The rain came down like God had tripped over His own garden hose. Thunder rolled across the suburbs of Evershade in ominous belches, and Nick, the most underpaid cookie delivery driver this side of the apocalypse, squinted through his cracked windshield at House 66 on Daggerpine Lane.

“This is how I die,” he muttered, grabbing the pastry box from the passenger seat. It was labeled “Double Fudge Murder Bites,” which was either incredibly unfortunate branding or a divine omen.

The porch light flickered like a horror movie extra trying to unionize. Nick trudged up the path, muttering curses at his GPS for taking him through the graveyard short-cut and at his boss, Kevin, for not letting him decline orders from “flagged addresses.”

He knocked. The door creaked open slowly, because of course it did.

A man stood there in a bloodstained apron that read “Kiss the Cook (or Else).” His eyes gleamed like wet marbles under a taxidermy raccoon hat. Behind him, a chainsaw hummed softly on the kitchen counter next to a vat labeled “People Pudding.”

“You the cookie guy?” the man asked, beaming with the innocent joy of someone who just discovered a new use for femurs.

“Yep,” Nick said, holding up the box. “One dozen cookies for… ‘Dexter Shankworth’? Is that a stage name?”

“Family name,” Dexter said proudly. “Passed down from a long line of organ harvesters. Wanna come in? It’s warm. Also, the rain tends to wash away the screaming.”

Nick hesitated. “Look, man, I don’t really go inside anymore. Not since the Gluten-Free Incident of ‘22.”

Dexter sighed. “Fine. Here’s your tip.” He dropped a gold tooth into Nick’s hand. It was still warm.

“Uh., thanks. Is this … legal?”

“Probably not,” Dexter chirped. “But neither is what’s in your trunk.”

Nick froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t worry,” Dexter said with a wink. “I’m off-duty tonight. It’s cheat day.”

Nick backed away slowly, pockets jingling with questionably acquired dental artifacts.

As he reached the car, lightning split the sky and Dexter shouted after him:

“Hey! Next time, bring snickerdoodles! I hate dying on a full stomach!”

Nick peeled out of the driveway, tires shrieking like banshees. The cookie box was empty. The delivery had been completed.

Kevin would be pleased. The dental association, less so.

The End