The great Phil Collins once said, “I can feel it in the air tonight, oh lord, oh lord.” But what did he feel? If he was in the Marcus Whitman Hotel these last few weeks then the answer would be gas.

Authorities feared it might have been some Joker Gas left over from Adam West day, or perhaps a surfeit of rotten eggs left by accident in the sun. Maybe even a great daemonic fissure through which odious and foul vapors loosed into the world of man. Who knows what horrors lurked beneath that building?

Turns out the horror was gasoline, to the moderate relief of all except me, who bet ten dollars that it was just a really bad fart (you know who you are, and I’m good for it, I swear).

But ten dollars notwithstanding, the leak presents serious danger. Obviously the presence of any flammable gas is a hazard big enough to give a safety inspector a headache, a headache only cured by a smoke break which they dare not take.

Birthday candle sales would plummet, forests would swell to dangerous sizes after loggers stopped cutting them down to make matchsticks, fireworks would no longer bless us with incessant bangs during the wee hours of the morning.

The olfactory assault of the gas would permanently alter the palates of Walla Walla’s tourists, leaving them unable to enjoy even the most sumptuous of wines. Hooligans would be able to fart with impunity, their flatulence masked by the more potent and noxious gasoline fumes. Chaos, economic pandemonium and of course the slight chance that downtown would blow up (it’s probably not a problem, probably).

Indeed it is a grim world we wake up to today, or it would be if not for the valiant efforts to contain this foul air. Thanks to the efficient and strategic leadership of our city, the issue will surely be resolved with speed and professionalism, and the Marcus Whitman open for business in no time, smelling only of sordid histories and the most tasteful and reasonably priced soaps.