Gas chamber

I recently was mugged by a fart.

I lost no money, no credit cards. I still have my car keys and my watch. What I lost was the memory of every smell I'd experienced in my childhood; my teen years; my adulthood. The smell of my first baseball glove, carnival popcorn, Thanksgiving turkey, my wife's perfume.
Gone. Gone and replaced by an invisible element of warm, humid odor, so foul that my nose nearly cried out for help.

The stench storm was waiting for me on one of the elevators at my office building. I was going from the basement level to the fourth floor. When the elevator doors opened, I stepped on. The doors shut and a silent avalanche of colorless gas overcame me, nearly throwing me to the floor. I reached for the door; gasping for air, but afraid to breathe.

"Who did this?" I wondered aloud. It was a futile query, for anyone who could have generated with their body a dirty bomb of such a toxicity would surely now be dead.

"DING"

I watched the floor numbers light up as the elevator traveled upward. It seemed to struggle under the weight of me and the vile violation of human smog.

"DING"

I felt beads of sweat roll down my back. It was like I was wearing a fart parka and it was suffocating me.

"DING"

I then had a new fear: What if someone else gets on the elevator? Naturally, they would think this pocket of poison was created by me. As their face began to melt, they would look at me and wonder why I did this.

"DING"

The elevator had made it to my destination. I'd swear I heard a loud "hiss" sound as the doors opened. I stepped off, looking for signs of life, wondering how this happened, why it had happened to me and whether this funk would stay with me.

Regardless, the harm was done. I had been violated by a flatulent beast.