Raw Cookies
By: Christian Capers
Disclaimer: I do not own Tangled. I'm just a little writer girl trying my hand at fanfic
Rrrrrring! Rrrrrring!
"Hello?" a male voice answered the phone of the bakery. "Crescentia Cookie Shop."
"Hi," Rapunzel said quickly, using a phony Russian accent. "How are you doing today? Is this the Crescentia Bakery?"
"Yes. How may I help you?"
"This is Specialist Gretchen Hansel. I call to ask for a favor."
"What would you like? Would you like something delivered?"
"No I have cookies, raw cookies on a tray that I need to have baked. Because I don't have no electricity and my husband, he left me. He took all my money and left me for an Indian woman. Because he's Indian too."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"I'm all alone."
"So…what do you want?"
"I want to use your ovens. To bake my cookies."
"I don't think you can do that, ma'am. We have cookies here that are already baked."
"No sir. I want my cookies baked that my great-great-great-great-great-great-great aunt give me the recipe for. I make them by hand. Do you make them by hand?"
"Yes we do."
"Then you know how I feel! You know how I feel!"
"But, ma'am, what I'm trying to tell you is that you cannot bring raw cookies into the shop—"
"But they are my cookies! They are my cookies! Because I no have electricity. And I use vanilla extract on my cookies and my special Russian strawberry sauce with the goat genitals mixed inside. I will let you try one if you let me use your oven."
"Ma'am. I'll be happy to rent out an oven at the Crescentia Appliance Rental Shop and you can have your cookies made there—"
"No sir. No sir, do not send me off, sir. Because I will come over to that shop and smack you in front of all your customers. I will give them a show. Because I want my cookies."
The person you called is no longer on the line.
Rrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrring!
"Hello?"
"Hello, man. We hadn't quite reached a solution or a resolution there. Now I'm trying to find out what I should do because I'm starting to get a little peeved now."
"Well…You're gonna have to get peeved, because I don't know what to tell you. You cannot bring raw cookies down here."
"I am not done with you. Are you Russian, sir?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Are you—are you of the Russian descent? I just guessed that you are trying to be Crescentian but you are not because you are Russian. Am I right? Yes, I am right because I am specialist and I went to the university and you did not go to the university."
"How do you know that, ma'am?"
"Listen. I do not want your cookies because you do not check for the bug eggs in your batter."
"Excuse me? We didn't check for what?"
"Bug eggs in the batter. That sounds like a magazine cover title. You will be in the magazines and the papers because you do not check for bug eggs in the batter."
"Our batter is 100% sanitary—"
"Well, how do you know that, sir? Talk to me now. Do you put lye soap in your cookie batter?"
"Lye soap?"
"Yes sir."
"No. It's toxic to the tongue and it's made from animal fat."
"Well, that is how we make it in Moscow. We grate it like cheese and we stir it into the mixture so that it is clean and healthy. And when the cookies are done, you take a bite and, oh, the hiccups come. HIC! HIC! Little bubbles come out of your throat. HIC! HIC! HIC!"
"Okay, ma'am?...Ma'am?"
"HIC!"
"Okay, I'll just transfer you over to the Appliance Rental Shop—"
"No, I do not wish to be—goodbye, sir."
"Goodbye."