ground beneath a tombstone that reads:
 

Your final score is:

6992