Prompt: Write a story that uses all of the ingredients listed in your favorite canned or boxed food.
Picture a cozy study with a roaring fireplace, air turned chill with fear. The place belongs to Wheat Flour, head of the Enriched Flour gang. He sits behind the desk. Folic Acid sits infront of him, bound to a chair. Flour’s baggy jowls glisten. He’s soaked to the bone with a sheen of anger and fear. But not half as soaked as Folic. Folic knows he screwed up big. But he can’t remember exactly how.
This is what the Folic can piece together: He gets a little too sauced. He meets some dames. He brings them back to the hideout. He wakes up. They’re gone. The rest of the Vitamin Boys are none too pleased. Two of them stand behind him now. B1 to his left, B2 to his right. Wheat scowls in front of him, flanked by B3 and Reduced Iron. B2 grasps the last nail on Folic’s hand with a pair of rusty pliers. He begins to pull. Folic remembers. He screams. “Oil! Palm and Soybean! They were twins!” The pliers let go.
Flour roars: “You damned idiot! Those broads work for the Dulce Drops!”
Folic is frying under Flour’s gaze. Folic tries to squeak an explanation. B1 dazes him with the butt of his pistol. B2 gags him. B3 simply smiles. He likes his new promotion. He likes watching his older brothers do dirty work even more. He gloats silently to himself: After years of their crap, they bow to me. And I’m next in line to run the whole circus too. As long as the Drops keep their word.
B3 knew they couldn’t do otherwise. The Drops were too weak, and Iron was too stupid to suspect anything. Next week, he’ll have Flour poisoned. He’ll frame his older brothers. He’ll run to the warm chair behind the desk to save the day and bark orders. Gunshots thud muffled behind thick oak panels. B3’s glee freezes into panic. Too soon! Too soon!
The door explodes behind him. Folic shuts his eyes. He hears the Vitamin Boys reach for their guns. It’s too late. Heavy boots are thudding and flooding through it. Guns are blazing with flavors both natural and artificial. Folic thinks to himself: Damn, they’ve got the Lakes on their side? Bodies thud to the floor, most likely Vitamin Boys. Folic opens his eyes. A man with a pair of piercing blues holds a gun to Wheat’s temple. A smell tells Folic that Wheat has soiled himself. “Yellow Five, let our friends know we’re ready. Yellow Six, take care of the wounded. Except B3. I want the schemin’ shit alive.”
“Got it, Blue” says one thug, plodding out of the room. A gunshot rings out, sharp and clear. B2 gurgles no more. Six moves onto the other bodies.
The second thug stops, confused. “What ’bout the tied up gent?”
“We’re not to harm ‘im, Six” says the one with the blue eyes. He sees that Flour is looking pleadingly at Folic: down at the desk, and back to Folic. “Mind the old man, would you?” The thug’s gun is pointed at Wheat.
Blue looks down. He sees a revolver in B3’s hand at his feet. Blue picks up the gun. The hammer is already cocked. Blue takes a moment to think about how lucky he is. He empties the gun into Wheat’s chest. “If the kid does anythin’ stupid, do likewise to ‘im.” Six nods, and moves onto the others on the floor.
“No need, Blue Number Two” says a silky voice. Folic feels two pairs of hands caress his cheeks and play with the rag between his teeth. “Miss us, honey?” says another. Two women laugh. Their voices are familiar. “Now, Folic dear, you’ve done a good job. If Mr. and Mrs. Sugar are pleased, they might give you another. You promise to behave?” Folic nods.
The thug looks up from his work. “All done, Blue. Nothin’ of interest.”
“Good. Unwrap the present in the chair. Get ‘im into the car. Then blindfold ‘im.” Folic gulps as sees a knife between his feet. It cuts him loose from the chair. A pair of hands yanks him to his feet roughly. He leaves the room without a struggle, grateful for however long he might have left to live.
Palm waits till Folic is out of earshot. “Blue?”
He sighs angrily, his voice is thick with sarcasm. “Yes, darlin’?”
Soybean purses her lips. She asks “Do you think they’ll pin it on us?”
Blue scowls. “B3 is a schemin’ bastard. Wheat is full of his bullets. B3 and ‘is gun are comin’ with us. The bodies’ll tell the story we want.”
Palm sighs. “Even so…”
Blue scowls deeper. “Are you worried about C. Syrup, Salt, and Cinnamon?”
“Don’t forget B. Soda.” adds Soy.
“Or Whey P.” chimes Palm. She is smirking. “I mean, what ever could the the odds be?”
He snorts. “For that lot of clowns? Less than two percent.”
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(first posted at http://tdc.ds106.us/writings/girl-scout-cookies-dulce-de-leche-flavor/)