
Message-ID: <55545asstr$1175746204@assm.asstr.org>
From: Russell Hoisington <hoisingr@hushmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} RP GSN13 - Girl Scout Wookiees {Russell Hoisington}(nosex, humor, hair, fish, scoffing, sneering, scowling)
Lines: 489
Date: Thu, 05 Apr 2007 00:10:04 -0400
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===================


                   Girl Scout Nookies 13
                    Girl Scout Wookiees


                    Girl Scout Wookiees

                     Russell Hoisington

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

Welcome to the Girl Scout Nookie story collection.  In
honor of the Girl Scout Cookie season, this collection is
being reposted in the story order sequence we used in the
Girl Scout Nookie Collection story site at

    http://www.asstr.org/~denny/

This is story number 13.

Russ has two mortgages on his house, a neighbor keeping
him under surveillance, and, at his newly-replaced front
door, four extremely hairy Girl Scouts from Outer Space who
want to sell him a free ride on their space ship.

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

        Author's Attempt to Cover His Ass Once More

Any similarities of this story to any other Girl Scout
Nookie stories by talented writers, such as the ones
previously mentioned plus Vivian Darkbloom and Pathos, are
absolutely coincidental and have nothing to do with the
fact that I still have them taped to the computer desk in
front of me for reference while I type.  You should note
instead that I have my own "Girl Scout Nookies En Passant"
taped there as well, and you should confine your snooping
to that one only.  Should you discover, say, three or forty
insignificant similarities, which are sometimes incorrectly
described as "being identical," they aren't worth worrying
about anyhow, except for the similarities to "GSN En
Passant" because these events take place after that one.

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

I was relaxing on the living room couch, browsing through
the Rocky Mountain News, sipping a gin & tonic, munching on
a Samoa cookie, and trying not to let the smell of fresh
paint on the new front and basement doors ruin the flavor
of the latter two, when the doorbell rang.  I checked my
watch.  Still a little early for either Nykki or her mom to
show up, I noted.  Besides, they used the back door to keep
Nykki's dad from accidentally seeing them.

Maybe it was that special Girl Scout that Ball Four had
sent over last week, Allie, returning for another session. 
The one who had introduced herself by producing a trailer
hitch and removing the chrome from it in fifteen seconds,
flat, and lifting her skirt.  For a big girl she looked
rather cute, especially with chrome on her upper lips and
chocolate on her lower ones. Especially when you took her
in the basement and turned out the lights and put on.... 
But I digress.

I swung my feet off the case of Thin Mints I was using as
an ottoman and wove my way around stacked cases of Girl
Scout cookies to the door, picking up my Thesaurus out of
habit.  I peeped through the peep hole (which is its
purpose and why it's named that, for the benefit of those
of you who neither have nor have used one and think that
the term "peep hole" describes places such as Kitty's on
East Colfax).  No, it wasn't Allie.  I thought at first
that Denny's cats had wandered down from Seattle just to
leave hairballs on my front porch.

Again.

Then I realized each of these hairballs were much larger
than all of Denny's cats combined.  (Peep holes have a
distorting effect, again for the same benefit of the same
individuals).  And these hairballs were moving.  Denny's
cats had never produced self-propelled hairballs before. 
And those hairballs never wore green skirts, white blouses,
and baldrics.  These hairballs did.

Having left my common sense next to the shampoo that
morning, I opened the door and automatically reached for
the latch to the storm door.  And hit the one on the left
right in the middle of something small and round and firmly
soft (or perhaps it was softly firm-I was distracted)
inside the white blouse.  The sight of those self-propelled
hairballs had made me forget that the new storm door I
wanted had been backordered at Home Depot.

It shouted something that sounded a lot like "HEY,
asshole!" and jumped back.  Then all four started growling
vaguely familiar sounds at me.  That was when I realized
that they looked like small versions of Chewbacca wearing...

....GIRL SCOUT UNIFORMS!  I began backpedalling, but two of
them whipped crossbows from the back side of their baldrics
and leveled them at me.  Their warbling growls grew louder.
That was when I noticed that the third was holding a bowl
with a couple of small goldfish in it, and the fourth was
holding a thick sheaf of papers and thumbing through them.

The first one growled again, then turned to look at the
second one.  The second one growled.

I shook my head.  "I'm sorry, but I don't understand you,"
I said as I glanced at my watch's calendar.  Nope. 
Halloween was still over half a year away.

They looked at me like I was slow.  They pointedly pointed
to the third one, who was holding the bowl with the
goldfish out to me.  Since I'm a borderline genius, I leapt
to the obvious conclusion.

"You're selling goldfish?"

Apparently somebody had moved that borderline. They looked
at me like their estimate of my mental speed was a mere
meter per month. The first one pointedly pointed at the
bowl again, then at where her ears would be if she had any
under all that hair.

When I blinked stupidly the second one looked at me as if
her estimate of my mental speed had dropped to a decimeter
per decade. She repeated the motion, except she mimed
taking the fish out of the bowl first.

It was the moment the lights came on, to recycle a phrase
from two of my famous stories. No, it is not plagiarism to
steal from one's self. "These are babelfish?"

Three nodded excitedly. The fourth perused her packet of
papers and hummed The March of the Jedi. The crossbows
moved to point to either side of the door instead of
directly at me.

"You're joking." I scoffed. "There's no such thing."

The second one turned the right side of her head toward me
and pushed away some hair to reveal a yellow tail sticking
out the side of her head.

Uh oh. "You're using them?"

The first three nodded and growled as the fourth extracted
the page she was looking for.

"But I don't want to stick live...."

The crossbows suddenly centered on me again.

I put on my most charming smile and tried to avoid
dribbling down my leg.  "Of course, I've always said that
one should openly embrace new experiences."

I took the wriggling fish and stuck one in each ear.  It
felt like... like... well, it felt like having live fish
wriggling in your ears.

I noticed a faint flash of light in the window across the
street.  Mrs. Coldmelon had stopped crying about her late
husband and was watching me through her binoculars again. 
She'd been watching me at every opportunity since the semi
had delivered all those Girl Scout cookies, and I knew
she'd continue to do so today until her husband came home.

What?

No, not "late" as in "deceased."  He always stopped off at
a sports bar on his way home from work and showed up three
hours late.  I didn't want to think of what she'd tell him
about the "crazy neighbor" sticking fish in his ear while
talking to four self-propelled hairballs.  I supposed that
from now on he'd be four hours late getting home.

"You're digressing again," the first one said, sounding
muffled, as if I were listening to her around live fish
wriggling in either ear.

"Hey!  These things really work!"

"Well of course they work," she scoffed in a highly
professional manner.

Not more scoffers! I pleaded, though silently, of course.
"Hey, wait a minute!  How come your merit badges are in
English?"

It was readily apparent in their eyes, if not on their
hairy little muzzled faces, that they had reduced their
estimate of my mental speed to a simple centimeter per
century.  "Because," said the second one, in the same
patient tone used by people to speak to children, the
seriously deranged, and Texans, "the Girl Scouts were
formed by English-speaking people."

"That's silly," I retorted.  "Chinese merit badges are in
Chinese."

"How do you know," asked the third one.  "Have you ever
seen a Chinese merit badge?"

She had me there.  "Well, no."

"Q.E.D."

"You speak Latin, too?"

With that question, I managed a mere millimeter per
millennium.

Her empty goldfish bowl had become a crossbow pointed at
me. "It stands for Quit Evading, Dammit!  And stop calling
us by numbers as if we were cattle or prisoners or civil
servants. This," she said, pointing at the first one, "is
Chewpekka."

Did I hear that right?

"Chewpekka?  OUCH!!!"

The first one's crossbow had become a quirt, and she had
snapped Mr. Happy's nose with it.  "MISTRESS Chewpekka to
you, worm."

The third one continued as if nothing had happened. 
"This," she said, indicating the second, "is Chewcockie,
while over here is Chewbona."  She made a fist and jerked
her extended hairy thumb to point to the center of her
baldric.  "I am Chewdicka."

I laughed and then apologized.  "I'm sorry, but your names
are funny in English."

Chewbona's little hairy face turned up to me before she
looked at her paper.  Did you know that Wookiees make
really effective evil grins?  "In our language, 'Hoistigon'
is two words:  'hoisti' meaning 'crap' and 'gon' meaning
'brains.' Which means you're the 'crap for brains' that Mr.
Gamera mentions in the disclaimer to his stories."

"But it's not 'Hoistigon', it's 'Hoisington'!"

All four giggled and Chewcockie said, "That means 'gonad'
and 'extraction' and 'surgical'."

"You mean...."

"Eunuch."

This, I realized, had to be kept secret from Kenny Gamera,
Ball Four, Frank McCoy, Officer Sherry, and everyone else I
could think of.  I changed the subject.

"So, you're selling Girl Scout Cookies from Outer Space?
Well, I already have a few years' supply of Earthly
delights."  I pulled four shortbread Trefoils from my shirt
pocket.  "Want one?"

"Those are ordinary Girl Scout Cookies," Mistress (can't
forget the appellation:  Mr. Happy would never reappear if
he got snapped a third time) Chewpekka scoffed with a
sneer.  "Our cookies are out of this world."

I felt distinctively uneasy, as if I were about to be tied
up and forced to listen to Jack C. Lipton debate Jeff
Zephyr on the virtues of obscure programming languages. 
"You're going to sell me out of this world cookies?  But
look how many cookies I already have here in the living
room."  I pointed behind me. "And those are just the ones
that won't fit in the basement, dining room, kitchen, hall,
and extra bedrooms.  I can't put any in the attic or the
squirrels will get them."

"Of course not," she scoffed.

"We're selling free rides on our space ship, the
Millennium Nighthawk," said Chewdicka.

"How can you sell a 'free' ride?"

I don't know what's slower than millimeters per
millennium, but I know now what it looks like.   "Duh!  You
donate to our Girl Scout Troop and we give you a free
ride," said Mistress Chewpekka, illustrating her points
with painful snaps of her quirt on my thigh.

"Or," said Chewcockie as her crossbow turned into a
switchblade knife and she waved it straight out in front of
her, which was at a most unnerving height that caused all
male onlookers to cross their hands over their crotches,
"you get to live up to your name."

"Uh, yeah.  Sure!  How... how much do I have to 'donate'?"

Hey, I'd never been on a spaceship before, and it was an
opportunity to openly embrace a new experience.

Chewbona said something that seemed muffled by the fish
wriggling, though not as rapidly as they had been wriggling
earlier, in my ears.  I asked her to repeat that.  Instead
she extracted a page from her sheaf of papers.  It was
titled, "Third Mortgage."  I scanned it, looking for the
number.

I awoke face up on the porch when Chewdicka emptied the
water from the fishbowl in my face.  The four Wookiees...
Wookettes?  Wooklings?  The four hairballs clustered and
began mumbling softly to each other.  With its water gone,
the fish bowl suddenly turned into a wooden stake and a
mallet.  What the....  I glanced at Chewbona.  Her crossbow
had turned into a Chicom version of an AK-47.

"AHA!"  I cried as I jumped up, startling the four. "You,"
I said, pointing to Chewbona, "are Ming, aren't you?  And
you," I pointed to Chewdicka, "are Buffy.  And of course
you are Mistress Star and not Mistress Chewpekka.  Which
means you," I looked at the remaining Chewcockie, "are
Maria."

That took the scoff right out of their sails and they
slumped like a bad simile.  "What gave us away?"

I explained.

"Oh, man, she's gonna be really pissed now," said Maria as
she began unzipping the back of Mistress Star's costume.
Meanwhile Buffy began unzipping Ming's.

"'She'?  Who is 'she'?" I asked.

"The Boss."  With the backs of their costumes unzipped the
girls did one-eighties and repaid the favors in kind.  "We
earned enough money to pay for our Master's Degrees in
scoffing, but she wants us to get our Doctorates.  I hate
to think of what will happen if we don't sell enough free
rides."

"So, this was a scam?  If I had bought a free ride, what
would have happened for me?"

"Who cares?"

They pulled the headpieces of the suits down, revealing
scoffing faces.  I've seen people look more favorably at
dog crap on their new Sunday shoes.

"And that other troop calls that nice Mr. Gamera lame?"
said Buffy.

"Nothing at all would have happened, you idiot," said
Mistress Star.

"Except that you'd be a legend discussed at every Girl
Scout Camp for the next hundred years," added Ming.

That perked me up.  "You mean like Frank McCoy?  I'd be
sent to Camp Lotta Sticky Nookie?"

They didn't need doctoral studies in scoffing.  These four
were already producing post-doctorate work.  "Of course
not!" exclaimed Buffy, an action which should have been
readily apparent from the exclamation point.

"Like Forrest Gump," explained Maria as they began
skinning out of the rest of their costumes.

"Skinning" was the word.  Must be hot inside all that
hair. They certainly were dressed for the situation.  Or
undressed for it.  I knew with one glance that this was the
last day that Mr. Coldmelon would be late.  From now on
he'd leave work early and speed to get home.

I looked at Mistress Star's chocolate face and glanced
down, pausing momentarily to note that I hadn't bruised the
chocolaty orb where my reaching hand had poked her.  "You
aren't really a blonde!"

Despite the fact that Mr. Happy had crawled back inside my
body, her quirt managed to find him anyway.  "That is for
impudence!" she screamed.  But not as loud as I screamed.

Even the neighborhood pervert next door came outside to
see what the screaming was about.  But he was such a
pervert that when he saw four naked Girl Scouts standing
over Wookiee costumes that were themselves clad in Girl
Scout costumes, he did a little screaming of his own before
disappearing back in his house and closing all his curtains.

"Thanks to you, we're going to have to tell the Boss that
we won't be getting our doctoral degrees," cried Buffy,
with real tears streaking down her vanilla face.  "And
she's gonna be so pissed!"

"You aren't thinking about flavors again, are you?" asked
Maria as her switchblade reappeared.

"Uh, no.  Of course not."  I shook my head, hoping the
remaining flavor descriptions could slide around the fish
and fall out through my ears.  Hey, I needed to stop
comparing the relative sizes of their chest padding and the
textures of their nookie sweaters and start thinking.  That
was all.  "Look, if you need money, well, I can certainly
see that I'd be willing to pay a reasonable amount for some
boxes of Girl Scout Nookies."  I checked the merchandise
one more time.  "Even an unreasonable amount.  How about
it?  OW!"

Mistress Star's dark, tear-filled eyes looked up at me and
her full lower lip trembled.  "Do you remember 'Fifty-
eight, go masturbate?"

"Yes, Mistress," I said eagerly, hoping she was about to
retract that rule.

"Then why do you ask stupid questions?" she screamed.

I screamed, too, again, when the quirt struck home.

Tears flowed like beer at a tailgate party from Ming's
almond eyes.  She was crying so hard I could barely
understand her.  "We won't break our rules, not even to
keep the Boss from being mad and going on another rampage."

"Just who is this 'Boss' you keep talking about?"

"I think you know her," Buffy whimpered as she sniffed and
wiped her nose on her wooden stake.  "Officer Sherry."

What?

Yes, I know you already had worked that out.  But you
weren't being distracted by noticing that Mistress Star
wasn't really blonde, Buffy wasn't really black-haired,
Maria wasn't a brunette and Ming was To Be Determined At A
Later Date.  And that Maria had softballs, Mistress Star
had baseballs... "YEOWWWW!"

"Stop digressing and get on with it, worm.  We're in a
hurry."

"Sorry."

I woke up slowly, again face up on the porch, after Maria
tossed the remainder of my gin & tonic in my face.  I
lamented its loss, but then I remembered what Ming had
said.  I felt my underwear turning yellow.  I looked at her
and held out a trembling hand.  "Can I see that third
mortgage paper again?  And do any of you have a pen I can
borrow?"

I'll let you imagine where Buffy was carrying the pen.

                           ~ ~ ~

Clad in clean underwear and sipping a fresh gin & tonic, I
heard the back door close.  I folded my Rocky Mountain News
and set it aside for recycling.  Nykki rushed into the
living room, tearing off her clothes enroute.  She tripped
over a half-empty case of Trefoils and landed in my lap. 
As I tried to wiggle a finger into her panties, which were
all that remained and which covered about as much area as
said finger, she pushed away and stood up, a scowl on her
face worse than any Mrs. Coldmelon ever gave me.

"I told you, I am not going to do any kinky stuff two days
in a row," she snarled, shaking her own finger at my nose.

I didn't know what she was talking about.  Right after she
left the previous day I had put the Dilbert mask, the
vibrating bathroom plunger, the Tazer, and the butter-
flavored Crisco in an empty Thin Mints carton along with
the....  Well, never mind. "Kinky stuff?  I wasn't planning
on any kinky stuff today."

"Oh yeah?" she scoffed, causing my heart to skip four
beats. "Then why do you have dead fish in your ears."

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

Copyright Russell Hoisington 2005

--
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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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