Caus

 Great! Here's the first part of your request: two linked stories, one from the dad’s first-person perspective during the prank, and the other where Dad gets his revenge using laxatives of his own.

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Part 1: “Betrayed by a Milkshake”

(From Dad’s Point of View)

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It was a good day. I’d just mowed the lawn, taken a nice shower, and parked myself in the recliner like a king on his throne. TV on, belly full, life was good.

Then my sons — Leo and John — came in, grinning like hyenas.

“Hey, Dad,” Leo said. “We made you your favorite. Chocolate milkshake!”

Now, normally when these two offer me anything out of the blue, I ask questions. But the shake looked perfect, cold and creamy, and I was parched.

So I took it.

Big mistake.

“Oh man, you boys are angels,” I said, slurping it up. “Just like your old man taught ya!”

They exchanged a glance and stifled a laugh.

I should’ve known.

Ten minutes later, something started brewing in my gut. It wasn’t your average stomach grumble — no, this was a prehistoric beast waking up inside me.

GRRRROOOOWLLL.

“Oh no,” I muttered, clutching my belly. “Was that oat milk? Almond milk? Battery acid?!”

And then…

PFFFFFFBBBT.

A fart so violent it rattled my soul.

Panic mode: engaged.

I jumped out of the recliner like it was on fire and sprinted for the bathroom. I swear, my cheeks were clenched tighter than a bank vault.

I barely made it.

SPLORRRRT.

“Ohh GOD! What did they put in that thing?!”

Then I heard it — a soft click — the unmistakable sound of a phone camera being activated. I looked up and saw the door slightly cracked.

“YOU LITTLE PUNKS!” I shouted from the porcelain throne.

Laughter erupted outside the door.

They got me. Big time. My own sons… betrayed by a milkshake. I sat there, groaning, swearing revenge as the shakes and gurgles kept coming in waves.

But I smiled.

Because I knew one thing:

I’d get them back.

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Part 2: “Dad’s Delicious Revenge”

(Dad Strikes Back)

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It took me two weeks to plan it right.

They thought I’d forgotten. They thought the prank war was over. But no, I was just waiting... biding my time... perfecting my recipe.

Chocolate Fudge Brownies.

Loaded with not one, not two, but three types of laxatives: fast-acting drops, time-release powder, and a little old-school castor oil. Triple threat.

I even added chocolate chips and dusted them with powdered sugar. They looked heavenly.

“Hey boys,” I called casually one Saturday afternoon, holding the warm tray. “Made some brownies. Thought I’d treat you.”

Leo appeared first. “Whoa, Dad baked?”

“Suspicious,” John said, narrowing his eyes.

“Come on,” I chuckled. “Just trying to make peace. Besides, they’re your favorite.”

They shrugged. The smell was too good.

Within minutes, both had inhaled two huge squares each.

Now I waited.

Exactly 45 minutes later, the first warning fart came from Leo.

BRRRT.

He froze.

“What was that?” he whispered.

Then John’s stomach gurgled like a clogged drain.

“Uhh... bro?” he said, wide-eyed. “Something’s happening.”

They both stood. Leo clutched his belly.

“Oh no. Not again…”

And then it hit — simultaneously.

“MOVE!” John yelled.

“I was here first!” Leo screamed, trying to shove him aside.

They sprinted down the hall, fighting for the bathroom.

SLAM. Door locked.

From the other side, I heard an explosion of liquid regret.

“WHYYYYYYYYY?!” one of them howled.

SPLAT. SPLOOOSH. BRRRBBTTTT.

I was crying with laughter.

They were in there for a solid half hour. When they finally emerged, pale and weak, I was waiting in my recliner with a smug grin and a brownie in hand.

“Truce?” I asked.

They groaned in unison.

Leo whispered, “You’re a monster.”

“I learned from the best,” I replied, taking a bite.

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End of Round 2.

Would you like a Part 3 — maybe where the boys team up again and take it to the next level?