So, my sweet 82-year-old grandma—barely five feet tall, smells like peppermint and vengeance—wanted to sell cookies.
She sets up a little table in front of her house with a sign:
“Cookies – $5. No refunds. No bullshit.”
First customer comes. Big guy. Tattoos. Says, “These cookies slap. I’ll take ten boxes.”
He pays in cash. She gives him a bonus cookie and says,
“Tell your friends. Or else.”
Next day, ten more guys show up. Same tattoos. All buying cookies. One calls her “Boss Lady.”
I say, “Grandma, who are these people?”
She shrugs: “Loyal customers. Good boys. They always say thank you.”
By the end of the week, her cookies are in every shady bar, gym locker, and barber shop in the city.
One guy tried to underpay. She broke his fingers with a wooden spoon.
She said, “That’s the discounted punishment. I’m on sale today.”
I come over one day and her kitchen has security cameras, a code-locked cookie jar, and a guy named Vito guarding the oven.
I said, “Grandma, this looks illegal.”
She replies, “So is pineapple on pizza, but here we are.”
The police came once. They left with cookies and fear in their eyes.
Now she runs half the city and still goes to church on Sundays like,
“Forgive me, Father, for I made $50,000 in untaxed oatmeal.”
And me? I just clean the mixing bowl.
Because snitches get stitches.
And cookies.
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