CommissarVerevz took a sip from his horn of coffee whilst enjoying the gentle strumming of the bard. He had picked this place intentionally, knowing it to be the favourite haunt of CoconutRandy or at least it had been in his glory days. Verevz had it on good authority that Randy's days of swapping muesli with PhillipMarleau had long since past and the Jarl hadn't given him time of day, let alone a plate of pickled meats, for months.

The newspaper business was bleeding Randy dry and the real Commissar (not to be confused with the impostor Commissar, CommissarZverev) was ready to make his move. He had acquired the increasingly popular Star-Examiner from the late great Dominic and now it was time to consolidate his news media empire in a way that SeanCallan could only have dreamed of.

He allowed himself a self-satisfied chuckle whilst he waited patiently in the traditional Italian restaurant. "Ha" He gleefully snorted to himself. He knew the invitation he had sent to Randy via his best-dressed paperboy would make Randy's own team of two deceased interns and an unwanted admirer look even more meager by comparison. Young Master Rupert had taken a break from delivering the additional copies of the paper requested in Corktown, and had checked in 15 minutes before to tell him Randy was still on track to meet him.

"Can I get you anything else, sir?" A buxom waitress asked. CommissarVerevz politely declined.

"I'm fine for now, thank you. Perhaps when my....colleague," he placed unneeded emphasis on the word which was lost on the busty serving girl, "...finally arrives, you could come back?" 

The girl nodded and departed. Verevz stretched and admired the row of axes gleaming along the wall and the beasts mounted above. He pictured Randy's head adorning the wall of The Star-Examiner's offices and stifled another titter. There would be time for that later. 

Randy could not believe it. He had been invited to his own favourite traditional Italian restaurant? It was Randy who did the inviting when it came to his favourite traditional Italian restaurant! As he smoked a cigarette angrily by the longboats outside, his nerves began to calm. How could he stay mad in a place as wonderful as this? Walls adorned with horned beasts, seats filled with drunken, bearded, and light armour-bearing Italians singing songs of their latest pillaged village or burned church. It reminded him of his days as a traditional Italian, almost 33 months ago, when he had first begun learning to read and write. Italians were not always afforded that privilege. He felt blessed.

Pivar the Flautist played a merry tune as Randy entered through the massive wooden doors, past the enormous open firepit where various fully-intact animals spun on spits. He could not wait to pop open his first gallon of mead. It was just unfortunate he would once again be burdened by such dreadful company. His previous dinner here, with the villain Destro and their silent and muesli-enraptured friend PhillipMarleau, did not go well, Randy thought to himself as he deposited the kitchen knife he had brought to murder CommissarVerevz (if things got nasty) in the weapons rack amongst the swords and battle-axes. 

As he strode towards where the impostor Commissar sat towards the side of one of the long, communal tables filled with plates of suckling pigs adorned by bunches of grapes, Jarl Hnaef barely gave him a look from his throne at the royal table. Such were Randy's fortunes these days with the Coconut Chronicle lagging further and further behind the new Star-Examiner. That must be what he wants from me, an opportunity to rub it in my face, Randy thought. He took a seat.

"Good evening, comrade."
 

Verevz looked up as Pivar broke into "the song of shame" and the jaunty tones of despair could only signal the arrival of CoconutRandy. He watched as Randy deposited a butter-stained knife in amongst the men's weapons with a decidedly weak sounding clatter. Verevz though he heard a few chuckles coming from Ulfric's table over to his left, but he didn't pay it any mind; there would be time for gloating later.

"Good evening, comrade." He heard Randy say, which was peculiar given it was just past 3 in the afternoon. He thought this might be one of the man's many tricks to try and unsettle him. He had heard all about his entanglement with the villain, Destro and his privileged upbringing in the Japanese convenience store so he knew he was a capable adversary.

"Hello, Randy. Thank you for joining me," he said, gesturing towards the empty chair opposite him. "I wasn't sure if you would be free for this afternoon tea or honestly, if you were even still welcome here."

CommissarVerevz took a long pull from his coffee horn as the waitress flitted over. "A bite to eat, Randy? Don't worry," he added noticing the brief look of terror passing over CoconutRandy's face, "I'm buying."

Randy ignored the jibe about his presence in the restaurant - his favourite in town - and the status implications of the offer, accepting that a free meal would be welcomed in his current financial state. He paused to listen to the bard sing stories of the daily lunch specials over the melancholic plucking of his wooden lute:

"Here on my shoulders I bear the weight
of so many faultless lives,
My sword is so much heavier now
And in the hopes of my people my strength derives.

Seeing things from this new perspective
all my past would be so trivial,
If I could just have that seared ahi tuna,
with pickled veggies on the side."

He gave the waitress Brümhilda an approving nod. That would do. His focus returned to his rival. It would probably be best to wait until the Commissar had also ordered before jumping into any discussion. So Randy waited, uncomfortably, hungrily, wondering why he had been summoned here. 

"Two," CommissarVerevz said dismissing Brümhilda. Truth be told he wasn't particularly hungry but it wouldn't do to let Randy think he had only summoned him here to revel in his plight, even if that was one primary motivator in his invitation. The newspaper business was cut throat - just asked SeanCallan whose throat had literally been cut fairly recently - and Verevz was a firm believer in striking while the iron was hot.

"I'm a firm believer in striking while the iron is hot, Randy," he said, unfurling his napkin with a flourish. "And it has become clear in the hours since I published the latest edition that The Star-Examiner, bequeathed to me by the late Dominic, may he rest in peace, that I have the superior product." He paused to let that sink in before adding,  "the formatting, in particular, trumps the outdated 'printing', if you can call it that, of the Coconut Chronicle."

He paused to set his horn of coffee down.

"I'm sure we can update it though, when you sell the paper to me."

Randy let out a loud snort, like one of the suckling pigs adorning the table. Sell the paper? His life's work? To him? Sure, the unprofitability of the tabloid had seen quarterly earnings drop at Coconut Corp for three consecutive quarters, and they had been haemorrhaging cash trying to turn their fortunes around. The shareholders were calling for his head. But still, to sell the paper was a thought he had not even considered. He turned to his left to see Torbjorn The Incredulous giving him a look that said, 'Can you believe it?' 

"You want to buy The Coconut Chronicle? If I were not waiting for my ahi tuna, I would have stormed out already!"

Eomir The Encouraging, seated opposite Torbjorn, gave Randy a thumbs up. 

Verevz had expected this reaction. Dominic had responded similarly poorly when he had offered to buy him out and he had sixteen bullet wounds in his chest and a Commissar pressing a pillow over his face. In the end though, his hand was holding the pen that signed the contract finalising the deal and Randy would be no different. Verevz was sure that meant it was legally binding and it wasn't exactly like anyone could refute his version of events.

"Come now, Randy. Let's not be coy here. You're in trouble, everyone can see it. Even that ambulance chaser Neil_Anblomi has been circling like a particularly emaciated and ugly vulture, looking to feed on the Chronicle's similarly ugly corpse. How many more interns backs can you really hope to ride on?"

He leaned back as the ever speedy Brümhilda approached with their food.

Brümhilda was upon them like a collapsing circus tent, smothering Randy for a moment as she leaned over to serve the men their sizable meals. While enveloped in her ample bosom, he had time to think away from the prying eyes of the Commissar. He was not wrong. The expenditure on the news division alone would sink Coconut Corp before the fiscal year was over. In fact, he had to turn down an intern earlier this morning on the basis that while the role was unpaid, the business simply could not support another living and breathing human-being in the building; a broken pencil here, a clogged toilet there, the costs add up. 

As the waitress rose away from the table, Randy once again met the eyes of the Commissar.

"We are talking about a business I have built with my bare hands, Verevz. We spent 52 consecutive days as the #1 newspaper in America before the arrival of your Star-Examiner. I have fame, wealth, glory, male-model looks, the straightest hair in the country, a band that plays open mics most weekends, two dead interns, an ex-wife and two estranged children, and I have recently become literate. What could you possibly offer me?"