The Gingerbread Cookies

Let’s go downstairs and bake some cookies, like mother used to make. The warm smell sits right at home in your nostrils, invading them like wild ax-murderers hacking and slashing their way through endless miles of human bodies that stand in the way of their inhumane, carnal desires. Shhh, shhh, but that’s too dark. It’s Christmas after all. So let’s go downstairs and bake some cookies, like mother used to make. One step… then two… Ooooohhhh, isn’t this great? You’ve never baked gingerbread cookies before, oh no, because you always thought that you would never be able to make them oh so good like mother used to. What did she say she made them with? Some kind of special ingredient. What was it? Was it sugar and spice and everything nice? Was it…love? That special ingredient that every mother cooks with because you are their extra special little kid? Oh my, this is exciting! Your heart hammers against your ribcage as you set the oven to… Oh, you don’t know what to set the oven to, you’ve never made these before. Probably 300º will be good. You bend down, spin the dial. But what’s that? What the heck? There’s already a baking tray in there. You take it out, confused. On it, there’s a set of perfectly cut gingerbread men. They wear little black tuxedos with white buttons, their smiles expose endless rows of sharpened, white teeth, and their wide green eyes watch you intently with their white pupils. In the center, one of them stares right at you, holding a folded up note in its tiny dough hand. You snatch it from him, not caring about the little man’s feelings. “To my little boy, My oh my, I can’t believe how the years have passed! It seems like just yesterday that whatever secret deity governs this universe sent me to my untimely punishment beneath the Earth’s soil. I know, I was always so poetic, right? Now enjoy these cookies, I hope they taste just like how mommy used to make