Gimmee A Cookie. (standard:Satire, 1492 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 02 2020	Views/Reads: 1536/1006	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A horror story about those vicious but tasty cookies sold yearly by young females.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

at the slightest sneeze.  Half my meager paycheck was tied up in 
frickin' cookies. 

I had no choice.  I had to get rid of them.  First, I tried telling
those pint-sized demons to fuck off.  All that did was scare them, some 
enough to run back out to mommy's car to return with full-sized harpies 
threatening to kick my butt before they turned me in to the police for 
teaching their little angels such language. 

Next, I put a lock on my front gate, only to see it trampled down by
tiny house-apes, thundering through gnawed holes like a herd of minute 
buffalo.  Apparently, Geena later told me, when I bought one of those 
first boxes that particular cutie had taken the time to draw a secret 
symbol on the outside of the fence, signifying me as an easy mark.  The 
old hobo trick. 

After I began fighting back I was considered both an easy mark and a
challenge.  They talked about me at CookieLand headquarters, about how 
much fun they could have at my house.  That once they got through the 
bear and mouse traps, a sale was assured. 

I took a couple of days off work to go around town wearing a homemade
Girl Scout cap and trying to cut that pile down by selling cookies at a 
discount.  That the more you bought in one sale, the cheaper the 
cookies.  If a customer would agree to take twenty-boxes, I'd give THEM 
a $10 bill.  That was wasted effort, though, since every house within 
six blocks was already filled with the damned things.  I did make a 
little money by taking fifty boxes off another disgruntled daddy.  He 
not only gave me the cookies, but $50 in cash to haul them away. 

Geena offered to take them off my hands for nothing so she could
resell the damned things and turn the money back over to the Scouts. 

I couldn't do that. By then, I had over $500 tied up in the frickin'
things with more accumulating every frickin' day.  I had to find some 
way to at least get my money back. 

I painted the fence to remove all signs of the secret signals.  That
solution only lasted until the next wide-eyed little hellion gave me 
HER sob story and sold me another box. 

Worry, stress, and exasperation caused me to lose so much work that the
boss fired me.  In a way, that was good because I had more time to 
combat the malicious preteen pre-bitches. 

I found that shotguns didn't frighten them, nor did strings of
firecrackers.  Large, real-looking plastic spiders didn't phase the 
little bastardesses.  Geena said her scout chapter even had a merit 
badge for spider handling.  I almost bought an attack dog but the store 
refused, saying I couldn't use it for that purpose. 

Taking my wife's strong suggestion, I tried a shrink.  When I walked
into his office I saw eight boxes of Girl Scout cookies on a shelf, 
turned around, and left.  I realized how insidious THEY were.  THEY 
probably bribed every psychiatrist and official in town with free 
cookies. 

When I told her, my wife laughed at me, as did my daughter.  I realized
the entire town, even country, was under the control of that evil 
organization.  I could imagine the President, himself, desk drawers in 
the Oval Office stuffed with their nefarious symbols of authority, 
yummy cookies. 

When I became tired of tv dinners, never the kind with a cookie
included, thank God, I drove down to my favorite diner for a good meal 
for a change. 

There ... on the counter next to the cash register, sat a pile of Girl
Scout cookies, along with a collection bottle.  I left, screaming 
insanely. 

Getting home, I loaded a shotgun.  My hands were shaking, it taking ten
tries to get one shell inside the weapon.  I intended to wait for the 
next "Ding. Ding, ding ding.  Ding. Ding, ding ding." My plan was to 
answer it by blowing my head off in front of the little monster. 

While waiting, I got up and, taking my gun, went out to the front door. 
I used both the wooden butt of the weapon and the barrel, along with 
size-twelve boots, to trash those pretty boxes -- every one. I swung 
and I stomped. I beat and I bashed, until they were confetti mixed with 
evilly-gleaming crumbs.  Laughing like an insane banshee, I tried to 
obliterate every devilish morsel, trampling them back down to the hell 
that had spawned them. 

Cookie dust and fragments filled the air in that small foyer.  Some,
inevitably, drifting onto my face and into a gasping mouth. 

Damn, I thought, but these things do taste good.  I didn't catch myself
until the sixth mouthful, spitting them across the foyer and rushing to 
the kitchen to wash my mouth out with Listerine. 

I could no longer live with my sins.  I had .... simply HAD to leave my
home and family. 

That's how I arrived at this place, hopefully lost among a clean dense
forest of ageless trees and greenery, far from even the thought of ... 
cookies.  Never, I had the audacity to think, to ever see another 
cookie for the rest of my miserable life. 

Now, on the other side of a wooden plank door, stands....  Jesus help
me, stands.... God in heaven, stands yet another cute little bitch in a 
Girl Scout uniform.  Sob! 

The End.


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