“Andiamo! Andiamo!!” Cristobol shouted into the crowd as he attempted to run through them while at the same time ripping off his chef’s coat. He’d lost the hat before knocking over the little American girl.

He had to have the cookies. All of them. Samoas, Thin Mints, Tagalongs… his hunger for girlscout cookies was insatiable. To the point that he’d do anything to get them — even if it meant stalking American tourists who always seemed to have a box stashed in their luggage.

It was a love/hate relationship, really… Cristobol’s and the cookies’. He was one of the finest pastry chefs in France, transplanted from his native Sicily, crafting chocolate souffles like none other, towering cakes with fat, ripened berries and flavorful frostings. Yet these crazy Americans brought their cookies, snuck bites only ordering a glass of milk for dessert.

But then he’d tried them, and realized that they were, in fact, quite good. Too good. So he would spend his days off, stealing them. He couldn’t get caught.