Thin Mint Apocalypse
Do You Have a Moment to Talk About Our Lord and Samoas?
By Jake Bannerman
There’s a knock at the door.
It’s polite. Rhythmic. Almost… trained.
Earl Whitmore, Vietnam vet, retired postal worker, and full-time neighborhood crank, pauses mid-sip of his lukewarm Maxwell House. The knock comes again—three sharp raps, then a pause, then two more. The cadence stirs something in him. Something military. Something… tactical.
He peeks through the blinds.
They’re back.
Three of them. No older than ten. Green sashes across their chests. Smiles like televangelists. Hair braided to perfection. Clipboards in hand. One holds a box of Thin Mints like it’s the Holy Eucharist.
Earl locks the door. “Not today, Satan,” he mutters.
One Week Earlier
It started on a Thursday. The first wave came at noon—three girls, maybe four, bright-eyed and badge-covered. Earl told them no.
He didn’t just say no—he gave a speech about consumerism, diabetes, and how this was just organized sugar-laundering for suburban warlords.
They smiled. Nodded.
Came back the next day.
Then again.
And again.
Each time, the smiles got wider. The eyes got colder.
Now
They’ve surrounded the house.
He can hear them chanting. Not loudly—softly. Sweetly. A singsong echo of childhood madness.
“Buy a box, save your soul.
Samoas make the sadness go.”
Earl reaches into the hall closet. Dusts off the duffel. Inside: flares, an old bayonet, a dozen cans of Hormel chili, and a flare gun he never returned to base. He’s not going down without a fight.
Across Town
Local authorities are stumped.
People are vanishing. Parents swear they last saw their kids arguing with Girl Scouts. Houses reek of coconut and cardboard. One man, a software engineer, was found crammed inside a giant Thin Mint box, whispering about “the Do-si-do prophet.”
A conspiracy theory subreddit—/r/CookieCult—has started gaining traction.
Back at Earl’s
The front window shatters.
A Girl Scout repels in on rope made of braided merit badges. Earl opens fire with the flare gun, sending her tumbling backward in a blaze of spark and shame.
They’re not kids. Not anymore.
They’ve evolved. Hybridized. Grown fangs beneath their smiles. One bleeds raspberry jam. Another speaks in Latin.
“Samoa est veritas,” she hisses.
Earl fights through the night. They keep coming. Boxes fly like shurikens. One bursts open, and out pours peppermint-slick sludge.
His final stand is made in the basement, armed with a Louisville slugger and a crucifix carved from stale Tagalongs.
Then—
Silence.
Epilogue
News stations report the “gas leak explosion” that leveled Earl’s home. No bodies recovered. Just melted sashes. And a single, unopened box of Thin Mints.
Nobody talks about the disappearances. The neighborhood is quiet now. Peaceful. But once a year, on cookie season’s first day, a lone box appears on each doorstep.
“We remember,” it reads.
“Do you still believe?”
Some open it.
Most don’t.
But the smart ones?
They never, ever say no.
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