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Message-ID: <50877asstr$1112645403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Russell Hoisington" <hoisingr@hushmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Girl Scout Wookiees {Hoisington} (nosex, humor, hair, fish, scoffing, sneering, scowling)
Lines: 487
Date: Mon,  4 Apr 2005 16:10:03 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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                       GIRL SCOUT WOOKIEES
                                 
                        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 Paethos, 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 "GSNeP" because these events take place after that one.
 
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.
 
   ************************************************************

     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 prisoner or civil servants. 
This," she said, pointing at the first one, "Is Chewpekka."
 
     _Did I hear that right?_
 
     "Chew_pekka?  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.
 
     "They 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 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

Russell Hoisington
State of Confusion

Stories archived at
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