Gimmee A Cookie. (standard:Satire, 1492 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 02 2020	Views/Reads: 1534/1006	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A horror story about those vicious but tasty cookies sold yearly by young females.

Nestled deep in the Amazon Rain Forest, I quietly shut the door of an
abandoned shack I've found hidden among massive tree roots.  Tired and 
sweating, I stumble into its interior, ancient spiderwebs tearing and 
clinging with every step.  I sigh with relief, collapsing gratefully 
onto a ratty stuffed chair, dust puffing up in clouds as my rear lands 
on and destroys various insect colonies. 

Heart gradually slowing as I believe I can finally begin to relax, a
loud "knock, knock" comes from the entrance.  Shuddering in fear, I 
rise on shaky legs and edge toward the door.  Peering through a crack, 
I see a small dark-faced little girl, smiling as she sees my exposed 
eyeball through a crack. 

"You want maybe buy Girl Scout cookies, mister?" she asks in a sweet
voice. 

Out of my mind, I scream senseless invectives, tearing hair out by the
roots, banging my head  repeatedly against a rotten splintery wooden 
wall.  "No!  My God.  No!" I scream so loudly that dried grass from a 
thatched roof rains down on me, failing to increase such an abject 
misery. 

*** 

It all started quite innocently, back in the United States where my
family and I lived in a middle-class split-level home nestled among 
many of its ilk, deep in the suburbs of Chicago. 

"Honey. Guess what?  Geena's Girl Scout troop is going to sell cookies
this year.  Isn't that nice, dear?" 

"Yeah. Guess so."  As with millions of others, I was totally engrossed
in a game between the Chicago Devils and the New York Angels, praying 
evil would win out. 

"I know you're not all that interested, Dave, but it means you'll have
to fix your own supper for awhile.  I gotta drive Geena around while 
she peddles the things.  They have some great prizes for the best 
sellers." 

"Sure, dear.  Have fun." 

A few days later, hungry as hell, I came home to an empty house.  Doris
was out driving Geena around and I dinged out the first of a long 
series of half-thawed tv dinners, along with bags of potato chips 
washed down with copious beer. 

As days turned to weeks, chips became scarcer while beer cans propagated
like mice.  To make it worse, every half-hour came that damned "Ding. 
Ding, ding ding.  Ding. Ding, ding ding," of the doorbell, halfway 
across the house from my armchair.  Twenty out of every ten times it 
was another female face, selling -- you guessed it -- Girl Scout 
cookies. 

Initially, I made the mistake of buying a box from each smiling little
girl, figuring Geena could simply resell the things later, giving me my 
money back.  Having lived with females for years, I should have known 
better. 

"I can't do that, Daddy.  I keep records and all the money has to go
back to the Scouts." 

"Can't you keep it our secret?  You can sell mine first, and give me the
money ... like under the table," I said, winking. 

"It wouldn't be right.  The Scouts teach us honesty.  No. I can resell
them, but the money goes back into the pot at headquarters."  She gave 
me a sorrowful grin, continuing with, "See. We got us this big, big 
glass pot there.  Every day we toss the mon--" 

"Yeah, yeah.  I get the picture, honey.  You gotta fill the damned thing
up." 

Now, by that time a table next to the front door was stacked with
umpteen boxes of the damned things, threatening to cause an avalanche 


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