GIRL SCOUT CROOKIES
Russell Hoisington
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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.
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"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."
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Copyright Russell Hoisington 2005
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