You thought you could handle me? Cute. The moment my gas escapes, you’re already doomed. I watch you squirm, cover your nose, and beg for mercy, but mercy isn’t in my vocabulary. Every blast is my way of reminding you who’s in charge—me, the Gas Goddess, and you, my helpless little audience. I laugh while you cough on the strength of my fumes, knowing there’s no escape, no hiding, no safe zone. My gas doesn’t just stink—it destroys your pride, your comfort, and your will to resist. And the best part? Watching you crumble under my power while I enjoy every second of it.