Topher Lydon

twenty 2001 The air in the South Carleton arena was a brutal, glorious collision of sensations: the freezing sting of the ice, the stale, metallic scent of the chain-link netting, and the overpowering, electric smell of sweat and adrenaline. It was 2001, the first game of the season, and the energy was a raw, palpable thing that vibrated up through the blades of Jason Jensen’s skates. Jason, the youngest player on the Storm’s top line, crouched on the bench, his heart hammering again

Oh Lisa's going to kick his ass

That and what else can't he do from behind golden bars? The PM sits nice, safe and secure, knowing that the man coming for his chair is now in a place where that is impossible.

I do enjoy Lids. She's the engine that drives all of this. A lot is often shone on Steve's Genius, but Lydia is Genius in motion. I have always enjoyed different forms of Intelligence. Conceptual - such as Steve. Organizational - Such as Kenny. And Operational - such as Lydia. We're about to get Emotional genius in Brian.

This is the problem when Weak Men rule. They give command away to fear, and allow it to carry them. The PM is losing control.

I miss the raw, natural beauty of my home. 07 Thank you for sharing that picture.

Good Morning, My Fellow Canadians.... and non Canadians, and wanna be Canadians.

Chapter Eighteen WORLD END: T-minus 155 days, 8 hours, and 0 minutes Arena, Merrickville, Ontario The air in the concrete corridor was thick with the scent of blood, adrenaline, and cold concrete. The fluorescent lights, which had witnessed a brutal, silent exchange, now illuminated a tableau of grim professionalism. The Bruiser, his face a mask of shock, was secured—cuffed and read his rights by two RCMP officers whose expressions promised a long, difficult interview. His expen

in many ways it fulfills the role that a church used to fulfill in Canadian society.

Be a shame if a former International Reporter, turned curious English teacher were to find out... Whistles

I'm sorry what is this ... St...ur... b-b.acks? Never heard of it. :: hides the bodies, and the smoking ruin behind a nice maple tree ::

Just means Kenny's going to make Steve work harder for it.

poor Steve C----Blocked by muffins

Putty in Steve's hands

Nineteen Kenny Jensen had always found comfort in clarity. Math was a refuge, hockey was predictable motion, and his socks were organized by color and season. But sitting in the chaotic, dimly lit storage room above Madam Chao's Nail Emporium, staring at the financial records of a one and a half-million-dollar empire, he was in a state of exquisite, agonizing suffering. He was officially the VP of Operations ‘Mr. Chase Stirling’ for ‘Madam Chao’—a title Lydia had bestowed upon him wi

I think, My Grandmother and my Aunt summed up when I was about 17. "We were always so worried about you when you were little. You were a beautiful boy..." Chilling thought at times, but I get what she meant. I stood out, be it for bullies, interested like minded boys, or predators. A case of everyone else knowing exactly what I was before it was clear even to me. I remember my father, never the nicest of fellows, nearly beating the crap out of an older guy that had followed me into a public washroom when I was about 11. One of the only times I can remember my father being worried and scared for me.

Enrico's got his own book to deal with That's on the docket for later this year.

I was 6, there was a cartoon I watched. Stupid little thing but the man in it took his clothes off. And then I knew. Didn't understand at the time, but I'd always end up in weird situations. A friend at 9 that wanted me to look at him naked. At 12 My Neigbour (a slightly older boy) at 13 taking an interest in me when I was that age. Always knew, just took a little bit to work out what it was called.

Silas Abernathy walked around the table, looking towards the interested Order members gathered asking him about what was happening. "Fracture points," He stated as he picked up a rock hammer, turning it to show his audience the spike on the back side of the hammer. Walking across he stood in front of a sheet of reinforced glass. "Alone, this glass is not going to shatter from the impact, it holds as it is designed to do. But the glass is now weakened," Silas smiled. "Let's say you know something about someone, something that might put that person under pressure." Taking a swing, he hit it, watching the spiderweb shatter outwards from the single point the glass held. "Now what happens when you hit that same person with, say, a threat to the people he loves?" He hit the glass again, in two other points, rapid succession. Two more impacts causing more cracks to spread across the weakened glass, fracturing the surface. "And then you beat him, say... in a public place, using his very well know... memory of Childhood trauma and abuse." He hit the glass once more, nodding in satisfaction as the surface buckled and warped, chips falling to the floor. A hole appearing in the glass. "Hmmm suddenly this reinforced glass doesn't look so sturdy now does it? I mean all you'd have to do is push." He steps back and put a boot against the glass and pushed. The surface flexed, before it finally collapsed failing under the weight of the pressure and the tactically applied failure points. Glass scattering across the floor. "Poor, poor Mister Carter, I wonder what he's going to do now?" He tosses the hammer back on the table. "Class dismissed."

We're spreading

Thanks ! I like a nice weird story, this one just makes me smile. I like a good comedy

Morning folks

Chapter Seventeen WORLD END: T-minus 155 days, 8 hours, and 0 minutes Outskirts of Merrickville, Ontario Peter's black Jeep Wrangler rumbled down the quiet, pre-dawn streets of Ottawa, heading west out of the city toward the arena in Merrickville. Inside, the world was a cozy, cluttered ecosystem of exhaustion, winter gear, and the lingering scent of last night's popcorn. Peter was behind the wheel, his attention split between the black expanse of the road and the clock on