I glanced at my recorder, double-checked it was on (again), and quietly said a prayer for what was soon to be the tattered remains of my sanity. Across from me, Glitter waited, legs crossed, a smug grin plastered on his face, practically glowing under the terrace lights.

  The sequins on his costume sparkled so aggressively that I had to resist the urge to reach for my sunglasses. His entire ensemble—a dazzling swirl of pinks, purples, and silvers—looked like a four-year-old's fashion fever dream had somehow been weaponized.

  “So,” I prompted, tapping my notebook, “you’re telling me your criminal career…started with a cookie sale?”

  He beamed, his grin nearly blinding. “Not just any cookie sale, Kimberly—the cookie sale. Starlight City’s finest community event.”

  “It’s Kimmy,” I muttered.

  “Right, anyway—” Glitter waved dismissively, sequined sleeves shimmering with the movement, and launched into his tale.

  According to him, the day had started with the sun “beaming majestically,” although the way he described it, it sounded more like the sun itself had been personally requested to spotlight him. Glitter stood proudly behind a folding table, stacked precariously with colorful cookie boxes—pastel blues, bright yellows, and enough pink to challenge the very fabric of reality. Each box had a sticker with his face on it—winking—and the slogan “Snack Fabulous. Live Glorious!" written in glittery script. His pose, arms spread wide, welcomed passersby as though they were arriving at an exclusive event rather than a sidewalk fundraiser.

  Onlookers gave him the kind of wary glances usually reserved for street performers balancing chainsaws or malfunctioning robots. A child tugged at her mother’s sleeve, pointing. “Mommy, why is that man dressed like a magical marshmallow?”

  Glitter, unfazed, leaned forward with a grin. “Could I interest you in some cookies, for your precious child?”

  The mother hurried the child away.

  Then came the arrival of three police officers, their skepticism practically radiating off them like heat waves. Their expressions screamed, Why is this our problem? They approached with the collective exhaustion of people who had already seen far too much today.

  “Hello, officers!” Glitter greeted them with an arm flourish so dramatic it knocked over a stack of cookie boxes. One hit the ground and popped open, scattering strawberry thumbprint cookies like sugary shrapnel. “Care for some cookies? All proceeds support the Trinity Girl Scouts—a youth organization dedicated to spreading joy and fostering municipal responsibility!”

  The lead officer—a tall man with the build of a linebacker and the patience of a coffee-deprived parent—held up a hand. “Sir, we received a complaint about a disturbance.”

  Glitter gasped, hand pressed to his chest in mock offense. “Disturbance? At my booth? Surely you jest!”

  Another officer, shorter and clearly regretting her career choices, pointed across the square. “There been some anonymous complaints that you’ve been…verbally aggressive.”

  “Oh, I see how it is,” Glitter said, voice rising with dramatic indignation. He turned toward the neighboring stand, where an elderly woman in a green scout vest, children darting around her with cookies in hand, smiled sweetly at her customers. “Your schemes won’t work this year, Dolores!”

  Yes. Dolores. Sweet-looking, octogenarian, and apparently Glitter’s nemesis in the cookie-selling underworld. Her stand was neat, decorated with modest banners and actual scout children, unlike Glitter’s solo operation featuring a fog machine and what appeared to be a bubble cannon.

  "Atmosphere," Glitter explained.

  Glitter sighed. “Apologies for the confusion. The cookie sale can be…intense.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “Ah! Where are my manners?” Glitter flourished a hand dramatically. He straightened, smoothing down his sequined lapels with exaggerated care. “Allow me to introduce myself—Glitter! Supervillain extraordinaire, visionary of villainous ventures, and today’s devoted fundraiser for the Trinity Girl Scouts.” He gestured grandly to the table piled with cookies, beaming. “No need to worry, officers. There’s absolutely no ill intent here. Just good old-fashioned charity…and sugar.”

  The officers exchanged a look. One of them leaned toward the others and muttered, “Never heard of him.”

  Glitter’s smile faltered. “Really? Really? Not even a little recognition? I kidnapped the mayor’s hairdresser last month! There was confetti!”

  The lead officer shrugged. “Sorry, guy. We deal with a lot of weirdos.”

  Glitter placed a hand over his heart, deeply wounded. “Weirdos? I am an icon.” He huffed, then pointed at his face. “This is brand recognition!”

  Silence.

  And then—because of course—he snapped, “You really don’t know who I am? I keep forgetting how many of you persist in intellectual famine. Don’t worry—I’ll speak more slowly.”

  Shockingly, insulting law enforcement didn’t go over well.

  But in a move that defied both logic and sanity, Glitter redirected the tension with an offering. “Try one of my specialty cookies—they’re under consideration for next year’s featured favorites!” He presented them like a waiter revealing a dessert menu, complete with a theatrical flourish.

  The officers hesitated. Eventually, curiosity—or hunger—won out. They each took a cookie: Round, ruby-red jam centers sparkling with colorful sugar crystals.

  “What are these?” one asked, inspecting it like it might explode.

  “Strawberry thumbprints!” Glitter beamed. “Homemade jam, fresh strawberries, powdered sugar—the works. Only the finest ingredients for the finest cookies.”

  The shortest officer squinted. “No…secret ingredient?”

  Glitter grinned, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “Alright, you got me. Just a pinch of a rare spice—only a hint! Gives the cookie a delightful little nip. But don’t tell Dolores.”

  Because, apparently with the way Glitter described the scene, this was a rivalry worthy of espionage.

  The officers took tentative bites. Chewing. Processing.

  “Good, right?” Glitter said. “Only twenty dollars a box.”

  “Twenty dollars?!” The largest officer nearly choked.

  “Think of the children!" Glitter gasped, scandalized, as if they were the unreasonable ones.

  Despite their protests, wallets emerged. Glitter accepted their money with the enthusiasm of a game show host handing out prizes.

  And then—because why stop at normal levels of absurdity?—he added, “Speaking of sales, antidotes are available for two hundred dollars.”

  That got their attention.

  The last of the officers who had been silent up to that moment pulled out a wad of cash and slid it across the table.

  Without missing a beat, Glitter scooped up the cash and slide a vial across the table that was immediately drained.

  Finally overcoming their shock, the short officer blurted out in a panic, “You poisoned us?!”

  “What? No!” Glitter huffed. “That would disqualify me from the competition.”

  “Then why—”

  “Look,” Glitter shrugged, “why wouldn’t I sell antidotes? You’d be amazed at how popular they’ve been today.”

  At this point in the story—back on the terrace—I just stared at him. Speechless. Not that Glitter noticed. He was too busy gleefully recounting how the officers, each pulled out their batons, getting ready to arrest him. And just as the officers were squared off and ready to jump the table, a collective rumble sounded from their stomachs.

  "What’s happening?" the one of them groaned.

  “Ah,” Glitter said, folding his hands behind his head, “that’s the fun part. The secret ingredient has…certain digestive properties. Based on that sound, I’d say you have less than five minutes.”

  The officers paled.

  "Oh, and by the way, there are no public restrooms in this little corner of Starlight City. Do with that knowledge what you will."

  The three left in a scramble. One tripped over a loose brick, another shoved past a slow pedestrian, and all of them panicked.

  And Glitter—because of course he did—climbed onto his table, arms outstretched, ready for a grand villainous monologue.

  “That’s right! Run, run, runs—” He paused, grimacing. “Hmm. Poor phrasing.”

  And then the universe, never one to miss comedic timing, struck. Riiip. His pants gave out mid-pose. Sequin fabric tore, glitter exploding like a festive disaster. Somewhere nearby, a child giggled.

  Glitter, pointed dramatically. “Goddammit, Dolores! Can’t you get your child labor operation under control long enough to respect a villainous monologue?!”

  Back on the terrace, Glitter finished his story, beaming like a cat that had just knocked everything off the counter and felt zero remorse.

  I sat there. Blinking. “Hold up, this sounds insane,” I said slowly, “you laced cookies with laxatives, extorted police officers for antidotes, ripped your pants, and accosted an eighty-year-old woman?”

  “She deserved it, Kimberly!”

  “She was selling cookies!”

  “Exactly.”

  I closed my notebook. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  He beamed brighter. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  I groaned loudly and then reopened my notebook again to jot down a note for my future self.

  Need a raise. Or therapy. Possibly both.