The restaurant was beautiful; Coconut Randy's favourite traditional Italian in all of Nevada. It was like being sent in a time machine back to the old country, when life was so pure, such was its committment to the intricacies of delicious and historic Italian cuisine. It was the toast of the upper class, the kind of place his intern VIPCreditsGrin could never afford on his meagre salary. 

Long, communal tables spanned one side to the other, hand-crafted, backless benches accompanying them. The heads of great hunted beasts adorned the grey, stone walls. Sturdy wooden pillars held up the heavy, arching straw roof. A giant oak door, the handle of which required two men to pull, protected patrons from the harsh, winter conditions outside. A rack, for swords and axes, stood just beside it, on the opposite end of where an austere but regal throne table was reserved for the Jarl. 

A waitress with a long, billowing beard and horned helmet sloshed a mug of dark brown liquid down on the table and asked Randy, her voice loud enough to penetrate the raucous singing and revelry, "What would you like to eat?"

Randy looked around him - spit-roasted head of boar on a large dish adorned with fruits and root vegetables looked good. Boiled lambsquarters could be a fine choice. Perhaps with a side of smoked fish? He wondered if the bard had any songs of the daily specials. But before he could answer, the man behind him rudely interrupted.

"Um, just some muesli I think". Huh? At the finest Italian restaurant in town? Who was this minchione? He turned to see a familiar face. Despite the fact this individual owed Randy a bit of money following a promise of payment over the settlement of a highly-disputed cash prize, of which the Coconut Corp legal team remained hard at work burning the midnight oil, Randy thought it would be best to extend an olive branch. After all, Italian olives were the best in the world, and here they were, in the finest Italian restaurant in town. 

"PhillipMarleau, why don't you join us? Waitress, a horn of mead for my friend here please."

Destro entered the restaurant.  His day had started pleasantly enough, he supposed.  He would have preferred the temperature to be a few degrees warmer, but a colder climate was to be expected this time of year in Detroit.  The day prior had been quite balmy in comparison.  There was a heaviness to the air today, a dampness, most likely caused by the rain the night prior.  And while the dreary clouds above had long since ceased spitting rain on the streets below, they had yet to part enough to allow the sunlight through, causing an overcast.  Still, Destro had slept well thanks to the pitter-patter of the raindrops on his bedroom window.  Days like this made Destro think of Shannon-Whelan, the woman he had pledged loyalty to prior their unfortunate falling out.  There were so many things he wished he could say to her.  Destro often wondered what he would say to Shannon if she were still alive today.  The thought gave Destro a sense of pece and calm.  Destro had placed his hand on the rainstreaked glass of his bedroom window and bowed his head.  "I forgive you," he said aloud to nobody.  

Memories of Shannon-Whelan followed Destro as he headed towards the airport, his plane ticket to Nevada tucked in the breastpocket of his trenchcoat, sewn from the finest fabrics available to some of the cities most prominent tailors.  It brought with them memories of Chicago, known as The Windy City for good reason, primarily due to all the wind.  It was significantly colder in Chicago than in his new home of Detroit.  The snow would be coming soon enough he supposed.  The sun had begun to peak from behind the dark cloud that had been oppressing it just as Destro arrived at the airport.  A cab drove through a rain puddle, nearly splashing Destro.  There was a cigarette floating in the puddle's murky water.  Destro smiled to himself as he was reminded of an absurdity he had witnessed a man do on the street just the day prior.  He walked inside the airport.

Destro stopped at the airport bar before boarding the plane.  He found a cocktail calmed his nerves prior to a flight.  He ordered a vodka and pineapple juice and asked that the bartender squeeze a bit of lime in the drink as well.  He sipped the drink, shaking the ice in the glass remorsefully.  The plane was boarding.  Destro feared there would be turbulence, most likely due to the weather.

The plane had already landed in Nevada by the time Destro awoke.  He exited the plane and picked up his luggage, an exquisite attache case made of fine leather handcrafted in Naples.  His stomach was growling at him.  Surly there was somewhere to eat in this city.  He stepped outside and was overwhelmed by the drastic difference in climate.  The warm dry air was pleasing to Destro.  The internal chill in his bones was absent.  He could literally feel his body absorbing the vitamin d the sun provided.  He whisted on his walk to the restaurant and stepped inside.  Was that CocunutRandy?  Destro pulled his grey fedora down over his eyes to conceal his identity. 

He sat at a nearby table, recognizing another organized crime member, a man who appeared to be PhillipMarleau.  Was it really him?  Destro noticed the awkward man's hand stuffed clumsily in the pockets of his ill-fitting slacks.  It had to be him.  This couldn't be a coincidence, could it?  These two meeting in the outskirts of traditional mafia business operations.  What business did they have to discuss? The waitress made her way over to Destro's table.  He ordered the mutton and a bowl of veal soup.  They were out of artichokes.

Sally 'VIPCreditsGrin' Grinbini did not like the heat of Nevada, it always caught him by surprise when compared to the dank austerity he was used to in the basement of The Coconut Chronicle HQ. He didn't like being outside, away from the wall puddle for too long, but CoconutRandy had insisted today was a day for Italian. "It is a day for Italian, New Monty," he had said and with one last wistful glance to Wally, he had been forced to vacate into the hated sunlight.

When they arrived at the restaurant, Grinbini held the door open for Randy to step inside and thought about stepping over the threshold himself. A very sharp intake of breath from Randy, the maitre d'hotel and several customers stopped him though, foot raised, mid-step, poised to take a leap far beyond his station. There was a pause, before he slowly retracted it. This was not the age of upward mobility, every man knew his place and Intern Grinbini's was on the outside looking in.

Leaving CoconutRandy to the fine cuisine of the restaurant, he settled himself near to the main window. He watched the goings on of his betters for a minute or two, taking looking in a little too literally. One of the staff soon turned up to hoof him further out of sight; he was disturbing the diners. Grinbini eventually found solace in an alleyway to the rear. He noticed a partly chewed cigarette butt, floating in a puddle amongst the dirt and the grime and allowed himself a smile. It reminded him of a man he had taken $45,000 from yesterday. 

"Perhaps I should have a word with them," Destro contemplated as he observed CoconutRandy and PhillipMarleau from a safe distance.  Outside, the air outside boasted a humidity percentage of zero.  The waitress had just delivered Destro his medium-rare salad.  Destro pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with his gold zippo lighter, a priceless heirloom that Destro picked up at an auction.  As legend had it, the lighter was an original, hand-made by William Zippo the inventor just prior to the Civil War in these United States.  For it's time, Zippo's lighter invention was marveled as a miracle or modern technology.  However the chance to bask in the successes of his invention were cut tragically short as the ignorance of the times led the church to accuse William Zippo and his "devil fire machine" of witchcraft for which he was burned alive at the stake.  Zippo's wife grabbed the lighter and whatever she could carry and fled to France, where she wrote poetry about her late husband, wrote letters to Parliment about matters totally unrelated, and shopped her husband's lighter around to various investment companies until one young upstart took a chance with her.  Lo and behold, the product became wildly popular and was branded with the name Zippo in honor of her late husband William.  Meanwhile, VIPCreditsGrin could be seen looking into the window.

"Hmmmmm....", thought Destro.

How had this happened? Just as he had invited PhillipMarleau, out of the kindness of his heart, to come and bask in his milky glow, Destro had appeared through the doors, the embers of the room's massive and central open firepit reflecting off his villainous metal mask. Though Randy quickly pretended to have never seen Destro at all, it was a near-certainty he had seen them and Randy knew he needed to save face, fast. 

Randy was the Editor-In-Chief of an important newspaper and the Left-Hand Man of a critical mafia family, and was too important to be caught publicly socializing with a muesli-eating Earner like PhillipMarleau. And so to abandon his newfound dinner guest was not his choice, it was society's. But how? He soon realized how lucky he was to be in such a traditional Italian restaurant, the kind of place where any kind of dramatic scenario could take place, be it violence, romance, comedy, farce, hindered by nothing but the limits of your imagination. And it was then he noticed Björn, the village elder, seated but a few places away from Ulfric, a bandit from the neighbouring settlement, who had fallen under suspicion last harvest for his role in the disappearance of several carriages of pickled meats during the Great Famine. A classic old-school Italian conflict waiting to happen. 

If only VIPCreditsGrin, pressed against the far window like a curious manatee, could sow the seeds of conflict between them. A fire to the long boats? Dangerous but so crazy it just might work. However, there was no way for him to convey that message to the young intern. What also concerned Randy were the plethora of longswords and battleaxes stored in the rack by the door. It could turn into a bloodbath very quickly, especially if Aslaug The Giantess were to fit the huge wooden door-bar in place to prevent entry or exit until the brawl had been resolved, as is old Italian tradition. Not only that, but the Jarl would be very displeased by the entire situation. Maybe Italian was the wrong choice tonight. Korean barbeque would have done the trick. But here he was, stuck with PhillipMarleau. 

Destro, at least, looked busy pouring soup through his mask-holes. 

A menacing shadow looms over CoconutRandy and PhillipMarleau.  It is the villainous shadow of Destro.  Arms crossed, he gazes down at the two men in a menacing manner rivaled only by that of his own shadow.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here.  Isn't this ironic."

It wasn't ironic.  In fact, Destro had been using the word improperly for years now.  This was more of a coincidence than anything else.  A better example of irony would be the case of poor William Zippo being tied to a wooden post and being burned alive for witchcraft and heresy after inventing a "devil fire machine" known to the world now as a lighter, and moments before meeting his excruciating demise noticing that the Cardinal was using his very invention to ignite the flame.  His widow Mary Pat Zippo went on to write about that dark day in her memoirs.  She stood and watched, a cloak shielding her face, the angry townspeople chanting and waving their pitchforks in the air.  And the smell.  Dear God that smell.  The smell of burning flesh, the same flesh that had once met with hers to create five beautiful children, all of whom died soon after due to malnourishment.  William Zippo was often busy tinkering with his inventions and would often forget to feed them.  He was a man driven by his work.  Mary Pat spoke of that smell in her memoirs, she said it was as if the odor had invaded her the insides of her nostrils and coated them with the smell of her husband's smoldering carcass, a permanent reminder of one of the grimmest moments of her life.  No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't get that smell out of her head.  She later went onto write that as the years went by, the smell no longer haunted her as it once did, but rather served as a constant reminder of him.  She grew to find comfort in the smell.  One night many years later, she drew herself a warm bath, drink a class of vintage chardonnay, and slit her wrists.  The hotel bellhop discovered the body the next morning, the lighter clenched in her hand.

The bellhop called for the coroner, but not before stealing the lighter for himself.  The lighter was later pawned to cover the degenerate's gambling losses.  It traded hands from one seedy degenerate to another until it finally found its way to an auction house where it was purchased by Destro.  It was that very same lighter that he held in his hand right now, flicking it in an intimidating manner.  The smell of muesli filled the air much like the death aroma of inventor William Zippo.

"May I have a seat?" Destro asked, but he intended to take a seat regardless of the answer.

The jig was up. Destro stood over the odd couple like the grim reaper, and the next thing Randy knew, the Made Man had seated himself at their table. For a moment, all Randy could hear was the sound of PhillipMarleau's crunchy muesli. He quickly scanned the room for signs of any other gangster. Now not only did he appear to be fraternizing in public with PhillipMarleau but Destro had joined the party too; this would absolutely ruin his social standing if it got out. 

At the corner of his eye, Randy could spot the Jarl striding in to take his seat at the throne of the royal table, accompanied - as is old Italian tradition - by his one-eyed soothsayer Borghild, his shieldmaiden Freja and Heidrek, the young ward he had claimed as his prize upon defeating the wicked thane Guthmund The Goth in a riddle contest, thereby capturing the outerlands of his kingdom. His relationship with Heidrek, one spent following gnomic treasure maps and suspecting citizens of being a disguised Odin meddling in the affairs of man, was much like Coconut Randy's relationship with his intern, VIPCreditsGrin. 

Regardless, Randy's immediate interest remained with his dinner guests. Though it seemed odd that PhillipMarleau had not yet said a word since his dinner order, it was clear he was very much enjoying his muesli.

"I did not expect to see you here, Destro. What treachery brings you to my favourite traditional Italian restaurant?"

Destro began to answer CoconutRandy but was interrupted by an uproar of cheer from the bar section.  The jester had begun his juggling show much to the amusement of the jovial bards, cutthroats, and happy wanderers that had congregated at the tavern.  Some drunkenly locked arms with the nearest bar wench and danced along merrily to Pivar the Flute Player who had been playing songs passed down to him from generation to generation of flute player.  The juggling was Destro's least favorite part of the establishment's dining experience. Especially at times like this where he was already deep in the throes of a serious conversation.

CoconutRandy looked nervous as Destro pulled up a chair and sat down.  His eyes darted back and forth between Destro and PhillipMarleau.  PhillipMarleau sat quietly as if he were under a witch's spell, one cast down from the cracked parchment pages of the Book of Silence.  "Lucky for him he wasn't alive during William Zippo's time" Destro thought wickedly to himself.  A villainous thought to have yes, but morbidity was all Destro was able to find humor in anymore since he lost Rosemary, his first love, to a sea merchant.

CoconutRandy's nervous expression was pleasing to Destro, as intimidation is one of the many tools in a villain's arsenal.  However pleasure was quickly replaced with displeasure as Destro came to the realization that CoconutRandy didn't look nervous because he was intimidated sitting next to Destro and PhillipMarleau.  He looked nervous because he was embarrassed to sit next to them.

A wave of fury washed over Destro like a wave crashing into the shore, washing seashells onto the sand along with ocean-eroded wood, perhaps debris from an ancient ship lost at sea carrying treasure.  Maybe even the sea merchant that stole Rosemary heart from Destro's ship.  This was indeed an outrage.  Was Destro looked upon in the same light as PhillipMarleau?  A man so socially awkward he hadn't even taken his eyes off of his wooden bowl of soggy muesli to even exchange a polite hello with Destro since he sat down?  A man who you wouldn't want to be seen sitting with even in the remote wilderness of Nevada?  Destro was humiliated.  If he was able to read CoconutRandy's body language, certainly VIPCreditsGrin could as well through the window he was looking in, and Destro would undoubtably be made light of for it.  Destro frowned at the thought.

"So, where were we?"

The restaurant was beginning to grow more crowded and rowdy with every passing moment. The merrymaking of Pivar the Flautist sends Randy into a flash of memories...

THREE YEARS EARLIER

It is a chilly but vaguely warm autumn day here, in Traditional Italy. The sun peaks through the passing clouds, illuminating the small outdoor ceremony taking place on a picturesque cliff overlooking the sea. The men, dressed in various animal skins and furs, traveled three days and three nights on horseback to reach this sacred location, with not a word shared between them on the journey, lest they ruin it and have nothing to talk about when they arrived. 

"Randy, forsooth, if not for your bravery in outwitting the hermit-poet Jorvik and retrieving the horn of Harald Bluetooth from his one-armed grip, peace could not have been made between the clans Greyhair and Hrogar, between whom war has raged as far as the bards tales can remember. With one blow of the famous horn, you have found the resolution to a conflict that has held our proud Italian people back for centuries - that, over the years, has seen the rise and fall of Eomund Strongmouth, the humiliating death of Marvik The Weakling, and the burning of Oswald The Yeller, charred like a rotisserie chicken. Yes, with one toot of this fabled horn, you have awoken me, Jarl Hnaef, from the ursine slumber bewitched upon me by the disgusting web-toed sorceress Amanda The Emo, casting me out of my hibernation and into the waking world once more, where I - as the bastard son of a Greyhair princess and Hrogar prince - could unite the clans under my singular rule. 

In achieving a sociopolitical feat of this magnitude, in single-handedly bringing our strong and glorious Italian people into the 20th century, it is only right that we bestow upon you a nickname, as we do all the legends of our famous tales. Yes, and what name more appropriate than to honour the very substance this horn has been carved out of? 

Arise, Coconut Randy."

PRESENT DAY

Jarl Hnaef, seated at his royal table, locked eyes with Coconut Randy across the room. He nodded, respectfully, the kind of nod where you linger for a moment on the downward swing before pulling up more promptly. Randy nodded back. Meanwhile, the villain Destro seemed upset, as if a fury of some sort had washed over him. What could that be about? If anything, he had everything to gain being seen in public with a man of Randy's stature. Was it because PhillipMarleau would not share his muesli? Why did he not just order his own muesli? But to know what Destro was thinking would be to understand the mind of the man. What motivated him? What gave him satisfaction? This, Randy could not answer. 

"Are you going to order anything?"

"Are you going to order anything?"

Destro hadn't even glanced at the menu, handwritten by way of ink quill in beautiful calligraphy. He was pre-occupied by the horde of barbaric norsemen that had just entered the traditional Italian restaurant, their tusk-flasks spilling ale on the mahogany floors as they stomped through the dining area, their axes adorned oddly across their chests as opposed to on their backs like one would be expected to carry an axe.  Splinters protruded from their thick yellow fingernails, the unfortunate price to pay for a career as a treeman.  Destro wrinkled his nose.  "Tree people" he referred to them as, a caste far lower than his own.  The type of person who would pull a saliva drenched cigarette butt from the wet ground and put it in their own mouth to smoke it.  The tree business had been particularly slow this season due to their state of residency consisting mostly of desert.  "Excuse me waitress, can my friends the tree people here get a plate of dirt please?  It seems to be the only thing they can afford to eat," Destro thought to himself how funny it would be to say that aloud in the restaurant, a cruel attempt at humor at the expense of the treemen.  Unfortunately it was one of those things you think of after the fact that would have been funny to say at the time had you thought of it.  Regardless, that window of opportunity was abruptly slammed shut as the treemen were escorted out of the restaurant by some mean looking mafioso figures in pin-stripe suits and matching fedora hats.

Destro continued to flick his lighter, clearly a power move, intended to intimidate. As the wick sparked underneath his thumb, Destro thought of the certificate of authenticity that had come with his lighter and the horrible history detailed in it.  To have been burned alive with his own invention being used as the instrument, it was hard for anyone to wrap their heads around.  Like Dr. Frankenstein being killed by his own monster.  Sometimes Destro felt like Frankenstein's monster, so feared by society.  His mind drifted back sadly to the HQ of Shannon-Whelan, where he asked her "Is that how you see me?  As a monster?"  Shannon did not answer.  "Good-bye, Destro" she said as she turned her back to him one last time.  It was the last time he would ever speak with her.  She died shortly after in a vicious mob takedown. What else died with her?  Secrets regarding @CommissarRverev's writing contests?  Sorry folks, Destro would never betray Shannon and reveal any details pertaining to that.  Shrug.

"I already ate.  But perhaps you could recommend a dessert before we get into the nitty-gritty here."

Destro looked over at the mafioso-type figures in the pin-striped suits and matching fedoras.  They were seemingly trading cigars back and forth with one another.  In the background, Pivar played a merry tune with this wooden flute as PhillipMarleau stared blankly at his bowl.

Grinbini's nose was cold from pressing up against the glass, trying to get an idea of what was transpiring inside. He couldn't make out much, the plate glass windows of the fine Italian restaurant tended to steam up, much the same as cheap plate glass windows of the taverns Grinbini was used to frequenting, especially when someone was blowing on them out of their nose for a solid 35 minutes. Still, from what he could deduce it seemed like there was something wrong with PhillipMarleau's muesli, he hadn't eaten a bite. In fact, he didn't seem to have said anything whatsoever.

Grinbini eased himself back onto his haunches. The Nevada night held none of the warmth of the Nevada day and he was getting cold, flitting as he was between the window and the alleyway. His mind began to wander. He thought of his mother, her stunning raven hair and cobalt blue eyes. She had been beautiful in her day and he wondered if she would be proud of how he had turned out. Did she want her only son to be a newspaper man or go into a more legitimate business like his brothers had? He would never know now. She was looking down on him from on high and he couldn't ask her. They had fallen out years before and her high rise apartment building had no elevator and he definitely wasn't going to use the stairs to speak to that bitch. 

His thoughts were brought painfully back to the present by the arrival of Destro - the villain - walking in to the same restaurant where CoconutRandy was enjoying a fine dining experience and PhillipMarleau was not eating his muesli. It seemed almost an impossible coincidence. If it hadn't been for the calming presence of the Jarl, Grinbini might have worried for the safety of his employer. He tried to catch Randy's eye through the marvelous and now clear plate glass window to get instruction on how to proceed. Unfortunately, Randy wasn't looking at him. He was caught between a rock and muesli. Grinbini was on his own.

Recommend a dessert? What was he implying? That Randy was a dessert-guy? He loved a main course as much as anybody. He could eat two main courses. It was the type of micro-aggression he had come to expect from Destro. The atmosphere between them was tense. He wondered if PhillipMarleau could feel it too. He doubted it; he had never seen a man so enraptured by muesli.

The stress had started to creep up on Randy, giving him more flashbacks to his origin story™...

33 MONTHS EARLIER

"But Randy, you cannot leave! We are in love! And you are the heir to the throne of Traditional Italy!", the princess Gunilla cried.

Three months of peace had followed the uniting of the clans but war was on the wind once more. The rebel leader Frostbeard had taken up camp in the mountains, reinforcing his traitor army and becoming stronger every passing day. Coconut Randy was to lead a riding party to the capital, where he would stand with the speaking-staff in the center of the Circle of Elder-Druids and plead his case to the petty-lords for men and supplies in the battle to come. 

"Besides, I have not finished teaching you how to read and write!", she continued.

Their daily recital of fiction stories would have to wait. This was real life. Little did Randy know that it was on this perilous journey that his group would be ambushed by the Bandit Huns of The Foggy Forest and their leader...The Doob. A man who would soon become Coconut Randy's closest ally. 

PRESENT DAY

The seasonal fruit sorbet? A warm apple crostata? This was not simply a choice, it was a decision that would reflect the very soul of his character. Mean-looking thugs in pin-strip suits had entered the restaurant now, briefly visiting the royal table to bow to the Jarl and pay their respects. They knew this was his part of town. But more than that, it was Randy's moment. His moment to choose dessert. 

"I hear the flan is nice."

"I hear the flan is nice."

"Eat the flan... 
Take my hand...
To the sea...
You and me..."

CoconutRandy's dessert suggestion triggered the memory of this song in Destro's head.  Rosemary would often sing it to herself when she didn't know Destro was able to hear her.  He would later learn that this was a song the dastardly sea merchant that she had run off with would sing to her after she succumbed to his charm.  An inadvertent reminder, but one that stirred up emotions in Destro that he had long since buried.  He reached into his pocket and clenched the string he carried with him at all times, a string with three knots tied in it, one for each time Rosemary had told Destro she loved him.  Three knots.  Three times for an entire lifetime.  Had she ever loved him?  Was it all lies?  There were times Destro considered undoing all three knots and casting the string off to sea. "Here, take your string and let me forget you" Destro would yell to the waves.  But he never could bring himself to part with it.  It was all he had left to remember her by.

The painful reminder made Destro resent CoconutRandy even more than he already did.  CoconutRandy was the firgurehead of the mob's largest media conglomerate and sat at the left-hand of a Don in the underworld's most powerful city.  He marveled jealously at his ability to carry forty units of drugs, only two more than Destro, but more nonetheless.  A consigliere to Destro's made man; this only heightened the discomfort Destro felt sitting here with him.  He looked over to PhillipMarleau.  Now here was a man Destro could feel comfortable sitting beside.  There was no question as to who the more superior mafioso was in this equation.  Detro laughed cruelly at Phillip's ability to only carry a measly twenty-five narcotic units, most likely due to the majority of his available pocket-space being taken up by his fidgeting hands.  Phillip was the proprietor of three failing businesses in Chicago whereas Destro had found fortune and monetary success early on in his career.  Yes, Destro preferred the company of PhillipMarleau, a man he viewed as inferior, as is the case with every bully.  Destro considered for a moment dumping the bowl of muesli on Phillip's head and making him wear it.  This would be sure to invoke some laughs from the Junghan Horde who had taken a seat at a nearby table.  "Muesli Head" he would call him to the delight of the horde.  But this was inappropriate conduct for a traditional Italian restaurant, therefore Destro allowed himself a chuckle at the idea and let his thoughts return to Rosemary.

He flicked his lighter menacingly at CoconutRandy and PhillipMarleau.

"Let's put our cards on the table, gentlemen.  We all have history with one another, much like this light I hold in my hand.  Not that anyone would be interested in hearing about it of course, but it does illustrate my point quite well.  My point about history, that is.  So, how about we get down to brass tacks, shall we?"

Phillip wasn’t exactly sure what was going on. He kept hearing his name but he wasn’t even in town, let alone at some restaurant. Maybe they were just so infatuated with him that they named their imaginary friend after him. He should probably feel some type of pride over that but it was more contempt and disgust at this point. 

The way they spoke about someone who wasn’t even there, dictating what he was or wasn’t doing, was a little psychotic if he was being honest. These people clearly weren’t playing with a full deck but then again, true crazy people don’t realize that it is crazy. It was a little disconcerting that neither man had anything better to do with themselves then speak to imaginary people but to each their own he thought.

It seemed better to avoid them altogether, Destro seemed busy speaking for a dead crew leader and if he was willing to drag someone’s name around that couldn’t defend themselves, there probably wasn’t a limit to his depravity.

None the less, Phillip was growing bored watching them go on back and forth, occasionally looking across the table at someone who wasn’t there. It was rather weird all the way around.

He shook his head in disbelief, if they wanted to be around him so much, maybe he should leave them a pair of tickets to the next home game. Eh, who was he kidding, they weren’t quick enough to be able to pay attention to the game of hockey. 

31 MONTHS EARLIER

"Pass the puck, Randy!", screamed The Doob. It had been 3 weeks since The Doob and his band of outlaws had ambushed Coconut Randy and taken him hostage. Stockholm Syndrome had set in quickly and by winter they were teammates in the annual hockey tournament arranged by the growing gang of pariahs on the frozen-over lake in the middle of the forest in which they hid. Randy was a natural, deking his way across the ice in a flash and sending the puck top-cheese with regularity. 

Off the ice, Randy's reading and writing had taken great strides, as the monk Brother Pachomius had taken on the responsibility of being his new teacher. Soon he would be be able to write big words good, a huge boon to his aspiring career as a newspaperman, as well as his ability to long-windedly narrate his own magnificent origin story. 

"Pool...pa...pa...party. Pool party", Randy spelled audibly as he scrawled the words slowly on a piece of parchment, admiring his work when he was done.

"Wonderful, Coconut Randy! We will make a scholar out of you yet!", Brother Pachomius exclaimed. 

PRESENT DAY

Coconut Randy watched PhillipMarleau with complete fascination as the man seemed to break his stoic shell and begin to flash moments of recognition at the mention of his name, while Randy and the villainous Destro verbally sparred. The spell of the muesli was slowly breaking. Still, though, he said nothing. An interesting guy, Randy thought to himself. A man about his oats. I can respect that. You had to know what you were all about and, if anything, it seemed Marleau had figured himself out completely. 

It reminded Randy of his nephew Montague, who had decided one day to follow the wicked circus-wizard Dracula to Little Rock, Arkansas, as his new assistant. He had set his mind to it and followed through. It led to his death, by mountain-man cannibalism or in the mystical kitchen of a treacherous warlock, but he had followed through just the same. Deep down, Randy respected the decision.

"Alright, Destro. Let's put our cards on the table."

The juggling had always been Destro_Whelan's favorite part of the traditional Italian restaurant's dining experience.  He clapped along merrily, rocking back and forth at his table to the cheerful tunes that Pivar the Flautist's wooden flute provided. The jester had began juggling the pots and pans to the amusement of the drunken hordesmen at the bar.  Gramma Argus came out from the back, her meaty fists placed sternly on her broad hips as she looked at the jester disapprovingly.  She didn't care for all the clanking sounds the pots and pans made on the stone floor when he would inevitably drop them.  In fact, dropping the pots and pans on the floor was part of his finale.  Before taking his final bow he would looks at the pots and pans, then look at the crowd and shrug comically to an eruption of laughter.

A series of clues had led Destro_Whelan to this remote Italian restaurant, clues as to who his parents might have been, and why they left him to fend for himself in this cold, cruel world.  But what was it about this place he wondered?  What significance did it hold?  Had one of his parents dined here before?  Who was he meeting here? He hoped to learn soon enough.  But first, he sat back and relaxed, enjoying the ambiance of the traditional eatery.

The torchlight cast a refletion on Destro_Whelan's shiny mask, the flames doing a macabre dance upon his face as he watched Pivar sing a song about the woods.  Pivar had handcrafted this flue himself, a rite of passage in his family.  He had come from a long line of flute whittlers, his father and grandfather before him had taught him to carve flutes from trees when he was a small boy.  His family would travel with bands of thieves, playing their flutes to cause distraction while the thieves pillaged the wagons for loot.  But life on the road was hard and he one day awoke to find the thieves had stolen his flute, causing Pivar to have to carve a new one, the very flute he was playing tonight in the restaurant.

Suddenly, an overwhelming urge washed over Destro_Whelan.  He wanted to leap from his seat and break Pivar's flute across his leg.  It was a feeling he had never felt before..... a villainous feeling.  But why?  Was there something inherently evil about Destro_Whelan?  Something in his genes?  Something passed down by one of his parents perhaps?  Or both of them?

"Are you ready to order sir?" The waiter's question snapped Destro_Whelan out of his deep thought, the villainous feeling having seemingly passed, for the moment at least."

"Muesli, please." Destro ordered.

The Clown sat in the corner, his favourite position back to the wall face to the door, it had always been this way since he escaped the orphanage – a large Canadian moose head hung directly over him for some strange reason it has a hockey puck lodged between its teeth.

Often in these parts these crazy hybrid Canadian Scandinavians went hunting moose on the lakes, armed only with a bandolier full of pucks, Mexican cowboy hats, and their stupidly over-sized mustachios.  It was quite the event, The Clown had missed it this year but he was looking forward to the annual seal bash just next week.  He’d brought his favourite mallet just for the occasion.

Pivar was fluting his way through the fifth cantos of hyperbole… again, his cleft palette doing it extreme injustice. “He never could just hit that mid-range note properly” the clown thought to itself as it slowly crunched its way through a bowl of what appeared to be overtly large hairy walnuts to the proper tempo of the tune.

Just as the cantos hit its crescendo the clown looked up - a young-man with a silver face had just walked in.  He’d seen a face like that before, that funny bow-legged, glide like walk was also familiar almost as if this kid was more at home on the ice lakes hunting moose.

The clown stands up carefully and slowly, careful not to disturb to greatly the half-naked midget that had been sleeping in his lap, reaches up to the puck in the Moose’s mouth and throws it frisbee like in the direction of the young mans with a sliver face…

Following the death of his idiot brother CoconutRandy, CoconutLarry had assumed control of Randy's assets and moved into his home, right around the corner from what was supposed to be one of the best traditional Italian restaurants in the country. He knew the place was frequented by tougher, beard-having warrior types, but Larry wore an eyepatch, so he was pretty tough himself. He had decided to lean into the malevolence of the look, determining that while people treated Randy frivolously, they would treat his wicked brother Larry with more...unsmilingness. 

Noticing a frightening clown, a man with a metal face, and hordes of angry, drunken, horned-helmeted Italians, he knew this was the place to be seen to cultivate his image. Larry posted up near metal-face and listened as the bard sang a tale of Titus Wind-Dodger, hero of The Peasant's Revolt. It was a moving tale of courage against all odds and reminded Larry of his own story, in which he left the safety of his childhood doghouse to pursue vengeance against the halfwit Randy. 

While inspecting the metal-faced man near him, he sensed a certain inherent but repressed delinquency in him, like a cannibal who has not yet chewed on his first limb. As an evil-leaning individual himself, he figured he could get a better read on him if he started a conversation. However, he was very hungry and the food here was supposedly superb. 

"Waitress!", he snapped his fingers and pointed at the bowl of nuts and oats being eaten by the hordesman next to him. Very rude. A real power move. He hoped a lot of people saw that. He waited, menacingly, for his muesli while some commotion seemed to be taking place between the clown and metal-face. 

The waiter, Igor the Hun from Naples, returned from the back with Destro_Whelan's muesli.  Destro_Whelan gave Igor an appreciative nod.  He had heard rave reviews about the cuisine here, and was looking forward to seeing if this traditional Italian restaurant lived up to the hype.  A man at an adjacent table caught Destro_Whelan's eye.  Isn't that the guy from the newspaper?  @CoconutLarry I believe is his name, brother of the deceased CoconutRandy.  "What is he doing here?" Destro_Whelan asked himself inquisitively.  Perhaps he possessed information as to who Destro_Whelan's parents were, and why they left him to fend for himself in this cold, cruel world.

Destro_Whelan stared at his bowl of oats, coincidentally in the same exact fashion PhillipMarleau had before him.  Finally Destro_Whelan worked up enough nerve to approach the media mogul @CoconutLarry when suddenlt, a hockey puck flew into his wooden bowl, sending the muelsi flying all over the table and Destro_Whelan's lap.  He looked over at an EvilClown that was standing nearby, clearly the culprit behind the mess of muesli Destro_Whelan found himself in.

Destro_Whelan was not amused by clowns as a child.  Having been left to fend for himself in this cold, cruel, world by his parents, he had nobody to take him to the circus like the other boys his age did.  Destro_Whelan's only experience with clowns was when the orphanage would stick a red nose and face paint on the drunk end night-shift security guard, whose lackluster clown routine consisted of making balloon-animals shaped as gardener snakes and clubbing the children with his wooden baton.  His metal mask still bore the dents from the security clown, a permanent reminder of his disdain for their guild.  He frowned at the clown.

"Hey what the HECK?" he shouted across the restaurant, causing the dancing and merriment to cease.  Pivar lowered his flute to see what the ruckus was all about.  Even the Jarl looked up from his mutton, and as we all know, that is not typical of the Jarl.  A Jarl never looks up from his feast to observe commotions.  

Coconut Primo Carnera bowed his head solemnly as he stood for a moment by the memorial portrait of CoconutRandy, set up next to a grindstone where the steward of Jarl Hnaef struggled to sharpen the Jarl's giant two-handed longsword. There was no service held for Randy's dead brother CoconutLarry, who was a coward and a scoundrel, and Primo smiled as he remembered the feeling of separating Larry's head from his shoulders with one powerful swing of his giant fist. That was for you, Randy, he thought to himself. After the fight and the general media fanfare that followed another successful defense of his world heavyweight title, Primo always stopped to get a meal at his favourite traditional Italian restaurant, where he stood now paying tribute to his deceased friend. 

In the few minutes he'd been inside, he had already fielded several offers from the local hordesmen to join their various raiding parties, which Primo made a habit of declining respectfully. The time it would take to sack a Mercian monastary was more than he could afford to lose in his rigorous training schedule. The belt wasn't going to defend itself. He seated himself with a loud creak of the bench as it adjusted to his 260 pound frame and Brumhilda the waitress immediately sloshed a flagon of mead in front of him, as she did every time he ate here.

Was it her that kept him coming back? Or perhaps Pivar's exceptional flutistry? Was it the pickled herring, so vibrant and delicious when paired with the house muesli? He squinted at the crude wall-drawings but could not make out what the soup of the day was, as the runes were simply too far away to read. Before he could ask Brumhilda, a shout and then silence overcame the room. In all his years coming here, it was the first time the hall had been completely still, even for a moment. 

A man with a metal head looked very upset, and Primo realized something had been thrown at him. He stood up, his hulking presence immediately catching the eyes of most of the room, and bellowed, "Who throws things in the hall of Hnaef?!"