The Cookie Caper - Complete

The Cookie Caper

Clint kicked off his decaying, wet shoes, wiping his brow while digging through the pot plants for the front door key. The humid weather cause by the hail storm earlier that day had heavily struck him on the walk home from the bus stop, sweating and panting; he was in a pretty foul mood. All inhibitions were dropped during the daily rush home for the cookie jar.

The grumbling Clint managed to twiddle and fumble the keys in through the key hole. A blast of inviting, cool air knocked out the gloom and despair and followed up with that warm, fantastic smell wafting from that glistening jar. Clint tripped over his tatty jeans and dropped his back pack and Mum’s umbrella in front of the door, knowing he’d get the irritating nag from Mum in the laundry room; but he didn’t care. He swung through the hall and into the kitchen, ignoring the calls from mum reminding him of a flock of seagulls, “Clint! Clint! Bag! Front door! I tell you this every bloody day boy! Clint!”

The 3 o’clock afternoon light bounced off the jar, kind of giving a heavenly illusion that Angels had recently graced the room. His excitement had suddenly vanished and quickly replaced by confusion, no, fear. The magnificent glass jar, shining ever so brightly was empty. But Clint had called shotgun? He even recorded the moment on his cell-phone for this very, exact reason. A vein pulsed in his temple as he approached with caution, my questions flooded his mind. He scrutinized the jar, looking for answers. His cookie-senses tingled when he spotted the cookie-crumb trail along the bench top, past the lid with the rubber seal and led right to a black, worn and surprisingly wet leather wallet, bulging with old business cards and supermarket vouchers. There was only one culprit.

“DAAAAD!”

***

Ross snapped his eyes open. He was slightly dazzled for a moment until he realised he wasn’t fighting pirates with Captain Jack Sparrow. His gaze was shifted around the room, searching for his alarm clock which was now sitting in a glass of water. Apparently he’d taking a cruel disliking to it during his afternoon nap, somewhere between him loading the cannons and sheathing his curved blade. He reached over for his glasses, knocking off the glass of water, his wallet and his glasses. Sighing and rubbing his eyes, he lay there weeping when he was slapped in the face his wife Sam.

“Jesus Ross, you’ve got to be at work 15 minutes ago! Its 2 bloody 45! What the, why’s the clock in the floo... Oh damnit, it’s soaking with.. Oh for crying out loud, get up you toss, got to work.”

He grabbed his wallet and a tie and bolted. Not having enough time for his usual spag and toast, Ross galloped down the stairs avoiding the bolts of wrath shooting from Sam’s mouth behind him. He span around in the kitchen like a dog chasing its tail and like a dog, his dampened nose picked up the scent of that scrumptious he’d spotted the previous night, in which he called shotgun in his head, because he can. In his disorientated state, he reached his paws into the jar only to find the cookie had dissolved into crumbs. In danger of sinking into depression, he lifted his hand out, bringing half the jar’s contents with him and placed his wallet on the bench so he could cut a bruising old kiwifruit open wearing a humongous frown. Reaching for the knives next to the jar, he grasped a baby’s dummy instead.

“What the...” He thought, “Baby Jane can’t open the cookie jar?”

This insight surely confused Ross. He then spotted the clock and couldn’t afford to mess around with off fruit and cookie crumbs; he was far above this nonsense. Ross then paced out the front door, waving the dummy frantically in the air.

***

Baby Jane stubbornly refused the lovely mashed peas which were being forced into her face. Balling her eyes out, she screamed and wailed and cried and laughed. Sam was close to giving up. She was ready to get the dummy again, which actually pacified the girl. Baby Jane manically threw herself around in her chair, spurting and spluttering. Ross strolled in from the lounge, “Going to have a nap for a little bit, 20 minutes maybe? And just give her the dummy already Sam.” Annoyed at Ross’ lack of help and effort, she decided to not bother getting him up, he was big enough and ugly enough to do it himself. Glancing at the clock, she was reminded about her weekly leg wax down at the salon.

“Aw crap,” she sighed.

The hail was drowning out Baby Jane’s cries for attention. At least she didn’t need to resort to the pacifier… just yet. In the end, she gave in and just plopped it in the gaping cavity. Baby Jane was definitely much more maintainable now and she heaved her out of the chair, ready to brave the storm on the journey to the car. A heavenly gospel from that magical jar filled the room, like it frequently does; calling for justice. Justice in the form of eating its godly contents. She spun around, hoping for a ray of hope to penetrate the darkness of her crappy day only to find instead of light, it was a cloud with lightning that shattered hopes and dreams. The lightning managed to strike the final cookie, judging by the smithereens of macadamia nuts and white chocolate. Sam thought the racket could be the cure to drown her sorrows so snatched the dummy from the mouth and slammed it onto the bench top. She then stumped towards to door with the roaring Baby Jane, cursed the wall for taking her umbrella and disappeared into the sheets of God’s fury. Her day could just not get any worse.

***

“Your good for nothing father’s at work Clint, get in there and pick up your crap right this instant!” stressed Sam whipping her damp hair around her face.

The front door swung open.

“Hey guys, it seems I’ve forgotten my wallet, any one se…”

“YOU PRICK! I CALLED IT AND YOU KNOW IT, SEE!?” yelled Clint, throwing his cell-phone across the room.

“What? Oh the cookie, of course not. I think it was Jane, I found this right next to the jar,” whipping out the slimy dummy in disbelief.

Sam slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand.

“You’re in idiot Ross. So If it wasn’t Clint and it wasn’t you Ross and I can swear definitely wasn’t there when the cravings struck me, who was it? Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?”

The ill-tempered Clint stormed off into the lounge, shortly followed by a sharp scream. Ross and Sam promptly followed only the find the brand new 52 inch television and home theater system was missing. Ross feinted and Clint burst into tears. Hysteria had arrived right on time. Sam chuckled and pointed out the trail of macadamia nuts, white chocolate pieces and cookie crumbs running along the carpet and out the back door. A note was left tapped to it;

To whom that may concern,

Thanks for the cookie; I’ll enjoy it while watching my brand new television.

Sincerely, your burglar.