"I can see you're obviously not serious about the prospect of becoming recognized on the North Side of my amazing city - $100,000,000 too rich for your blood, Don?" 

Chicago's Mayor, Anton Cermak, sat behind his desk with a smug grin on his face as Solastalgia faced opposite him, with Cermak's two bodyguards eyeing him intently as they awaited a reply.  The price was indeed too rich for the Don's blood, and even if he possessed that wealth, the idea of giving $100,000,000 to a public servant was cause enough to almost burst out in laughter - an impulse Solastalgia resisted with difficulty, settling for a wry, contained smile instead.

"We're not talking about my blood, and the fact that you're still entertaining an audience with me only confirms my beliefs that you already know the answer to your question.  We both know what's going to happen here, Anton.   Why are we delaying the inevitable?"  Solastalgia responded.

"Oh, we're just getting started." the mayor replied ominously.  "Perhaps you've already run your course for this city.  Perhaps it's time for somebody else t-" 

"Ah, shit.." Solastalgia interrupted, looking at his watch while getting out of his chair.

"I hate to bring this dramatic conversation to a close.  I really, really do.  It would've been so very climatic, I'm sure.  But I have a flight to catch, my friend.  You understand." 

The Mayor's incredulous face to Solasatalgia's interjection was the only reply he had time to muster as the Don whipped behind his chair and quickly shot the two bodyguards guarding the entrance to the Mayor's office, before hitting the Mayor squarely with a bullet to the neck. 

As blood pooled around the Mayor's neck, Solastalgia leaned in to the mortally wounded public official.

"Your predecessors - Thompson? Dead. Dever? Dead.  And now, you - Cermak.  Dead?  Probably.  You might be lucky, though, and in the very unlikely event that you are, you'll be resigning as the Mayor of Chicago.   At the end of the day, you served no other role other than that of an inconsequential, tax-mooching NPC-"

Solastalgia coughed heavily as the metallic smell of blood flooded his senses.

"..tax mooching roadblock for my organization. Sorry, the smell of blood makes my mind go to weird places."

Solastalgia dragged the Mayor's incredibly heavy oak chair to the bloodied public official and placed one of the chair's legs above the Mayor's exposed neck.  As Solastalgia holstered his gun, he checked his watch once more before he continued.

"The North Side of Chicago is now mine.  Do I hear any objections?"

The Don glanced at the two unresponsive bodyguards before lifting his hand over the chair, pushing the chair's leg deeper into the barely conscious mayor, eliciting a moan of gurgled pain.

"No? Fantastic!  Pleasure seeing you, Anton."

Solastalgia knocked the chair over to its side as he stepped out of the office and readjusted his tie, already twenty minutes behind schedule for his flight to New York.

"Renewed!" 

Six hours and one uncomfortable plane ride later, the real estate agent that was managing Solastalgia's main newspaper office in Long Island, New York sighed in relief as he landed a 10 year extension to keep the property leased to Solastalgia, the Don sitting across from him who was now based in Chicago.  Solastalgia shrugged as he filled out and attached the renewal cheque to the now-completed contract. Stepping out of the office he had called home for years, the Long Island Enquirer's main office was looking much better than previous incarnations; the homeless population that had formerly occupied it was nowhere in sight, and the redecorating he had done years prior stood the test of time.  Solastalgia glanced at the framed copy of his first issue that hung to the side of his office's entrance and sighed; a new issue was in the works for what was arguably the most infrequently published paper in the history of the United States, and the all too familiar feeling of anxiety had come back to haunt him.  His earlier encounter with Cermak hadn't helped, and his exhaustion from the flight only made it worse.

Three hours later, Solastalgia sat on the barstool of the nearby New York speakeasy that doubled as a restaurant; a place he had called his second home for years.  As he stared pensively at the ice that was slowly perspiring inside his glass of bootlegged scotch, he checked his watch periodically in between drinks for his flight back to Chicago, when he pulled a cigar out of his suit jacket's pocket and lit it, watching the thick puffs of smoke rise above him with every exhale.  As his plate of spaghetti was presented before him paired with the always-fresh Italian bread that was legendary for the restaurant, a woman's voice shot through the air.

"And.. You're finally done!", Ariadne said as she raised her glass of wine with one hand, a small booklet in the other. "You've completed all of them."TokyoZombi interjected, sitting next to Ariadne and peering at the same booklet.  "According to the book, you should be a Godfather now, we think."

Solastalgia raised his fist in victory before he extinguished the cigar in his plate of food, slid the glass of scotch across the counter towards the bartender and lifted himself out of his barstool as Ariadne eyed a small booklet.  Solastalgia pulled a small fountain pen from the inside of his suit pocket and pinched the booklet out of Ariadne's hands as he crossed over the final tasks in his copy of "Road to Godfather: Overused Mafio Stereotypes 101."

Epic Shootout with Rival Character, Clearing the Way for City Expansion

Pensively Gazing in a Glass of Alcohol While You Vainly Attempt to Drink the Pain, Regret and Self-Loathing Away

Smoking Cigars for Dramatic Effect

Paying Homage to the Old Roots of Italy by Exclusively Eating Italian Cuisine (2+ months)

Sending Advanced Notice of New Auths to Crew Structures While Unequivocally Stating They are NOT A ROGUE AND TO KEEP THEIR GUNS HOLSTERED On Account of the Increasingly Pervasive Attitude of the "Shoot First, Ask Questions Later Because We Want a +1 in the Name of Security" Doctrine

Checking his watch while turning to Ariadne and TokyoZombi, the newly minted Godfather shrugged; he had a new office to furnish back in Chicago.

"Let's get the fuck out of here."

The Long Island Enquirer - Issue VII

Note from the Editor

Yes, we've battled through our incessant laziness to return with a new issue.  We don't know how long it'll take for us to produce another edition, as we're too busy suing Mr_Pickles for the liquidation of his Tabloid News empire, as well as the physical liquidation of Mr_Pickles himself.  If Pickles allows.

Hood Brothers Return to Streets with Unmaxed Guns, Petty Vandalism and Fisting

A group known only as the Hood Brothers, a secretive organization formed mainly for the purpose of retelling small-scale, staggeringly inexpensive attacks on the four criminal capitals of the United States reappeared in spectacular fashion on Saturday evening during an event that spectators could only describe as "the longest fisting session we had ever witnessed in our lives".

Sources allege that the small gathering last Sunday evening turned lascivious when Brother Hood "Summer Yeah, Bin Cat" turned to his colleagues, disrobed and devolved into unprintable acts, with several minutes passing before the ringleader yelled "100 not out!" in satisfaction as a briefcase's lock was disengaged during the final minute of passion, letting the wind carry dozens of documents pertaining to the Bother Hood's exploits that experts have judged as "the worst attempt at public vandalism since Kuklinski".

The Hood Brothers came to the attention of the public after the May War, an event that caused billions of dollars in damages and caused the deaths of nearly ninety five percent of the established criminal order that managed the Four Cities.  The group claims of vast control over the levers of basic society; despite the group's potential for tantalizingly catchy headlines, the Long Island Enquirer has sadly been unable to attain an interview with the elusive clique, as the several spokespersons that have been employed by the group have been reported missing.  We can only hope that trend stops, as we here at the Long Island Enquirer would like a change of pace from the usual accusations of thinly-veiled power grabs, betrayal and heartbreak that emerge from the sea of drama known only to psychologists as "Divine Lunacy".

Pharmaceutical Procedures Provoke Ethical Considerations at Fort Hubcap

A former Great War veteran turned criminal who goes only by the street name of Prozac has resumed human experimentation of various pharmaceutical applications on unsuspecting test subjects that sources claim has permeated to Fort Hubcap's own Mr_Pickles, following weeks of erratic behaviour that kicks off an additional saga for the editor of Tabloid fame that has increasingly found himself beleaguered by personal and legal challenges.

"What we're hoping to do is figure out a way to quickly and effectively break a person in almost every regard, and then control them.  While we've considered lobotomy,  we've only considered that a partial success from our previous results - the late HODOR or the previous prototype, Clipper, being a case in point.  With our new regimen, we've been able to spawn dozens of multiple personalities from the same subject."

As The Long Island Enquirer toured Fort Hubcap's facilities in an attempt to stick the final nail in Mr_Pickle's coffin gain an interview for this article, we were informed that the Tabloid writer was confined to a monitored cell where he was still construed to be dangerous by medical professionals.  Sedated by forceful means and strapped to a gurney where the Capo was quickly wheeled out of sight from the Long Island Enquirer's eyes, we were granted exclusive access to the cell of the troubled editor.

Nail scratchings of "if Pickles allows" smeared with blood paired with crude drawings of cash transfers from nonexistent people decorated the walls, as small doll-shaped cloth figures congregated in one of the corners, surrounding what appeared to be a scratched out "resort" headed by a single despot, depicted only by a block shaped character armed with a cruel smile.  Journals that seemed to be penned from varying states of mind were shared with the reporters of The Long Island Enquirer, which listed everything from self-replying help columns to penned requests for oversized balloons that went unanswered.  As Prozac began the initial stages of Mr_Pickles' daily dosage of "voltage calming", the reporter for The Long Island Enquirer was advised to leave the premises, with the screams of agony fading with every step of the reporter's departure at Fort Hubcap; at the time of writing this article, a new court summons order on behalf of The Long Island Enquirer had been issued to the editor of the Tabloid News.

Battle for Free Kills Control of Corktown Turns Personal for TylerDurden

TylerDurden, the Godfather known for his frequent, quickly-slaughtered defeats that have resulted in one tallying one of the highest death tolls in recorded history, was found in a fisticuffs with JosephZerilli on the streets of Detroit as Delaware City's Worst invaded the country yet again.  Supposedly starting the feud over "stepping on my spawn time, wtf", Durden charged towards the Corktown district placeholder Godfather in a heat of rage while screaming obscenities as the rest of Delaware City's members invaded the rediscovered district.

The invasion was unfortunately short lived, as numbered spreadsheet cells members from the Four Cities swooped into Detroit in their unending quest to impress their hitsquad leaders, killing dozens on sight and displacing TylerDurden yet again in his miserable attempts at world domination.   As the smoke settled and our reporters attempted to obtain comments from Zerilli, the Godfather of Corktown refused to give a direct statement to the Long Island Enquirer over the incident, only mentioning that he looked forward to the long, successful and prosperous life he and his members' bodyguards had ahead of them in the city of Detroit. As a stray bullet from a lone sniper grazed Zerilli's bowler cap and struck one of his bodyguards squarely in the face on the reporter's exit, the yells of "FREE BG KILLS HERE, NS BRO" echoed loudly as additional guns trained their sights on Zerilli's men.

Final Notes from the Editor

This work is presented to you as (mostly) fiction and satire. Only a fool would take our content at face value. 

Want to submit an article, promote a business, weep about the loss of your parents publicly, or start a unique, thought-provoking discussion on the role of respect in our society? Contact the editor for details discussing your content. 

Prozac exits a building while holding a copy of The Long Island Enquirer, a slight smile on his face that seems to become permanent after months of continued pill use.

I can neither confirm nor deny any allegations reported in this clearly informative publication.

Prozac twitches

Our dear Mr_Pickles is a volunteer employee here at my resear.....pharmacy. I would never "experiment" on my employees, were here to help the people of the four cities of course.

Prozac twitches again

If you will now excuse me I have more experi......orders to fill for customers. 

Prozac turns and heads towards the door to his establishment, before he closes the door behind him he turns and says.........

If Pickles allows

A fine, fine read Solsa...Solasa...Solst...Godfather; but dare I say there may be other willing to stake a claim for your crown which is both figurative and satirical?

I dare say it. You may have ran roughshod over poor Mr. Pickles but we are talking about a man scarred by his parents outright refusal to give him a Christian name. You may find other publications a sterner challenge!

A good read sir!

A mighty fine read and welcomed return to our streets. 

Congratulations once again and I wish you all he best in the North Side

Pickles starts to write a letter to the editor, but as he's reaching for his pen and paper, a knock comes at the door.  Prozac walks in and hands him a letter from Solastalgia.  He opens it and finds a crudely drawn picture with "Something like this?" scrawled on the back.

See said picture here -->  PICTURE

Pickles screams, "I DID NOT ALLOW THIS!"

Wonderfull, thanksyou!

Excellent read Sol. If you promise to publish more, I will promise to not call your cafe' a diner anymore. Nor will I ever mention grits again.