I eat lasagna. I am the Grand Overseer of all the lasagnae in Minestroneville. If you are made of lasagna noodles, marinara sauce, and/or ground beef, and are a citizen of Minestroneville, it is likely that I have been surveilling you frequently and making sure you adhere to the Original Recipe. If you ever end up on the wrong side of the law, Mr. Meatball will find you. Mr. Meatball is a cop. And not even Deputy Rigatoni can get between Mr. Meatball and justice -- at least, his own twisted sense of justice. Mr. Meatball is the long spaghetti arm of the law. But I am merciful. I simply watch you pasta pedestrians. It's just a pasta-time for me. For now. But I have been hard at work, unravioling a series of clues that will lead me straight to one of the most elusive Impastas of all time -- Pizza Pete. So when you smell the sweet mix of cheese, tomato sauce, and flatbread fill your nostrils, it cannoli mean one thing: he is coming.