This investigative report brought to you by The Coconut Chronicle: strange and getting stranger. Read the first edition HERE.

Editor's Note:

The right-hand man; a crucial, often thankless role within any crime organization. One that can vary from day-to-day secretarial duties to being the brains behind the entire  operation. It is a steady, trustful position, and yet one prone to a very brief and particular phenomenon that presents itself in the aftermath of any war, especially those of a decent scale. To investigate this after-effect, The Coconut Chronicle sent its intrepid investigative reporter, Coconut Randy, into the hazy ruins of society to find out exactly what was behind the rise of...the right-hand baby. 

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INVASION OF THE RIGHT-HAND BABIES

A special report from Coconut Randy.

My journey starts here, outside the headquarter doors of a celebrated mafia family. Less than 24 hours have passed since bloodshed shook the organized crime community and there are positions for the taking, not just in new operations - which are plentiful following a war - but established ones too.  A goomba escorts me inside and to a seating area, where I wait to be called into the office of the new right-hand man. A second goomba guards his door dutifully. I watch it vigilantly, not knowing what to expect. I realize I am nervous. The office door opens and a goomba exits, closing it behind him. I look to my escort goomba for a clue. My head is swimming with goombas now. Finally, I am given the go-ahead. I open the door and walk in; there he is. 

I take a seat on the visitors side of the desk. The right-hand seems distracted, evasive perhaps? My reputation as a no-nonsense investigative reporter precedes me. He is groggy, as if just awakened from a nap. I jangle my car keys to get his attention. 

"Coconut Randy here, with the Coconut Chronicle, I spoke with your goomba on the phone. I'm here on an investigation into..-"

The right-hand laughs in my face, an innocent, unfiltered giggle, and seems to lose his balance momentarily as he does so, just as I have lost my train of thought. He blurts out, "I did a pee-pee on my ka-ka!" and erupts in a full on fit. I had always known mobsters were depraved - killers, thieves and sociopaths - but this was something else. I stared into his wet, beady eyes, darting in all directions seemingly at random, and could not find an audience to greet me. 

This was my first encounter with a right-hand baby. 

I slammed my fist on the desk, asking for more; his attention, answers, the truth, but left the building that day with nothing but the image of a bubble forming at the side of the right-hands mouth. His goomba had entered at the sound of crying. The interview was over. I was almost there, I had almost broke him. What were they hiding? And what was that smell? I was determined to find out. 

I received a tip that a new right-hand baby, this one of a family set up in the post-war restructuring, was being spoon-fed at one of the local mob restaurants. When I arrived, ready to press him for answers, to hunt for the truth, I was denied entry on account of my shorts and flip-flops. A classy joint, the maitre'd had said, no shoes, no service. But something was off. Over the sound of the choo-choo train, choo-chooing mushed carrots into the right-hand's mouth, I could hear his muffled words. "More," he said. More what? Carrots? I looked deeper, pressed further into the infant's soul. More. 

My thoughts began to swirl. In the aftermath of all this war, all this death, who stands to benefit? Who emerges from the red mist stronger, richer, more powerful than ever? Who nestles into the high-chairs of power after chaos has run its dreadful course? Right-hand babies, some barely a day old, ready to cast a vacant, dribbling glare at any man who leave his diaper spoiled. 

For what does a baby know of life and death? Of power and riches? How easy it is to wave an order of execution when one barely knows his ABC's. I needed to know more. I needed to confide. But everywhere I turned the image of the right-hand baby, snot streaming from his tiny, baby nostrils, stared back at me, ready to order my very own 'oopsie daisy'. I decided that some things were better left alone. Sometimes you get so close to the truth, you realize you might be better without it.

Shine on, you right-hand babies.