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| - Last week, Sam, my enigmatic co-worker and Roy Orbison lookalike from Ohio, arrived to work yet again bearing edible gifts. Hurrying towards me with a bright, excited smile on his face as I was finishing up my lunch, he held up a telltale flat, alabaster, grease-stained box and placed it into my eager hands.
"Isn't it heavy?" Sam asked.
"Yeah," I said. The box weighed as if it was full of of nails, nuts, bolts, and washers. "Where'd you get this?" I asked.
"I'm no tellin' ya 'til ya open up the box and try one. You get the first one."
Carefully, I laid the box down onto a picnic table and sliced the tape with a utility knife. When I finally unfastened the lid, before me, under a veil of bakery tissue stood two dozen of the most mammoth and dazzling chocolate chip cookies I've seen in all my days.
The hide of the cookie I was allotted for sampling purposes was as rocky as a mountainside, crumbly, and studded with large, fudgy bits of chocolate. Inside, the cookie was akin to a sublimely sodden and buttery birthday cake. It defied nature and thus was miraculous.
"Darren. Nancy B's," Sam informed me.
"Wow, I've only heard of them," I exclaimed.
"Damn, look at Darren! He's in love with that cookie! Give 'im one more for his other hand," another co-worker said, amused by the rhapsodic movements I made that were induced by sheer flavor and texture.
Nancy B, whomever she may be, is building an army of confectionery titans out of a small, underground bunker in Homestead. She is to be feared.
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