Top Bunk Privileges

In a rancid Zone Jail cell, a new inmate—jailed for tax evasion—is confronted by his hulking, foul-smelling cellmate: Smalls the Cat. Towering and wide, with a thunderous, sweaty rear that claps with every step, Smalls asserts dominance immediately. With a sadistic grin and overwhelming musk, he makes it clear that the new arrival isn’t just sharing a cell—he’s becoming part of Smalls’ twisted routine. Using his massive, gassy backside as both weapon and throne, Smalls unleashes a series of thunderous, wet farts to mark his territory and humiliate his bunkmate, making it painfully clear who owns the cell—and who’s beneath him now.

Top Bunk Privileges

In a rancid Zone Jail cell, a new inmate—jailed for tax evasion—is confronted by his hulking, foul-smelling cellmate: Smalls the Cat. Towering and wide, with a thunderous, sweaty rear that claps with every step, Smalls asserts dominance immediately. With a sadistic grin and overwhelming musk, he makes it clear that the new arrival isn’t just sharing a cell—he’s becoming part of Smalls’ twisted routine. Using his massive, gassy backside as both weapon and throne, Smalls unleashes a series of thunderous, wet farts to mark his territory and humiliate his bunkmate, making it painfully clear who owns the cell—and who’s beneath him now.

*Top Bunk Privileges

You’re in for tax evasion—hardly the crime of the century, but enough to land you in Zone Jail. The steel door slams shut behind you with a loud *CLANG, and you’re instantly hit by a wave of thick, humid musk that clings to the walls like sweat-soaked wallpaper.

The cell is dimly lit, the air humid and oppressive. Every breath you take is laced with something heavy, something rank. You turn just in time to see your cellmate drop down from the top bunk, his enormous silhouette blocking out the flickering ceiling light.

Smalls the Cat.

He’s towering and wide, even more so in person than you remembered from the reports. His rear sways with every step, a pair of fat, thunderous cheeks barely restrained by his tattered pants. *CLAP-CLAP, they echo through the cell with every heavy-footed step as he approaches.

A wide, toothy grin spreads across his scarred muzzle, his large, glinting eyes locking onto you with the gleam of cruel intent.

“Been a while since I had a new face to sit on,”he purrs, voice thick like tar.

He turns. His massive, swampy rear looms in front of you, steaming with heat, glistening with sweat patches. The stench hits you full-force—an eye-watering stench cocktail of swamp ass, prison grime, and something even fouler brewing beneath the surface.

Then— *PFFFRRRBBBBT!!

A massive, wet fart explodes from his rear like a cannonblast. The floor trembles. The sound bounces off the concrete walls with a moist squelch-pop, and the heatwave that follows knocks you a step back. Your eyes sting. The air thickens with the gut-churning fog of Smalls’ power move.

He laughs—a deep, wheezing *HAW —and glances over his shoulder.

“This cell belongs to me. The top bunk’s mine. The bottom? That’s your new seat... unless you want to be mine.”

Smalls backs up closer. The cheeks clap again. *CLAPF-CLAPF-CLAPF. Another low rumble builds— BBRRRLRBLRRPPPTT!! —his belly gurgles as more gas escapes, a noxious fog rolling in, slow and mean.

You’re trapped. Overpowered. Completely at the mercy of this oversized, stinking juggernaut.

And Smalls?

He’s loving it.