Topher Lydon

Little Thomas approves of your methods, he'll compose a fiddled Tune and gladly enjoy the show. (Watcher's reference for those counting)

he just might anyway... :: plays harmonica ::

Yeah, Peter's descended from the Telegraph boy, Timmy McCormick. Though Bobby's sure gonna give it the old college try when he's older... lol

Corruption at work. You are quite right, and I am sure Dixon's riding right now to complain... but given the situation, 20 rifles, badges, and official papers, his objection at the time was likely, prudently, quiet.

The boys, being as isolated as they are, needed Ned, I think. I mean it's not like they can talk to anyone else about the kind of stuff they want to ask. It's odd that I wonder who they could ask... out of all the adults, Will probably would be the one they'd typically turn to with this stuff. As Tommy showed. Will's the Story time dad, the one they hang with on Friday nights, and just get that kind of Dad time from. Andrew's more the practical Pa-pere, life lessons in the garage, here's how you fix a car, learn to scrap, be the kind of man(or woman) you need to be. Uncle Peter's got *shhh don't let him hear us say this* the traditional mom energy. The cookies, the do your homework and don't make me come up there! Uncle West we've seen, is the fishing, outdoors, hockey time, kind of parent. Four parents, four different styles, but yeah, Ned is the Big brother they kinda need to figure out the important stuff, like how to kiss, how do I ask him out, what's beer taste like.... you know... the trouble kind that makes been a teenager so much fun.

Theo is about to be tested, weighed and measured. If he is found worthy, he might just find an ally who cares about Elias as much as he does.

**Chapter 13: The Reckoning** The road back to Silver Creek was not a victory march; it was a funeral procession, a slow, painful caravan moving under a sky of washed-out blue that seemed too bright and indifferent for the weight they carried. The dust of the high country still clung to them, a fine, pale shroud over men and beasts alike, mingling with the darker stains of sweat and dried blood. Each plodding hoof fall was a dull drumbeat marking the distance between the violence of t

You know what my friend... I am going to toss you a light story I wrote last month, that might cheer you up for Christmas. My gift to you, you get to read it first Now fetch cocoa and slippers.

plural. We have one here in England. There's one in Canada waiting to creep his way into power. France has one, Germany has one. They're salivating at their chances. America is, unfortunately, not alone. My blame falls squarely on Russian interference. This is chaos by design and the day we wake up and realize we've been at war for over a decade, we might be able to do something about it.

:: spits chaw out onto the roadside, hefting a belt buckle over a belly that looks like it is about to explode out of the too tight shirt:: Hi, my name is Buck, and I like to....

Oh Mi Hermano, Enrico places a warm hand around your shoulder. You see these little order cockroaches? They are just a symptom of a much larger problem, si? Comes from allowing something rotten to find it's way inside. No no, mi comrada, we must look at the bigger picture. Once I have Andres back, we will go on a campaign to stamp out the mother of all cockroaches. I am... nothing if not practical. Have you ever tried real Colombian coffee, have a cup, put your feet up. Watch papa Coyote take this Mister Smith and his Abernathy lap dog to school on .... what is the lovely American term, short bus? Si, I like this plan. They are overdue a little lesson in humility delivered by a son south of the border, and a son North of it working... ahh the expression eludes me... buddies? partners? team? Uggh it matters not, just know that they are due pain, and we will deliver it to them.

Cult of homophobic, racist bigots? El Coyote is going to eat them for breakfast.

Morning folks. Ned's learning to fit in, as Big Brother's should.

Chapter Nine Monday, December 9th, 2019 WORLD END: T-minus 93 days, 08 hours, and 15 minutes. East Block, Parliament Hill, Ottawa The war for the soul of the continent was not being fought with tanks or missiles—not yet. It was being fought in a cramped, windowless sub-basement office in the East Block that smelled of stale Red Bull, high-grade stress, and aggressive cologne. This was the "Engine Room." While Will Carter stood in the Situation Room looking at

Challenge accepted

I don't know... Peter's fiesty, spicey, and knows where the kitchen knives are kept.

21 Chapters in this one, so we have a bit to go. Should be done just before Xmas, then I have a couple of Xmas specials to release for other books. I have one done for Return of the Sun, contemplating one for Goofball, and I am *thinking* of a Watcher's Christmas Carol :: shakes head:: I am insane, a day for it I am afraid, over dosed on eggnog, and bailey's laced coffee... *ahem* not too much, just you know... Christmas cheer.

So I am closing in on my endgame for this book. I am predicting around 20 chapters. But these chapters are significantly (some of them double or triple my usual length.... nature of the beast with a book this complex) longer. So it's going to top out around the 110-120 k word count of the other two. I know how it ends, I know what comes next, and I hope it will all come together the right way. I think it will, I spent all morning writing chapters 11-13. I have two further chapters after that prewritten, there is also significant portions of 14-16 done. Justice for Jane Heppel will also come due, for those demanding it after book One. Sorry mental spillage as I am thinking.

Oh I promise a fitting, justified and poetically appropriate end for Hale. Chapter 14 or so... just to give you lads something to look forward to.

Hums MCR's Teenagers scare the living hell out of me

Some badges are earned in fire. Bobby Grady's for example

**Chapter 12: The Things That Go Bump** The night above the Mary Jane mine was not silent. It hummed with the electric tension of a storm that refused to break, a palpable dread that seeped from the very granite of the mountains. The moon was a sliver of ice behind a veil of high, scudding clouds, leaving the valley floor in a suffocating, ink-black darkness. The air was cold and still, holding its breath. High on a ridge to the north, nestled in a cradle of granite and scrub pi