Marshmallow Cookie was racing down the snowy path, with her trumpet held high and her music blaring loud. She was in full swing, dashing full tilt with her music nearly as frantic as her pace. Nothing could stop her, or so she thought, and so she was doing her reckless sprinting with her eyes closed. Normally she'd be right in her assumption that there was no stopping her musical march, but this time there was an immovable object in the way of that unstoppable force.
 
Macaron Cookie was also having a one cookie parade, but unlike Marshmallow her parade was at a most leisurely pace. She trotted along tapping her drum and shaking her castanet, enjoying the beautiful snowfall as she went along. Just like Marshmallow, however, she was not going to be stopped. Nor was she going to be rushed. So even though she heard that trumpet getting closer and closer, she refused to pick up pace. And since Marshmallow refused to slow down, there was only one inevitable conclusion.
 
SPLORTCH!
 
"Eep!"
 
Macaron yelped. She looked around, turned around twice, but didn't see any trace of what had hit her. She felt a strange pressure in her gut, though. She looked around once more to see if anyone was looking, then winced and pushed a bit on her abdomen. Her guts grumbled and out came a-
 
TOOOOT
 
Macaron blushed. She'd never heard a fart so... musical! She squeezed out another and to her surprise it was just as sweet sounding (though the smell was anything but). She giggled to herself and decided to incorporate her newfound instrument into her performance. She struck up her drums again and started marching, only this time every other step was accompanied by a tooting fart. It quickly became a jaunty, raunchy tune that she absolutely loved (Even if nobody would be following her parade too closely).
 
For Marshmallow Cookie, who had the misfortune of faceplanting straight into Macaron's ass, each one of those musical farts was dragging her deeper into those foul-smelling bowels. She winced with each blast of gas, amazed at how each one somehow managed to smell worse than the last. Marshmallow cookie tried to liberate herself, but her wriggling just stirred up more gas and made Macaron, who seemed to not even realize she had another cookie crammed up her ass, gasp and moan. The worst part of the whole experience by far was the slow, plodding pace that Macaron moved at. Every step bounced Marshmallow's putrid prison and drove her just a little bit crazier. She had no idea when this slow ride was going to come to an end, or if she'd even make it out in one piece.
 
All she knew was that she'd be cleaning fart stink out of her trumpet for weeks.