When I lived in Phoenix, I worked for a company called NetPro. NetPro's offices were on the first and second floor of a 5 story building. There was an underground parking garage as well.
I was returning from lunch one day, on my way in to the elevator from the garage when I saw the doors starting to close. "HOLD THE ELEVATOR!"
I threw my arm between the doors to keep them from closing all the way and squeezed in, where a late 30's/early 40's woman stood in the corner looking horrified at me. I figured she was just startled by me stopping the elevator and busting in like a rhino or something and shrugged her off.
The number three was lit up on the panel. I pushed two, as that's where my office was. As the doors began closing, the horrified woman looked at me and said, "I'm getting out!" and threw her arm in to open the doors again. She then hurried out of the elevator and in to the garage.
"Whatever...," I thought. Crazy lady.
As the doors closed again, I realized why she was so horrified and why she'd bolted. I was immersed in a fart of such destructive power that it belonged in a bible story. It made my eyes water. I could feel it seeping in to the back of my throat. This fart solidified my belief that God does not exist.
The elevator began to ascend but not for long. It was stopping on the first floor to let some more people on. People I worked with. People who, with no other conclusion to make, would assume that it was I who released this ferocious beast.
The doors opened and, to my horror, I saw our super hot receptionist, a couple of developers, and our wacky old lady CEO waiting. They boarded the elevator and the doors closed. Within seconds, Ralph yells, "OH, NICE ONE STEVE!" as everyone else expresses their disgust.
I spent the next few months swearing that although I'd smelt it, I had not indeed dealt it. The crazy fart lady became my own one-armed man in my Fugitive-like quest to prove my innocence, but she was never seen again.