Waldopolis Chronicle Office, Waldobury, Widdlington

The morning sun streamed through the narrow windows of the Waldopolis Chronicle office, casting beams of light on the stacks of papers cluttering the editor-in-chief’s desk. Harris Travers, slick, green, and thoroughly engrossed in his own publication, leaned back in his chair with a satisfied grunt. In one hand, he clutched his morning coffee, black as his soul, and in the other, the crinkled page three of the Chronicle—today featuring yet another topless "Chronicle Girl." Travers, cigar firmly planted between his sharp teeth, let out a sleazy chuckle, ogling shamelessly.

Across the room, Master Devlin, the Chronicle's deputy editor, was busy dealing with a more pressing matter: disciplining Waldo. Waldo, ever the incorrigible troublemaker, wriggled like a cat, squirming under the grip of Devlin, who had him bent over his knee, delivering firm smacks to his bottom.

"You must learn, Waldo," Master Devlin muttered, punctuating each word with a solid smack. "You will not disrespect your Master like that!"

"Unhand me, pizza face! You can't even spell 'learn,' dragon brain!" Waldo protested, though his grin gave away his delight in the absurd situation.

Suddenly, Travers interrupted the disciplinary moment, slamming his coffee cup down with uncharacteristic excitement. “Stop the presses, boys! There’s something big going down in town!”

Master Devlin paused mid-slap, eyebrow raised. "Is it another political scandal you want to sit on?"

“Even better!” Travers leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “There’s a new Waitrose that just opened in Walver Lake!”

Devlin stared at him, unamused. “Yes, Travers, I know.”

"How? And why didn't you tell the rest of us?"

"I know because that's yesterday's paper that WE published, you bloody fool... Unlike you, I actually bother to read what we print before it goes out to the public."

Unfazed, Travers waved off the insult. “Details, details. I say we go check it out! Big news, this! The first outside supermarket chain ever to open in Widdlington town... It’s shaking things up down in Walver Lake, too, right across from Waldmart. Nothing like a little retail war in our own backyard! Could be a story there.”

Waldo’s eyes lit up, hopping off the Master’s lap, rubbing his bruised bottom. “Wiffuhuh's coming too! We haven't been to the supermarkets since they was invented!”

Master Devlin pinched the bridge of his snout between his eyes. “We have a paper to run. There’s the government funds scandal, remember? Missing millions? Kind of important, Travers.”

“Bah!” Travers scoffed. “I told you already, we're sitting on it until something happens. It's a beautiful day. No need to coop up in the office. Besides, if anything comes up, Ermintrude can handle it. She’s our political expert.”

Devlin sighed. “Ermintrude’s busy. She's doing her weekly photoshoot. She's up in the Wallywood Hills for this one, I believe.”

Travers, without missing a beat, shrugged. “Fine. Doesn't matter—we’ve got plenty of staff! Get Kyle to do it.”

“Brian,” Devlin corrected, yet again.

Travers blinked. “Who the hell is Brian?” Whatever. You stay here and be a stick in the mud if you want. I'm going. You coming, Wally?"

"Sure thing, Boss man! We wants to see the toy section!" Waldo responded enthusiastically.

Devlin shook his head, defeated. “Fine, fine. I’ll come. Someone needs to keep an eye on you two.”

"Exactly!" Travers grinned, already picturing himself mingling with busty Waitrose shoppers. "We're reporters! It's time to get out there. Hustle up some news!"

The Walk to Waitrose

The trio departed the Chronicle office and ventured through Widdlington. Travers led the way, puffing on his cigar, occasionally misnaming landmarks as they passed. Devlin, walking with the demeanor of a reluctant chaperone, kept a wary eye on both Travers and Waldo, who darted around like an over-enthusiastic puppy.

They walked up Wilford Brimley Road, through Wallywood with its glamorous boutiques and flashing lights, and then took the bridge over the River Waldo, past the Lucky Dragon Casino on Dragon Island—Travers reminisced loudly about fictitious gambling wins.

After twenty minutes of fairly uneventful nonsense, they arrived at Walver Lake, a serene suburban retreat that seemed out of place amidst the madness of Widdlington. Travers inhaled the crisp lake air and sighed. “Ah, reminds me of where I grew up..."

Devlin rolled his eyes. “You grew up in a sewer.”

"...We should come here more often. It's a pity it's so underutilized in the Waldoverse tales.” Travers continued, ignoring Master Devlin.

Waldo ignored them both, bolting toward Waitrose, where the sleek modern building stood across from the more modest Waldmart, separated by the calm of Wiki Park.

“Hmm. Not bad..." Devlin murmured, eyeing the upscale sign. The building was elegant and inviting to his eyes.

“Not bad at all,” Travers agreed, eyes glinting with his usual sleaze at the sight of some "soccer moms" in tight clothing walking in.

Inside Waitrose

The automatic doors of Waitrose slide open with a gentle whoosh as Travers, Waldo, and Master Devlin step into the gleaming aisles. A bright fluorescent light hums above, illuminating the rows of perfectly stacked goods. Without a word, Waldo takes off at full speed, zigzagging between shoppers, his small green form disappearing into the distance.

Master Devlin rubs his temples, letting out a deep, resigned sigh. “Waldo...” he mutters. He turns to Travers, who is already eyeing a nearby magazine rack, a sleazy grin curling his lips as he stares at the bikini girl on the cover.

“I suppose I’ll go find him before he blows something up or starts a war,” the Master says, already walking away. “And Travers, do try to behave yourself for once.”

"Scout's honor!" Travers says as he sauntered into the newspaper and magazines section, cigar in hand, his eyes scanning for potential targets. He spotted a woman browsing the latest magazines and approached her with his usual sleazy charm.

“Hey there, beautiful...” Travers began, leaning against the magazine rack. “Are you a model or something?” he said, scanning her up and down.

The woman looked down at the goblin, clearly unimpressed by his forwardness, and turned back to her magazine. “No,” she said curtly.

“You could be one, you know,” Travers continued. “I should know—I deal with them all the time. I’m a newspaper editor!” He picked up a copy of the Chronicle and proudly pointed to his cartoon caricature prominently displayed on the banner. “See? I’m Harris Travers, National Treasure and Editor of the Waldopolis Chronicle. This is me right here.”

The woman’s eyes flicked from the caricature to Travers, her disdain growing. “Oh, so you run that sleazy tabloid with all the topless women on every other page?”

“That’s right!” Travers said proudly. “Waldonia's favorite newspaper…”

The woman’s face twisted in disgust. “You’re a misogynist.”

“Misogynist?? Madam, you are speaking out of turn. Travers loves women… especially the ones with big knockers.”

She turned on her heel and walked away, leaving Travers to watch her go with a bemused expression.

“Pffft. Lesbian...” Travers muttered, shrugging it off.

The Toy Section

Waldo’s little green feet pitter-pattered across the polished tile floors, leading him to the toy section. He skidded to a halt in front of a row of neatly arranged stuffed animals, action figures, and building blocks. His expression soured as he scanned the shelves, clearly unimpressed.

“Is this it?” he muttered to himself, poking at a teddy bear that squeaked innocuously. “Where’s the fun in this?”

With a huff, Waldo flagged down a passing shop assistant. She was a young woman, bright-eyed and eager to help, though visibly puzzled at the sight of the small goblin.

“Excuse me, Miss...” Waldo said, folding his arms impatiently. “Where’s the rest of your toys?”

The assistant blinked, glancing at the shelves, then back at Waldo. “Uh... I’m sorry, but this is the full selection, sir.”

His eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping into his voice. “What? But these are pathetic! Where are the fireworks? Edged weapons? Tell me you at least have some poison... Wait, let me guess, they’re in the medicine aisle?”

The assistant’s face scrunched in confusion, clearly unsure if Waldo was serious or playing some bizarre joke. “I-I’m afraid we don’t stock those sorts of... items here.”

Waldo shook his head in disapproval, muttering under his breath as the assistant backed away, looking relieved to escape his gaze. “Ridiculous... What kind of toy section is this?”

Meanwhile, Master Devlin wandered the aisles, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of the rogue goblin. He approached the same shop assistant who had earlier helped Waldo, her cheerful demeanor faltering slightly as she spotted him.

“Excuse me,” Devlin said, his deep, authoritative voice commanding her full attention. “Have you seen a goblin around here? He’s about this high... small—only a child to your eyes...” He gestured around his knee level. “He’s green, bald, with three little hairs and oversized ears.”

The assistant nodded quickly, her eyes wide with recognition. “Oh, yes, sir! I saw him in the toy section. I’ll take you there.”

Devlin followed the assistant through the aisles, his expression growing darker with every step. When they arrived at the toy section, the scene that greeted him was enough to make even a seasoned Master of the Council lose his composure.

The shelves were in utter disarray. Half of the toys had been swept to the floor, discarded like garbage. In their place stood an assortment of twisted, dangerous contraptions, pulled from a mysterious suitcase now resting wide open next to Waldo. The suitcase, marked with “GB Toys” in red, was filled with an array of menacing toys that looked more fit for a battleground than a playroom.

Waldo, hands on hips, surveyed his handiwork proudly.

The toys he’d placed on the shelves were nothing short of alarming:

• A seemingly innocent wind-up monkey, but with a jagged switchblade clenched between its cymbals, poised to strike.
• Some kind of robot with exposed electrical wiring sparking dangerously as it shuddered and whirred, sending small arcs of electricity onto nearby toys.
• A jar marked “Acid,” with a clear, bubbling green liquid inside that hissed menacingly every time the box was jostled.
• What appeared to be a pigeon and a rat sewn together.
• A plush bear with a spiky mohawk, clutching what appeared to be a real, fully-loaded revolver in its paws.

Waldo admired his new display as if he were a curator at an art gallery. He was so absorbed he didn’t notice the storm brewing in Master Devlin’s eyes.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, Widdle Frunkut?!” Devlin bellowed, storming over and grabbing Waldo by the wrist.

Waldo, unfazed, looked up with a grin. “Improving the toy selection. I figured this place could use a bit more excitement.”

“Excitement?” Devlin roared, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re being very naughty again! These aren’t toys—they’re weapons!”

At that moment, the assistant returned, her face a mix of shock and horror as she saw the chaos Waldo had unleashed. “Oh my God!” she gasped. “What... what is this?!”

Master Devlin, ever the professional, quickly flashed a badge, the emblem of the Masters Council glinting under the store’s bright lights. “Official business. Apologies for the mess,” he said, his voice curt but authoritative. He then hurriedly began shoving the dangerous toys back into the suitcase, casting furious glares at Waldo as he worked.

With the shelves somewhat restored and the suitcase now filled with its deadly contents, Devlin grabbed Waldo by the arm and pulled him along. “We’re leaving. You’ve caused enough trouble.”

The Fruit Section

Meanwhile, Travers was wasting no time. He spotted his next target: a busty blonde woman pushing a pram near the fruit section. Her figure made Travers' lecherous little goblin heart skip a beat. He slicked back his brown toupee, adjusted his shirt, and swaggered over to her.

“Nice melons,” he said with a wicked grin, his eyes flicking to her chest.

The woman blinked, then smiled, assuming he was referring to the literal melons she was standing next to. “Oh, yeah, they’re fresh today. I heard Waitrose had high quality…”

“What? No, I was talkin’ about your tits, lady.”

Her smile dropped instantly. “Oh…” she said, her face turning to one of disgust. As Travers continued, undeterred by the horrified expression creeping across her features, the baby in the pram began to cry from the cigar smoke.

"You're upsetting my baby," she said forcefully.

"Don't worry about him. He's probably hungry, that's all... I don't blame him. If I was having those puppies for dinner, I'd be hungry all the time too! Hey, baby, how about you do me a solid and let me have this meal instead?"

The woman recoiled, her face now flushed with a mix of anger and revulsion. “You pig!” she snapped, storming off and pushing her pram so fast she almost ran him over. Travers watched her go, shrugging. “Ah, can’t win ‘em all.”

Dairy Section

As the Master and Waldo make their way toward the exit, they pass through the dairy section. The enticing display of fine cheeses and butters laid out on silver trays is enough to make even the most disciplined person pause. Behind the table stands a cheerful employee, a middle-aged woman in a white apron, hairnet, and gloves, offering free samples with an air of quiet pride.

“Sir!” she calls out with a welcoming smile. “Would you care to try our finest cheeses and butters? Imported and locally sourced! Only the best Waitrose has to offer.”

Master Devlin halts mid-stride, his sharp eyes narrowing on the samples. A medley of scents—earthy, tangy, and buttery—floats toward him. His nostrils flare in response, his inner connoisseur awakened. Glancing down at Waldo, whom he still holds firmly by the wrist, he hesitates.

“Hmm... I really shouldn’t, but...” His voice trails off as the aroma pulls him in. “Stay right here,” Devlin commands, pointing sternly at Waldo. “Don’t move an inch.”

Waldo rolls his eyes, kicking a pebble across the floor as he mutters, “Yeah, yeah…”

Master Devlin wastes no time. His fingers deftly pluck a toothpick from the display, spearing a cube of Wensleydale. The cheese crumbles slightly as he pops it into his mouth. The first hit of tangy creaminess causes his eyes to flutter closed in momentary bliss.

Next, he moves to a sharp Stilton, its pungent aroma filling his nose before he even tastes it. The texture is dense and rich, with veins of blue running through it like marble. He chews slowly, relishing the salty, buttery, and slightly nutty flavor that lingers on his palate. “My word,” he mutters to himself. “I must tell Ermintrude about this…”

The employee watches with growing interest as Devlin continues sampling—a creamy, locally sourced Cornish butter that melts on the tongue, a delicate Red Leicester with an earthy undertone, and a vintage Cheddar, aged to perfection. His fingers move with precision from platter to platter, almost as if conducting an orchestra of flavor.

The employee shifts uncomfortably after his seventh sample. “Um, sir... there’s usually a limit to how many samples—”

Devlin interrupts her, flashing his Masters Council badge with a grand flourish. “Madam, I must insist. It is my solemn duty to inspect all products for the safety of Widdlington’s citizens. Surely you wouldn’t stand in the way of the Masters Council performing such an essential task?”

Her mouth opens, ready to argue, but she thinks better of it, nodding hesitantly instead. “Well... just this once.”

Without missing a beat, Devlin goes back to nibbling, utterly engrossed in the flavors. His stern, disciplined facade has melted just like the buttery delicacies he's savoring. For a moment, he is lost to the world—leaving Waldo, once again, unsupervised.

Meanwhile, Waldo's mischievous grin begins to return, eyes darting around for his next source of trouble.

Deli Section

Travers had finally found a woman who seemed genuinely receptive to his sleazy charm. They were engaged in light banter near the deli counter, and for once, it seemed like his usual tactics were working. Her smile was warm, and her laughter felt genuine—Travers was convinced he had hit his stride.

"So, what do you do for fun?" Travers asked, flashing a roguish grin as he leaned in slightly.

"Oh, I love going to concerts and trying out new recipes," she replied, clearly enjoying the attention.

"Well, I've got quite the recipe I think you'll..." Travers began with a wink, his voice lowering to a suggestive tone. But before he could finish, Joyce Summers, MP for Willowdale, appeared out of nowhere. Her arrival was swift, her presence authoritative, she approached the woman and took her aside with the practiced air of someone used to handling situations like this.

The woman’s smile faltered as Joyce leaned in and whispered something in her ear. The woman’s expression shifted rapidly from amusement to shock. She glanced back at Travers with a look of pure disgust.

“Well, I really must be going,” the woman said hastily, offering Joyce a forced, uncomfortable smile before making her exit, nearly knocking over a display as she hurried away.

Travers, momentarily bewildered but ever unfazed, turned his attention to Joyce, his charm far from diminished. "Mrs. Summers, as I live and breathe! You look as lovely as ever. And congratulations on your election success, by the way... Willowdale couldn’t ask for a better representative."

Joyce raised an eyebrow, her displeasure evident despite the thin veneer of politeness she maintained. “Thank you, Mr. Travers. It has been a while.”

"It sure has... And how’s your lovely daughter doing? The sexy one that’s really into Slayer, not the annoying one…”

Joyce’s jaw tightened, but she remained composed. “Buffy is doing well, thank you. She just—”

“Good. We had some great times, didn’t we? I'd love to get the two of you back under my desk again, for old time’s sake…”

Joyce winced, her disgust clear as she closed her eyes for a moment, then met his gaze with cold steel. “I can assure you, Mr. Travers, that will never, ever happen again. You are not the emperor anymore, and frankly—”

“No, ma’am, I’m not,” Travers interrupted with a smirk. “I’m in the newspaper business now. Editor-in-chief of the Waldopolis Chronicle—Waldonia’s favorite newspaper.”

“Yes, I heard,” Joyce said icily. “It certainly suits you. In fact, you may be interested to know that I’m currently working on a proposal to ban your ‘Chronicle Girls’ from publication. There’s no place for that sort of thing in a national newspaper.”

Travers snorted, shaking his head with exaggerated disbelief. “Now why would you want to go and do a thing like that? Haven’t you ever heard of freedom of the press? And to think I was about to offer you a spot as one of the Chronicle Girls yourself…”

Joyce’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “In your dreams, buster. And this isn’t about freedom of the press—it’s about stopping smut from masquerading as news.”

Travers chuckled, waving her off. “Well, Mrs. Summers, I'd love to argue the ethics with you, but I've got more pressing matters. Besides, there’s no way in hell The Editor is gonna let your little ban pass. Now if you'll excuse me..."

He turned to leave, taking a few steps before pausing and glancing back at her. "Oh, by the way, in case you change your mind..." He flicked a card toward her. It landed neatly down her blouse, nestling in her cleavage.

Joyce’s face twisted in fury, but Travers, ever shameless, gave her a sleazy grin, pointed at her with a click of his tongue, and swaggered off without a care in the world.

Bakery

Unbeknownst to Devlin, who is busy gorging on cheese, Waldo has run off. Within moments, he reappears at the entrance to the bakery section, now disguised in a scraggly fake beard, a blue Waldmart uniform shirt, and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. His small goblin figure waddles confidently into the bakery, eyes darting as he surveys the bustling scene of shoppers picking out fresh pastries and bread.

Waldo clears his throat, then bellows in a thick Witherfield accent, loud enough to startle the entire section. "Oi! Listen up, every one o' ya!" he yells. "Waitrose, comin' over 'ere, stealin' all our customers! This used ter be Waldmart territory! But we’re not 'avin’ it, are we? No bloody way!"

Several customers, startled by the sudden outburst, glance around in confusion. Waldo, relishing the attention, takes his performance to the next level.

"Think yer so posh, do ya?" he shouts, waving his arms dramatically. "Fancy cheeses! Smug little pastries! What’s next? Stealin’ our bread an’ our dignity?! Nah mate, we're fightin' back!"

With a dramatic flourish, Waldo reaches into his pocket and pulls out a round stink bomb. He holds it up like a trophy, a manic grin spreading across his face.

"Let’s see 'ow yer posh bakery smells after this, ya snobs!" he roars, then slams the stink bomb onto the ground. It explodes with a loud pop, releasing a thick, pungent cloud of foul-smelling gas that quickly spreads through the section. Shoppers gag and cough, covering their noses and fleeing from the bakery with panicked cries.

The entire bakery section is in disarray. Bread rolls are dropped, croissants abandoned, and cakes left mid-slice as chaos erupts.

Just as the stench begins to overwhelm the corner of the store, two burly security guards rush in, eyes watering from the smell.

“Who did this?” one guard shouts, waving his arm in front of his face.

But Waldo, ever the slippery trickster, has already discarded his fake beard and Waldmart uniform. He now sports a crisp Waitrose employee shirt, an official-looking name badge, and has adjusted his glamour to appear taller and more human.

“I saw the fiend!” he says, stepping forward with a concerned expression. “It was one of those Waldmart fellows from across the road. He was wearing their uniform! Came in here shouting about some turf war or something. Disgraceful, isn’t it? They’ve declared war on us!”

Several panicked witnesses, still gagging from the stink bomb, chime in, backing up Waldo’s story. “He’s right! That Waldmart guy was screaming about stealing business!”

The guards, their senses dulled by the foul smell and the chaos of the moment, nod in agreement. “Yeah, figures it would be those Waldmart scum...” one of them mutters.

"They'll get what's coming to them. Retribution will be swift and merciless..." the other assures them.

Waldo crosses his arms smugly, watching as the security guards rush off in the direction of the imaginary Waldmart employee.

Dairy Section Redux

Travers spots Master Devlin at the dairy counter, struggling to contain his indulgence. The middle-aged woman, clearly unimpressed, has watched Devlin consume the majority of her inventory. As she steps away to collect herself, Travers approaches with a scowl.

“Can you believe these Walver Lake broads?” Travers grumbles, puffing on his cigar. “None of ‘em seem to respond to my usual charm.”

Devlin, barely paying attention, continues to savor a particularly rich piece of cheese. His stomach growls audibly, and he clutches it in discomfort.

Travers raises an eyebrow and suggests, “Maybe you’ve had enough dairy for one day.”

Devlin snarls, almost defensively, “I’ll decide when I’ve had enough, thank you.”

Travers, noticing the distraction, asks, “By the way, where’s Waldo?”

In his dazed state, Devlin gestures vaguely toward the other goblin nearby. Travers follows his gaze and discovers that the “Waldo” Devlin is pointing to is actually a piñata shaped like Waldo. Travers pushes it over, causing the head to topple off and a cascade of sweets to spill onto the floor.

Travers chuckles as Devlin grumbles in frustration. “Looks like you’ve been deceived, old friend.”

Suddenly, the dairy counter woman returns. Travers, momentarily distracted, is enraptured by her ample chest despite her unremarkable, world-weary appearance.

“Hey there, sweetheart,” Travers begins, puffing on his cigar. “You could use a little something more in your life. How about a drink sometime?”

The woman’s face reddens with irritation. “Excuse me, there’s no smoking in this building.”

“Well, why don’t we step outside?” Travers counters. “I’ve got something you could smoke. I really could use an oil change right about now. It’s been a trying day... But you’ll do.”

“This is not a mechanic’s shop, sir,” the woman retorts firmly. “And you really must put out that cigar. Now.”

Travers is taken aback, his face a mix of shock and indignation. “What is this, commie bullshit? First, they want to ban my Page 3 girls in the paper, and now this? Listen, lady, I didn’t stack bodies of Charlie a mile high in Laos just to come home and have some big-titted old jobsworth tell me not to smoke in my own Ed damn town!”

Travers starts marching around, making a scene. Devlin groans, clutching his stomach in pain.

“If you don’t put that out, I’m calling security,” the employee warns.

“Why?” Travers retorts. “It masks some of the smell of that Ed-forsaken stinky cheese, that’s for sure. What’s the harm in it?”

At that moment, Waldo appears, carrying a large box of fireworks. “Hi, guys! We found the fireworks!”

The employee’s patience snaps. She grabs a phone, “I’m calling security. You need to leave now.”

As she speaks, Devlin suddenly doubles over and lets out a massive fart directly into Travers’ face. The cigar ignites the gas, sending a burst of flame towards the box of fireworks in Waldo’s hands.

Outside Waitrose

The scene outside is chaotic. The Master, Waldo, and Travers are all blackened, while people panic as the fire brigade works to extinguish the massive blaze engulfing the new supermarket. Amidst the commotion, a skirmish has broken out in the park nearby. Waitrose and Waldmart employees are clashing, engaging in a full-blown brawl as tensions escalate into an impromptu war.

“Probably just some faulty wiring,” Travers shrugs nonchalantly, his mind unable to grasp any responsibility.

Devlin, fuming with anger, is too cross to speak.

Waldo, with a mischievous grin, surveys the chaos and says, “That was fun. What should we do now?”