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Message-ID: <51057asstr$1114834202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Russell Hoisington" <hoisingr@hushmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Girl Scout Crookies {Hoisington} (nosex, humor, scoffing, sneering, scowling, eye-rolling, dog farts)
Lines: 606
Date: Sat, 30 Apr 2005 00:10:02 -0400
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                    GIRL SCOUT CROOKIES

                     Russell Hoisington


************************************************************

This is an erotic fantasy and, in case you've forgotten
the rules, you shouldn't read it if you are: 1) under legal
age. 2) living where reading this material is forbidden. 3)
in your right mind.

The characters and the situation are purely imaginary, and
this is *NOT* intended to be a guide for actual behavior. 
Any similarities between this story and actual people, or
between this story and actual events that you should be
ashamed of, are purely coincidental.

Any similarities to any other "Girl Scout Nookie" events
chronicled by the talented writers, such as Vivian
Darkbloom, Kenny N. Gamera, Frank McCoy, Ball Four, and
Pathos, are absolutely coincidental and have nothing to do
with the fact that they remain taped to the computer desk
in front of me.  My own "Girl Scout Nookies en Passant" and
"Girl Scout Wookiees" are taped there as well, and you
should confine your snooping to those only.  The three or
forty insignificant similarities, which are sometimes
incorrectly described as "being identical," aren't worth
worrying about anyhow, except for "GSNeP" and "GSW" because
these events take place after those two.

This story is copyright 2005 by Russell Hoisington.  You
may post freely to non-commercial (free) sites, or in the
"free" area of commercial sites as long as you do not
remove the author information or make any changes to this
story.  This does *not* mean that it is in the public
domain, nor does it mean that I give permission for you to
use it in spam advertising.  I reserve the right to
determine what is "spam advertising" by *my* definition,
not yours or anyone else's.

Thank you for your consideration.


************************************************************

	"Nothing beats a fine gin & tonic," I've always said.
Well, I was wrong.  A second job to pay for three mortgages
means "nothing" is all I can drink, and "nothing" sucks. 
As I finished changing for that second job, the doorbell
rang.

	I dodged around the stacked cases of Girl Scout Cookies
in the bedroom, hallway, and living room.  Habit caused me
to grab the Thesaurus when I reached the front door.  I
looked through the peep hole and saw, almost to my relief,
a pasty-faced, bedraggled man wearing the kind of cheap
brown suit that meant he was one of the rare breed in this
town: an honest cop.  One who therefore couldn't afford an
expensive brown suit.

	That's how you tell the bell-ringers apart.  Brown suit,
cops. Black suits, Mormons.

	And hairy suits with Girl Scout uniforms over them,
walking cash vacuums seeking to clean out my bank account. 
But you already know that because you've read _Girl Scout
Wookiees_.

	When I opened the door he looked at the book in my hand,
craning his neck to the side to look at the cover.  His
lips started moving. Slowly.  When they stopped moving he
straightened his head, looked at me, and said, "Thesaurus?"
Well, at least he could read. "How is it?"

	I blinked at him.  "I can't think of the words to
describe it."

	"That good, huh?  Who wrote it?"

	I blinked at him again, because I couldn't think of a new
response. "Roget."

	"Foreigner, huh?  That's the trouble with this country.
Too damned many foreigners in it."

	"Who are you?"

	"My name's Sergeant Wojcechowicz.  We had a complaint
about you."

	"Me?"

	"You're Hoistigon, aren't you?"

	_Here we go again_.  "No."

	Sergeant Alphabet frowned at me, as if straining to
produce either a fart or a thought.  He achieved the second
goal.  "She said you were Mister Hoistigon and you were a
pervert."  He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Mrs.
Coldmelon's house.  I saw the reflection from her
binoculars in the living room window.

	"'Hoisington.'  And the pervert lives there."  I pointed
next door. Hey, what do _you_ call someone who won't cheat
on his wife, not even with his own daughters, but still
appears in my stories?

	"She said you had four hairy little beasts in Girl Scout
uniforms on your front porch the other day, and that they
turned into four naked girls."

	I tried to look extremely disappointed at the man's
intelligence. Which required very little effort.  "That
didn't tell you she was a few bars short of a cellblock?"

	Sergeant Unpronounceable looked highly impressed that I
spoke the language of his profession.  Linguistic skills
are necessary for any good writer, you know.  "Well, it did
make me wonder."

	I nodded parsley.  I was out of sage.  "And, of course,
her husband confirmed her story?"

	Officer Consonant-Collection shrugged and scratched his
neck while looking at the dust on his polished black shoes.
"Well, no.  He said he didn't see any such thing."

	Mr. Coldmelon told the truth.  He'd come home late and
missed the show.  He obviously omitted that he was now
coming home either on time or early in hopes of catching a
repeat performance.

	"But," he added, "we have to check these complaints out.
Say, this dent in your porch looks... well, I don't know
how to describe it."

	I refrained from handing him the Thesaurus.  "I think
that's where she rested her battering ram."

	"Battering ram?"  Back to thought-or-fart.  His eyes rose
to meet mine and widened.  "_She?_"

	Could I resist an evil grin?  Of course not.  "Officer
Sherry."

	His pasty face turned sickly white.  "Oh!  I see!  I, um,
I didn't know, well, that this was, um, her case.  Damn
those dispatch idiots. I, um, I don't want to intrude on
her case.  Forget I was here, okay? Don't feel obligated to
mention it to anyone.  _Anyone!_ Especially _her!_"

	He fled the porch at a dead run and almost bowled over
four small figures in Girl Scout uniforms at the end of the
sidewalk. "_HEY!_" shouted an unfortunately familiar voice.

	"_YOU BUTTWIPE!_"  Also unfortunately familiar.

	There was a burst of Spanish that I couldn't begin to
understand. Also unfortunately familiar.

	"_YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS, YOU WORM!_"  The most
unfortunately familiar of all.  Mister Happy was already in
full retreat, hoping to avoid any further pain.  I wanted
to retreat back into the house, but I knew it wouldn't do
any good.  They'd just forge my name to a fourth mortgage,
and maybe a fifth if I ran.  I wanted to tinkle down my
leg, but I didn't know where Mister Happy was hiding.

	I spotted a new binoculars-flash across the street.  Mr.
Coldmelon had claimed the bedroom window.  Meanwhile, the
quartet clambered up the steps and stood in their usual
order.

	"Hello, Mister Hoistigon," Maria said, smiling in the
toothy manner of sharks.  "Still toting that dumb old
Thesaurus around, I see."

	"It's 'Hoisington,' remember?"

	"Who cares?" scoffed Mistress Star.  Her quirt flicked a
bug from her studded leather uniform.

	"The Boss sent us," explained Buffy.

	"We're here to make you a deal," added Ming, who, I
noticed, wasn't carrying her usual thick sheaf of papers. 
_Oh, crap_, I thought. _This time they're going to take the
whole house with them_.

	"What kind of a deal?" I asked.

	"If you'll stop _interrupting_, she'll _tell you!_"
shouted Mistress Star, snapping her quirt on my crotch.  My
yelp wasn't the reaction she wanted.  "Hey!  What'd you do
with it?"

	I shrugged one shoulder.  "He went into hiding.  I think
he crawled up my ass."

	Her chocolate face turned positively red.  She growled in
a low voice, "Did I order you to go fuck yourself, worm?"

	_Uh oh_.  "N--n--no, M--Mistress Star."

	"Then get it out of _there_ and out _here_ right _now!_"
She snapped the quirt on my thigh.

	I screamed, and then gasped, "But, the neighbors. They'll
call that cop again."

	"Who cares?"

	"Wait," said Ming, patiently.  "The Boss wants this kept
quiet. We'd better go inside."

	"That's right," said Buffy, correctly.

	"You should invite us in," said Maria, invitingly.

	"Or _else!_" promised Mistress Star, painfully.

	_Sorry, Mr. Coldmelon_.  I invited them in.

	Buffy closed the door as Mistress Star snarled, "Now, get
it out."

	I put the Thesaurus on the book shelf because I needed
both hands. I eventually found Mister Happy and fished him
out through the fly. Mistress Star took him in her dark
little hand.  Mister Happy started to respond.  Started to.

	I vaguely remember four rapid blows from the quirt.  I
awoke in pain, face up on the floor, spitting water, and
seeing Maria standing there holding an upside-down glass. 
One last drop fell from it and hit me between the eyes.

	I looked at my wet clothes and groaned.  "Now I gotta
change before my second job!"

	"How'd you like to quit your second job?" Ming asked as
she seated herself on a black ottoman I didn't remember
owning.

	"I'd love to, but for some reason I seem to have two
extra mortgages to pay off."

	"The Boss has a deal that will make you enough money to
pay them off," Maria said.

	"You see," Ming began, but then she screamed as the
ottoman rolled and dumped her on the floor.  Her green
skirt slid up to her waist, and I received a reminder that
I couldn't prove whether she was a true redhead.  Yes,
she'd forgotten her panties.

	"I didn't forget them," she scowled.  "I never wear them."

	"You read my mind?" I asked.

	"No, I read it three paragraphs above this one." She gave
Mistress Star a hopeless look.  "We _gotta_ talk to the
girls in Troop 469. They think Mister Gamera is lame?  Wait
till we tell them about _this_ bozo."  Then she yelped
again as the black "ottoman" lurched unsteadily to its four
paws.

	Baggins is now the normal weight for a fully-grown
Labrador retriever.  Unfortunately he's still the height of
his father, who was some sort of small terrier.  He waddled
to a case of shortbread cookies, nosed the flap open,
shoved his head in, and began munching. His tail rose and
he farted, blasting out a thin cloud of cookie crumbs.

	"_Stop him!_" they screamed in unison.

	"You can't stop a dog from farting," I said.  "I've
tried.  At least now they smell like...."

	"Not that!" shouted Buffy.  I was beginning to wish they
had brought more fish to stick in my ears to muffle all the
screaming and shouting.

	"He's eating up our profits!" wailed Maria.

	Ming nodded, which wasn't easy to notice because her
skirt hem was still up around her waist.  "The more he eats
the longer you'll have to keep your night job."

	That got my attention as surely as her missing panties did.

	"They aren't _missing!_" she shrieked.  "I just _don't
wear_ them!"

	Whichever.  I grabbed Baggins' tail and pulled him back
from the carton.  He growled and spun to face me.

	Angular momentum can be a terrible thing.  He tried to
keep his feet under him and succeeded for a full three-
sixty plus another quarter turn before toppling over onto
his side.  He tried thrice to get his feet under him,
farted once more, and began snoring.

	The disgusted look they gave Baggins didn't change when
they turned their livid little faces to me.  "That's your
dog, all right," Maria scoffed.

	"You must be very proud," Buffy sneered.  "He turned out
just like you."

	At least no weapons had appeared.  Yet.  Except for the
quirt Mistress Star was using to raise the flap on a case
of Thin Mints. "Hey, there's only one box!  You eat that
many already, worm?"

	"No!  Well, yes.  Well, no."

	Ming pulled her knees up and crossed her arms atop them,
resting her chin on the upper arm.  Her legs wobbled and
her nookie winked as she shook her head.  "Can't even
answer a two-choice question.  How'd you ever graduate from
school with its four-choice multiple guess questions?"

	"_YEEEEOOOOWWWW!!!!_"

	Mistress Star seemed very pleased that she'd been able to
find Mister Happy again.  "If you'd stop looking at Ming's
nookie, we could get some questions answered and get out of
this dump."

	"The fact that she isn't wearing panties is very
distracting."

	"You aren't distracted by the fact that the rest of us
aren't wearing them," scoffed Maria.

	I hurt my toes by bouncing my jaw off them.  "You aren't?"

	Buffy rolled her ice-blue eyes.  "We're _your_
characters!  What kind of writer are you, anyway?"

	"Not a very good one," sneered Mistress Star.  "Now: what
happened to the Thin Mints, worm?  I thought they were your
least favorite."

	I shrugged.  "Well, they were.  Until Allie started
crumbling them into her...."

	"Allie?"  Ming's face looked so worried that I forgot to
ogle her nookie.  "Irena Allikapona from the Ukraine?  That
Allie?"

	"Yeah."  I pointed at the chrome-free trailer hitch by
the Thesaurus.  "There's her calling card."

	Buffy checked it out.  "It's her, all right.  That fat
bitch!"

	I was incensed.  "Now, listen here!  She happens to be a
very nice girl who--_YEOW!_"

	Ming had produced her sheaf of papers from somewhere and
was withdrawing one, her little face so furious that I
feared looking at her nookie.  She scanned the page. 
"Because of her the Boss is out the twenty-seven thousand
dollars that she had to refund to Mister Four.  All we got
to keep is the three thousand dollar restocking fee.  And
now she's wasting all the profits of our next venture?"

	I was getting loster by the second.  "What venture?  Will
someone _please_ explain what's going on"?

	Mistress Star turned to me.  "Shut up!" she explained.
"Or else."

	"No, wait," Buffy said.  "We have to explain it to him,
or both of the people who read this will think that nice
Mister Gamera has lost control of his character and that
she's turned to crime."

	Surprised by her comment, the rest agreed that Buffy, who
was the true blonde instead of Mistress Star, was correct.

	"Is that a blonde joke?" Buffy had her wooden stake
pointed at my heart and mallet drawn back.

	"Ummm... no?"

	"Good."  She lifted her skirt, produced a pen, and began
counting cases, recording numbers on one of Ming's papers.

	Ming took over.  "Once we receive our doctoral degrees in
scoffing, Officer Sherry wants us to come work for her. 
She's not happy with the quality of police explorer
candidates that are volunteering.  So, she's planning to
buy the Girl Scouts and promote the best choices to police
explorer candidates and send them to her new training
academy. We're going to run it for her."

	"She's going to buy your Girl Scout Troop?"

	Maria rolled her eyes and sighed.  "How can anyone so
lame stand up, let alone walk?"

	Buffy looked up from counting cases in the hallway. "It's
a medical miracle."  She shook her head at me.  "She's
going to buy _all_ the Girl Scout troops.  The whole
organization. It's part of her secret plan."

	"But, how can it be a secret if I just wrote about it?"

	All four rolled their eyes.  "Look," said Maria, as if
she were explaining something to a small child, a mental
defective, or Kenny Gamera--_OUCH!_"

	"Don't you _dare_ include that nice Mister Gamera in that
list," said Mistress Star, drawing her quirt back into
striking position for additional emphasis.

	"And don't substitute Mister cmsix, either!" added Maria.

	I quickly erased his name.  "Texans in general?  _OUCH!_"

	"_I'M FROM TEXAS, YOU WORM!_"

	_Now what?_  "Ball Four?"

	Maria sneered scornfully.  "You truly have no shame.
You'd include that nice Mister Four after he was kind
enough to send you that fat bitch."

	I hurried to think of something.  The quirt was about to
strike. "How about this:"

	"Look," said Maria, as if she were explaining something
to a small child, a mental defective, or me.

	Mistress Star rolled her eyes.  "Redundant, but keep
writing, worm."

	"It's going to _stay_ a secret," Maria continued.  "How
many people do you think read your crap?"

	"Oh."  Okay, she had an excellent point.  "So, what does
this plan have to do with me?"

	Maria rolled her eyes and waved a hand at the stacks in
the room. "Cookies."

	Ming extracted another sheet of paper.  "Even though the
cookies are fifty percent butylhydroxyaldehyde,
butylhydroxytoluene, and formaldehyde, they'll still spoil
before you can eat them all," she pointed at Baggins, who
was snoring at both ends, "even with the help of Slarty
Fartblast and the fat bitch.  We're going to resell them.
Now that the season is over and people are going into
withdrawal, the prices are climbing higher than my skirt."

	That reminded me to look at her smooth little nookie.  I
wondered if Thin Mints would taste as good if they were
crumbled into it as they did when Allie crumbled them into
hers.  Maybe I should run a comparison analysis:  put both
side-by-side and.... Wait a minute! Why stop with just two?
I could put all four side by side with Allie.  Maybe bring
in Nykki for a non-Girl-Scout control sample. Maybe bring
in--"_YEEEOOOWWW!!!_"

	"_Stop digressing!_" yelled Mistress Star.  "We're almost
through with Page Six and aren't at the end yet!"

	Ming continued, as if I hadn't rudely interrupted her by
screaming in agonizing pain.  "We need a supply of cookies.
You have a supply. We'll sell them and give you five
percent."

	"Only five?  I thought the standard fencing fee was ten
percent."

	Ming's Chicom AK-47 appeared and she rose from the floor.
Her skirt fell.  The floor show, sadly, was over.  "It's
twice as much as the two and one-half percent we could give
you."

	Flexibility is, of course, the key to any successful
negotiations. "Five percent sounds like a nice round
number."  You can't get much more flexible than that.

	Maria vanished the switchblade I hadn't seen her produce.
"It's more than enough to pay off your second and third
mortgages, especially the way the price of Thin Mints is
climbing."

	Ming waved a paper at me.  "Samoas are up to twenty bucks
a box. Thin Mints were at thirty this morning.  In another
week they'll be up to fifty and well over a hundred this
time next month."

	Baggins stirred briefly, then farted another cloud of
shortbread crumbs.  Ming looked at her paper and produced
an abacus. She shoved the beads around.  "Every time he
farts today it costs you two and one-quarter cents."

	I was down two hundred bucks, and it was only five p.m.!
"He needed to go on a diet anyway."

	"We'll sell small quantities at first,"Maria added. "Just
enough to keep everyone from going cold turkey.  By the end
of summer we'll need a money launderer."

	"Nothing like clean filthy lucre, I always say.  _OUCH!_"

	"If we want bad jokes," sneered Mistress Star, "we'll go
see Mister Lipton or Mister Wheeler."

	Buffy returned, handed the inventory to Ming, and lifted
her skirt. The pen disappeared.

	Ming looked up from her abacus.  "You should be able to
pay off your extra mortgages and have a profit of about
thirty big ones."

	She obviously meant thirty thousand dollars because she
certainly wasn't talking about her chesticular enhancements.

	The AK-47 muzzle looks remarkably large when it's poking
you between the eyes.  "But," I added, "I'm certain they'll
be very nice when they finish growing.  After they start. 
Soon."

	Mistress Star pushed the muzzle aside with her quirt and
replaced it with her nose, which wasn't easy to do since
she's half my height. "Do you ever think about anything
except sex?"

	"Of course I do," I scoffed.  "Gin and tonic.  _YOWTCH!_"

	"We'll do the scoffing around here, worm," she sneered
before jumping down from Maria's shoulders, causing both
her skirt to rise and me to consider crumbling a hundred
bucks of Thin Mints.  Each produced a Safeway shopping bag
and took two boxes of every variety.

	"Got some sugar junkies waiting at the mall," Buffy
explained as they headed for the door.

	As I started to close the storm door behind them I also
started thinking.  _Thirty thousand dollars!_  What I could
do with an extra thirty grand!  Unfortunately for the two
of them, some major pleasure changes were now in effect for
both Baggins and Allie.

	"That reminds me," said Ming as she whirled about on the
porch and shuffled through her papers.  "Did you ever pay
the thirty thousand fee for the fat bitch?"

	I was so startled that I almost dropped the Thesaurus I
hadn't realized I'd picked up.

	"No," I said.  "She was a gift from Ball Four."

	"Who got a refund for her."  She waved Buffy over.  Buffy
hiked her skirt and produced the pen.  Ming pulled a form
from the sheaf. "Sign here, please."


************************************************************

Copyright Russell Hoisington 2005


************************************************************

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Russell Hoisington
State of Confusion

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