Leo Komarov peeks out from behind his cover. The rotten old barrel does little more than disguise the Toronto Maple Leaf All-Stars shape, but Leo is happy to take what he can get. The sewer is quiet and nothing moves except for the gently lapping, greasy awful muck that stinks so thick as to coat the inside of Leo’s nose and mouth.

“Did you kill it?” Leo asks the darkness.

A ripple in the sludge slowly drifts toward Leo. A shimmer reflects dimly then seems to rise up dripping effluent and rotten stank. The shimmer expands and solidifies into Toronto Maple Leaf Tyler Bozak.

“I killed it.” Tyler answers.

Tyler has the remarkable ability to turn himself into liquid  mercury. This is a useful power. It allows Tyler to move through the sewage without getting any on his clothes. It also makes him invulnerable in every practical sense of the word. That’s why the blood streaming from Tyler’s left nostril is not just alarming but truly frightening.

“Your bleeding.” Leo says quietly, fighting to keep the fear from creeping into his voice.

“Yep.” Tyler wipes at his nose. “We knew they were magical, now we know I can be hurt by magic. I figured out their trick though so I shouldn’t have trouble taking them out.”

“And if we fight more than one at a time?” Leo asks.

“Let’s not do that.” Tyler answers.

The Leafs say no more as they make their way further into the sewer. They are on the trail of the same cultists responsible for hijacking Herbert the Toronto Maple Leaf tank engine (read that thrilling adventure after you finish this one: BLOINK). The black tentacle monster that gave Leo so much trouble that day was not a singular creature. In fact it seems that the creatures are worshiped by the group. In this last encounter the cultists seemed eager to be consumed by the tentacle beast. Worse, every time the monster ate it grew. It also grew every time Leo blasted it. It didn’t grow when the Leafs shot it, but it also didn’t die.

Finally Tyler had flowed into the tentacles maw and ripped it from the inside out. Apparently something in the beasts chemistry had disagreed with Tyler because the Leaf was still bleeding. He wipes his nose then pulls a tissue from a small compartment built into his Toronto Maple Leaf body armour. He rolls the tissue tight then folds one end and stuffs it up his bleeding nostril. He stick the other end in his other nostril for balance. Leo chuckles when he see his teammate.

“You look ridiculous.” Leo says. “Like a bull, but a teeny little soggy one.”

“I don’t want to get blood on my armour.” Tyler answers. “You wouldn’t understand, you don’t have any kids.”

Leo sighs, Tyler brings up his baby every chance he gets. Ahead the sound of rushing water slows the Leafs. They have reached a main junction in the sewer system. Several pipes dump into one larger one which leads to the Toronto Maple Leaf sewage treatment center, one of the more successful Toronto Maple Leaf green initiatives.

The Leafs lean over the the edge but pull back immediately. Instead of a pool of sewage there is a massive tentacle monster filling the chamber below.

“Holy fucking fuck.” Tyler whispers.

“You shouldn’t use that kind of language now.” Leo scolds. “You have a kid.”

“That thing is huge.” Says Tyler, staying on task. “There’s no way I’m jumping in there. It probably wouldn’t even notice.”

“It’s okay.” Leo says with a grin. “I brought C4.”

Leo pulls out six bricks of the highly explosive putty. It takes him less than thirty seconds to prepare the detonator. He holds out the bomb to Tyler.

“Go ahead dad.” Leo smiles.

Tyler grabs the C4 and lobs it into the pit without a second glance.

“Five, four,” Leo counts. “Three, fuck it.” He presses the button. There is a muted thud but no other effect.

The Leafs peer over the edge again. The tentacles seem slightly more active than before. Otherwise Tyler might as well have dropped in an apple core.

Without warning a tentacle whips into the sewer forcing Tyler and Leo to drop quickly to avoid it. The slippery sewage makes baking away from the tentacle tricky. The Leafs turn in time to see the other end of the sewer blocked by seven of the smaller tentacle monsters. Leo points his hands and blasts at the one in the lead, it grows.

“You have to stop doing that man.” Tyler shouts.

Turning again the Leafs see that two more massive tentacles have joined the first. Leo pulls out his knife while Tyler turns his arm into a blade. They attack the tentacles with reckless abandon knowing it is their only hope.

“Now!” Leo shouts when two of the three tentacles recede in tattered ruin. He holds out his arm and Tyler grabs it.Tentacles are reaching out from behind them even as the Leafs leap over the edge.

Turning liquid, Tyler flows up Leos arm to attach himself like a second skin even as Leo rockets himself up. Leo’s shield protects him from harm, and his blasts shoot him with the force of a rocket booster. That does not make blasting free of the sewers easy. He grinds his teeth as he fights through meters of earth and concrete. At last he bursts up into the street in a shower of debris. Several stunned on lookers are immediately thrilled to see Toronto Maple Leafs and they run over for autographs.

The Leafs sign everything put in front of them but neither one is really paying attention to the chore. They are watching their escape hole, looking for any sign of pursuit. Even after the fans move away the Leafs wait. Finally convinced that the danger has passed for a time the Leafs make their way back to Toronto Maple Leaf tower.

In the sewer the massive black tentacle mother beast glistens moistly and smiles in the darkness. It’s plans are proceeding exactly as predicted.

To Be Continued……….

There are only so many things Toronto Maple Leaf defender Jake Gardiner can concentrate on at once. When stretching his powers to their limit that number is 2364. That makes observing the six Maple Leaf prospects a relatively simple matter. Jake is comfortable, snacking on some salt and vinegar kale chips. The prospects are the ones being put to the test.

The training mission is designed to test a potential Maple Leafs ability to adapt to any situation and find solutions with outside the box thinking. To that end, no powers are allowed and also no guns. Using only a few inches of steel and their wits the prospects must defeat and capture one of the many armed thugs running wild in the gritty Toronto streets. No other rules were given.

Jake’s job is to make sure none of the guys cheat. They may be able to hide from conventional surveillance but no one can hide from Jake. Using his powers Jake can change his whole body into one massive snake or he can split into as many as 2364 smaller ones. He is only running 5 small snakes at the moment because the Connors: Brown and Carrick decided to work together.

The Connors have already bagged two thugs and secured them against a telephone pole to await the police. Jake uses his comm-link to speak directly to the two Toronto Marlies.

“Good work guys, come on home.” Jake’s attention is pulled to Frederik Gauthier. The big man has gotten into trouble against a small and speedy opponent. Freddy has a bad habit of easing off smaller people. It’s bad on a hockey rink, it’s deadly out in the streets.

Jake watches Freddy take a series of body shots before being staggered by a hard upper-cut. As the Marlie stumbles the thug pulls out a gun. Jake is not supposed to help but sometimes rules don’t matter. The slender serpent slithers quickly up the thugs leg.

Even as the hammer is pulled back Jake digs his fangs into the thugs thigh meat. His bite is not poisonous but it sure does hurt. The thug drops his gun and claps his hands to his leg. Jake slithers away.

Freddy is recovered enough to realize that his chance is now.

“O’sti!” Freddy says, knowing that he has failed the test. Worst of all, his teammates will know he needed help. He slams the thugs head into a nearby wall hard enough that there is no need to secure him any further.

“Bring it in Freddy.” Jake says over the comm-link. “And don’t beat yourself up too much, I could happen to anyone.”

Jake pretends not to hear Freddy’s angry response. The Marlie is frustrated. Instead he shifts his attention to William Nylander.

The Swede seems to be napping. He is stretched out on a rooftop, not even pretending to keep an eye out for trouble. Jake slithers up to the prospects silky blonde hair and hisses in his ear

“You know that we’re timing you, right?”

Wily chuckles but doesn’t make any other move. “I’ve got this.” He says.

In nearby Toronto Maple Leaf tower Jake shrugs and shifts his focus. Zach Hyman has just interrupted a sexual assault. The attacker groans and bleeds on the ground. Zach comforts the victim and assures her that help is on the way.

“Don’t leave.” She pleads when Zach starts to move.

“I have to.” Zach says.

“No you don’t.” Jake hisses from the shadows.

“What was that?” The woman starts and pulls the Marlie closer. “Please stay.”

Zach sighs and places his foot on the groaning attackers head while he waits for emergency services.

Jake is with Kasperi Kapanen. The Marlie is engaged in battle with three unarmed, but very big, thugs. They seek to encircle the young Finn and pummel him into the dirt. Kaspar shifts constantly. He seems supernatural in his ability to slip into the dead space between the clumsy fists of his assailants. Jake knows he isn’t using any powers making the display all the more impressive. But the thugs have numbers on their side, and time.

Then Kaspar ups the ante. He pulls out his knife and in the same motion opens the throat of the nearest thug. Murder is discouraged but occasionally necessary. The kill does not count for the mission though, all captures are to be live. Jake does not remind the Marlie of this.

The thugs respond to the new threat in exactly the wrong way. They split apart and move away from Kaspar. He hurls the knife into the eye of one thug, then charges the other. The stunned street tough tries desperately to deflect the flurry of punches flying at him. (Note that the word try implies failure.)

Kaspar at last stands triumphant over the unconcious body of the big thug, exhausted by his efforts.

“You know you have to carry him away from the corpses right.” Jake hisses from behind some tall grasses. “You can’t turn him in at a murder scene.”

“That’s not fair.” Kaspar says.

He says more but Jake is back with Wily. The Swede has moved. Two crack-heads have come to the rooftop and Wily has ducked into some shadows. The junkies huddle close and pull out a small glass pipe and a tiny little crystal. Wily silently stands and approaches, unnoticed. The Marlie looks straight at Jakes hiding place and smiles.

“I call this: Rock Tossing” Wily says loudly.

The crack-heads jump at the sudden appearance of a young grinning man. Wily snatches the crack rock from the palm of one junkies hand and tosses it over the side of the building. Then Wily punches one in face and stomps on the other ones foot. Immediately he switches targets and victims then takes a quick step back.

The hurt crack-heads stagger in confusion for longer than Jake finds comfortable. Wily struggles to contain his laughter.

“Wha’ Fu’h?” Says one.

“M’ah bicka, sapp’it?” Adds the other.

“Do I need to beat you up or can I just take you to jail?” Wily asks with a grin.

The crack-heads stare at Wily, then they look to each other. They look back at Wily and then back to each other. They look back to Wily and hold out their hands.

“Jail.” They say together.

“Go fish.” Mike Babcock says.

The Toronto Maple Leaf/Team Canada head coach is allowing himself a few hours of relaxation before he gets back to his championship mission. He has only two cards left in his hand, but the pass is coming up.

“Go fish.” Says Jeff “Snacks” O’Neill. The star of TV and radio grins as he dips a grilled cheese sandwich into some chicken gravy. With a full hand and a hold deck Snacks will benefit the most from the pass.

“I have no idea what I’m supposed to do here.” Lou Lamoriello hates this game. He doesn’t know the rules and doesn’t care to learn them. The Toronto Maple Leaf GM only comes to these Games Nights because he believes he is obliged to as part of his job. He is not.

“Do you have any hearts?” Brendan Shanahan asks. The president tries to have a games night every few weeks. This week they are taking a break from the usual Dungeons and Dragons campaign that Lou runs. Instead they are trying a new card game.

“I have three hearts.” Lou answers.

Everybody groans. “You’re not supposed to say it!” Snacks says. He begins to shuffle his hold deck.

“What the fuck?” Lou asks.

“Because you claimed three, each player receives an extra three cards.” Brendan explains. “In addition, the pass skips three turns, you get three hundred dollars and you’re out.”

Lou stares at Brendan while Snacks deals, then each of the players takes out a hundred dollars and throws it at Lou.

“So I win?” Lou asks.

“No.” Brendan answers. “You lose. The cash is so you will go away because we all hate you.”

Lou says, “Fuck you, fart nickel.”

“It’s in the rules Lou.” Mike’s grin stretches from ear to ear. “The game says we all hate you now. So fuck off.”

“Let me see these rules.” Lou says. He grabs the thick manuscript and flops into a nearby sofa. Reading intently, Lou pulls out a joint and lights it.

“Damn it Lou.” Brendan says. “Read page eighty-six.”

Lou flips to the page and laughs. “‘If at any time any marijuana is ignited within sight or smell of any player a Weed Break shall be declared.’ Whoever came up with this is a genius.”

“No, probably just a pothead.” Snacks sits down beside Lou and reaches out for the joint.

“Fuck.” Lou pulls the joint away from Snacks.

“Share Lou.” Barks Brendan.

Obedience is an obligation required of Lou for his job so he shares his joint with the group. Since the game cannot end during a Weed Break Lou decides to hijack play for as long as he can. By the fifth joint no one is even complaining anymore.

“This is a great game guys.” Lou says. “You excited?” He asks Mike.

The coach grunts in reply.

“For the World Cup to start.” Lou explains.

“I’m excited.” Mike says. A wistful sort of stare passes over Mikes face. Lou catches it and does not let it slide.

“What?” Lou asks. “What’s the matter Mike. You can trust us. Well, not him.” Lou points at Snacks.

“Hey!” Snacks protests. “I’m not on the job, you can totally trust me.”

“It’s okay Mike.” Brendan takes Mikes hand in his firm and reassuring grip. “You don’t have to share anything you don’t want to.”

“They’re just so good.” Mike lets the emotions pour through him. Tears try to form in the corners of his eyes but give up almost immediately. “They can all do my drills so perfectly. It’s like having a team of hockey robots, and really heavy nasty ones too. Coaching a team like Canada lets me really dig into what the opposition might want to get done on the ice. God I love winning.” Mike leans into Brendan’s shoulder and the two men hug each other for comfort.

“It will never be like last year.” Brendan says. “Never ever again. Not while I’m in charge.”

“Your right.” Mike says. “Of course your right. We can’t do any worse anyway.”

“No way will you be worse this year.” Snacks says, leaping to his feet with enthusiasm. “Not with Aust…” He never finishes his sentence. Brendan, Mike, and Lou each put a finger to his lips.

“Shhhhhhhh!” the same sound comes from three shaking heads.

“We don’t say his name.” Brendan says.

“We’re protecting him.” Mike says.

“It’s a bunch’a bullshit.” Lou says. “Whatch’a gonna do?”

All-Star Toronto Maple Leaf Leo Komarov shifts slightly in his crouch. His Toronto Maple Leaf DSR-50 sniper rifle is heavy. Leo has been holding it for more than an hour. He will continue holding it all week if he needs to, if his team needs him to. Leo loves being a Toronto Maple Leaf. He reminds himself of this again and again as the temperature drops and darkness lands heavy. His sights automatically compensate for the lights departure.

“My boots aren’t working.” Leo says into his Toronto Maple Leaf comm-link. His boots are supposed to maintain a constant foot temperature of 31° C. Leo’s feet feel no warmer than 23°C at the moment.

“I’ll have the support unit look into it remotely, Leo.” Kyle Dubas does his best to reassure Leo from the comfort of Toronto Maple Leaf tower. “We should have them fixed in no time.”

“Remind me why I am here.” Leo asks, failing to contain the contempt he feels for the mission.

“You’re there because I god fucking told you to be there shit turd!” Lou Lamoriello is always direct in his praise and his fury.

Leo hears Kyle and Lou fighting over the comm-link. Finally the voice of the assistant GM speaks in Leo’s ear.

“We know the bandits are going to rob Herbert the Toronto Maple Leaf tank engine between the old mine and the station.” Kyle says. “Your mission is to maintain a visual on the tracks and to warn us when the bandits are coming. Don’t forget that Jake and Tyler are depending on you.”

Kyle does not need to mention Leo’s teammates, Jake Gardiner and Tyler Bozak, but knows doing so melts any sort of resistance and steels the resolve of the strong willed Leaf Leo.

“This look-out bites.” Leo snarls. “Jake and Tyler get to wait in the train.”

“How’s your caffeine blaster?” Lou asks ignoring Leo’s gripe.

“Oh, it’s fine.” Leo lies.

“Really gets the blood pumping right? Oh yeah!” Lou shouts.

Leo does not answer. His GM had insisted the Leo soak a tampon in coffee and then stick it up his ass. This way he would get all the caffeine without diluting it in any stomach acid or digestive juices. Leo had convinced Lou that he was definitely going to do it but never had. For months now Lou had been asking Leo about his ‘caffeine blaster’. Leo plays along out of habit now, but has learned not to encourage Lou much. The Toronto Maple Leaf GM is excited easily and cares little for personal space. One time Leo had nearly been caught when Lou asked about string tangling. Thinking quickly Leo had claimed to be balled as a baby in the nethers. Lou had been diverted by his disgust.

Movement catches Leo’s attention. dozens of dark shapes drift purposefully toward the tracks.

“I have them.” Leo says. “Requesting permission to go loud.”

Their hostile intent is clear in the way they spread out to cover a wide arc of the track. One figure surges forward alone and kneels at the tracks.

“Permission denied.” Kyle says. “Wait for the train. Your back up is on the train.”

The bandit at the tracks slips back toward the rest of the gang. Leo cannot see any sign of tampering. No bomb planted, no damage to the tracks, no proof at all that the bandit had even been at the tracks. Except that he had been.

“Stop the train.” Leo says as he takes aim.

“What?” Kyle asks. “Why?”

“Stop it!” Leo barks as his rifle spits death. Launching himself into the air Leo deactivates his Toronto Maple Leaf comm-link.

Leo cannot fly in the traditional sense. What his powers do is create an explosive blast of energy that can, among other things, launch the Leaf with the force of a space shuttles solid rocket booster.

By the time his first shot has pulped his targets head Leo is directly above the bandit gang, three kilometers up. As his trajectory begins its downward arc Leo takes aim again, firing quickly into the first target he sees. Leo has options at this point. His blasts are short lived, but he could theoretically stay above the bandits by hopping about the stratosphere. He could open up his parachute and glide away, hoping the bandits come after him. Or he could have fun.

An auxiliary aspect of Leo’s power is that he generate a force field around his body to protect it from impact trauma. Happily the force field also works very well on bullets and knives and other nasty weapons.

Dropping, with the grace and majesty of a concrete slab, Leo takes one last shot. He can’t tell if he hit anything because the ground is trying to break his shield. Laughing, Leo stands and takes in the moment.

His impact crater is only five meters around, far from his biggest, but he aimed it very well. Over half the bandits are down and of those still standing only a handful are not dazed. These brave few pull out their guns and start taking shots at the Leaf. Their aim is good, high caliber rounds bounce off Leo’s shield.

Laughing, Leo fires back. He raises his hands and blasts into the group scattering them like leaves. Leo doesn’t shoot traditional concussive blasts from his hands, however the effects of his energy bursts are so close to identical as to make the distinction moot. Suddenly an intense pressure constricts around Leo’s chest and the Leaf is flung deep into the surrounding woods.

Even though he blasts back to the clearing in moments Leo is not quick enough to catch the bandits. Only the dead remain in the clearing, the rest of the gang has vanished. Leo takes in this fact even as he is distracted by the thick black tentacle sprouting from one of the corpses. The first corpse Leo made in fact, the bandit that had been at the tracks.

The tentacle whips about in blind hunger. Leo raises one hand and blasts it. The tentacle swells. The corpse from which it springs begins to stir. Leo turns on his comm-link.

“Kyle?” Leo whispers as he backs away from the tentacle. “Are you watching this?” Several smaller tentacles have begun to push out of the corpse and soon the body is completely immolated. In its place stands a writhing black anemone, a tower of evil growing larger by the moment.

“We have bigger problems than that, fuck bucket.” Lou’s voice is unusually tense.

“What could be a bigger problem than this.” It is a reasonable question in Leo’s opinion. He does not like the answer.

“The fucking train, ass stick, it’s gone!”

As a tentacle wraps itself around Leo’s legs and lifts him into the air, the Leaf begins to question some of his choices.

“Naida.” Says Leo, which is how the Finns say fuck.

To Be Continued……….

Kyle Dubas has not looked at his phone in over an hour. The Toronto Maple Leaf assistant general manager feels the urge to pull the device out of his pocket but resists. Kyle is escorting Frederik Andersen and Jhonas Enroth on the new Toronto Maple Leaf goalies first tour of Toronto Maple Leaf Tower.

“Dette sted er fantastisk!” Freddy exclaims as the trio walk out from under the canopy of the Toronto Maple Leaf Rainforest preserve.

“Overklig” Jhonas agrees.

Although one is a Dane and the other Swedish, the goalies have no problem understanding each other. Kyle is fluent in both tongues but holds this knowledge dear. He gives his tour in English and pretends not to notice when any other language is spoken. Kyle takes them to the Toronto Maple Leaf swim up bar next. Then the Toronto Maple Leaf haunted mansion.

The haunted mansion room is a marvel of modern climate engineering. Within the thirty thousand square foot space it is always a dark and stormy moonlit night.The house itself sits alone on a hilltop. Bare trees ring the hill with dead limbs that reach out, skeletal fingers beckoning the brave and the foolish.

“Jeg kan ikke lide det.” Freddy says, but he walks into the spooky mansion anyway.

“Det blir kul” Jhonas says with a grin.

Kyle has walked the mansion many times. He is over the giddy thrill of fear tingling in his spine. He almost envies the two new Leafs. They will get to have a whole season of firsts this year. The glamour cast by the camera lights will capture their essence for a time. It will wear off eventually but for now it will all be new, exciting. For Kyle it is just business as usual.

A skeletal hand reaches out from behind a picture frame to grab Freddy.

“Kneppe mig!” The Dane yells.

Jhonas laughs at his colleagues fright. He is still laughing as a petrified head drops down to stare at him eye to eye.

“Ful liten skit, backa!” Jhonas swats the head out of his way.

Freddy cringes as they make their way to the main stairs. An inhuman wail shakes the window panes and lightning flashes outside. As they reach the first step flames erupt behind them. The pillars of heat advance on the group. Freddy runs to the top of the stairs, Jhonas is right behind him. Only Kyle maintains his calm.

“Kan vi lade?” Freddy asks. “Dette er ikke sjovt.”

“Bebis.” Jhonas retorts.

Kyle feels for the goalie even as the tour moves deeper into the house. Knives drop from the ceiling, their tips stick in the floor of the hall. Freddy reaches down to pick up one of the blades. His hand passes through the hilt.

“Jeg mister mit sind.” The Dane exclaims, trembling.

“Trevligt hologram.” Jhonas smiles.

“Don’t worry Freddy,” Kyle says. “Your not imagining things, the knives are just an illusion. They sure look real though, right. We spent weeks getting the sound effects synched up.”

“Sikker, og kneppe mig.” Freddy shakes his head.

Jhonas laughs. His laugh is answered from down the hall. Kyle stops, that echo is not part of the tour. Again laughter erupts from down the hall, this time Kyle is sure he hears more than one voice raised in merry chuckle.

“Kuslig.” Jhonas says.

“Meget utryg.” Freddy agrees.

The goalies follow Kyle as he approaches the boisterous mirth. Stepping around a corner Kyle finds Lou Lamoriello with Patrick Roy and Michael Phelps.They sit on a sofa ring built into the floor. Each man smokes his own massive joint and marijuana smoke wafts thickly throughout the haunted mansions upper corridor. They haven’t noticed the new arrivals yet.

“And then,” Patrick says, gulping for air between chuckles. “I saying ‘To fuck with it Joe, I quit!'”

They laugh again for a few moments. finally a silence descends on the trio as they all take a pull from their joints at the same time. Kyle clears his throat.

“Ass!” Lou greets his assistant GM warmly. “What are you doing here? No way this stiff came to chill right.” Lou winks to Patrick and Michael.

“I am giving Freddy and Jhonas a tour of the tower.” Kyle says pointing to the goalies. “What are you doing?”

“I just had this sunken lounge built and I am showing it off to my friends.” Lou waves to Freddy and Jhonas. “Take a seat guys, I’m sure there’s lots of things you could talk about with these two legendary athletes.”

Michael takes a long pull off his joint. Exhaling, he says, “I may be the best Olympian of all time, but I’m just a regular guy.”

“Gunde Svan.” Jhonas says, naming his favourite Olympian.

” Mark Overgaard Madsen.” Freddy says, doing the same.

“We really can’t stay.” Kyle adds, hoping no one else notices that the Leafs denied Michael’s claim. “We still have the dinosaur exhibit to see and I was going to take the guys to the new Toronto Maple Leafs tapas bar.”

“Don’t be such a stooge, Kyle. These young men are here to become their very best selves.” Lou pauses to take a long drag from his joint. Smoke billows from his mouth as he continues. “When are they gonna have another opportunity to pick the brain of one of the games best? You guys want to talk with Patrick don’t you.”

“Call me Le Roy, o’sti!” Patrick demands lazily.

The goalies shrug. Neither one wants to be rude, but they also have no interest in hearing about ‘real hockey’ from another old timer. Michael offers his joint to Jhonas. Like every Swede, Jhonas is pathologically courteous. He reaches out to accept the dubie.

“Nope! Lets go.” Kyle grabs hold of his charges and marches them away.

“Vi ses!” the Leafs both call out as they happily vacate the situation.

“That was really awkward.” Michael says when the Leafs are gone. “Do you think they noticed how fucking high we are? My shrooms are totally peaking.”

“No way.” Lou says decisively. “We maintained. No stress. Besides, why do you care? Your retired now right, for real this time.”

“I guess.” Michael shrugs as though he is not convinced.

“Never retire.” Patrick says. “I should ‘ave never made done this choice. Now I am the bored all of my day. I wish was I to still be coaching.”

“Can’t help you.” Lou says before Patrick can ask. “If I could get rid of my coach I would, but no way would I hire a crazy fuck like you. Besides, you don’t want Toronto do you.”

“Non.” Patrick admits.

“So which call are you waiting for? Montreal or Vegas?” Lou smiles wickedly as Patrick ponders his future.

Bullets crash against the wall above Nazem Kadri’s head. The Toronto Maple Leaf centre cannot help but flinch with each impact.

“Fuck you pig!” Yells the shooter of said bullets.

“Should I tell him we aren’t cops?” Nazem asks Morgan Rielly.

The Toronto Maple Leaf defence-man is busy, so does not answer. Morgan is a techno-path. This means he can communicate with any sort of technological device. If it uses a computer, Mo can use it. His power extends to any system within ten kilometres. Currently Morgan is feeling for cell phones.

“Third floor, second room on the right.” Morgan says.

Nazem uses his powers to step into a nearby shadow. Nazem uses shadows the way we would use a door. With one step he is in the room indicated by Morgan. Naz enters the room behind an armed thug who fires an automatic rifle out the window. Noiseless, Nazem slides a blade through the neck of the thug. Before the corpse has hit the floor Naz is back at Morgan’s side.

“That’s one.” Morgan says. ” There are two more hiding behind that broken wall.”

Naz pokes his head through the shadows and quickly pulls it back out.

“Problem.” Says Nazem. “They are standing in the daylight. None of the shadows are big enough.”

Morgan swears. “I guess we just do it the hard way. On three, flanking fire. One. Two.”

On three Morgan stands and opens fire with his Toronto Maple Leaf assault rifle (with under-mounted rocket powered grenade launcher;) while Naz sticks his twin, fully automatic, Glock 9mm pistols into the shadows. His guns appear, firing from the shadows on either side of the thugs cover.

The thugs are ducking low and leaning close to the broken wall when Morgan’s RPG obliterates it.

“That wasn’t very hard.” Naz says.

Morgan laughs and agrees. The Leafs approach the not so abandoned building slowly. No gunfire erupts from any window. No explosive death greets their breaching of the main entrance. The Leafs take their time clearing the ground floor. At the stairs Morgan reaches out with his extra senses.

“Down.” He says.

The Leafs make their way down. After two flights the stairwell ends. A tunnel leading further down has been hacked into the floor. The steps are rough and the way is dim. The Leafs pick up their pace as much as they can while still being cautious. As they get lower and lower the light gets weaker and weaker. Even with their Toronto Maple Leaf night vision goggles the way ahead oozes a gloomy menace.Without warning the tunnel opens into nothing and light erupts from above.

Blinded, the Leafs instinctively step back against the rough walls of the tunnel. Gunfire rips through the space they had just abandoned.

Morgan blinks rapidly forcing his pupils to adjust.

“We’re boned!” Naz says. “They killed every shadow, even our own.”

“These guys are elite.” Morgan says with a grin. “All their gear is top of the line.”

“Why is that funny” Nazem questions Morgan’s delight.

Grinning, Morgan stands. “Their guns have a digital loading mechanism.”

Morgan steps out of the tunnel as the gunfire abruptly ends. With his vision returned Mo sees that a dozen armed thugs are lining a catwalk above a wide hall. At the far side of the hall a pair of well dressed old goons observe the action behind a triple thick pane of safety glass.

The old men are yelling and banging on the glass. The thugs are trying to get their guns to work.

“I’m really sorry about this.” Morgan says as he raises his assault rifle. “I would much rather a fair fight.”

Twelve men are cut down in moments. Morgan appreciates the effectiveness of his weapon even as he hates the ease with which it murders. Death is a very final solution and the Leaf would prefer a less permanent way of beating his enemies.

“You didn’t even save me one.” Naz says when he sees the carnage above.

“Don’t worry.” Morgan says. “There’s plenty.”

On queue, over fifty thugs pour into the room from behind the glass. The old goons watch, content that they have solved their issue.

“That’s a big pack of dudes.” Says Naz. “Help me out Mo, shoot that light.”

Nazem points to the ceiling but Morgan shakes his head.

“I got something way better for you.”

Morgan finds the lighting relay and nudges it into strobe mode. The flood lights flicker on and off in random order. Shadows dance throughout the space in a riot of grey mazes.

“Your welcome.” Morgan says.

Naz is already gone. Death starts to spit out of the blackness. A bullet to the head.A boot to the sternum. A knife to the throat. The source in constant motion. Several of the thugs are shot by their own as they lash out instinctively, knowing no better way to defend than to attack.

Morgan rushes forward to help his teammate. These thugs are armed with a variety of weapons, not all of them digital. It is hard to catch Naz, not impossible. Firing from the hip as he runs Morgan shouts out his war cry.

“Go Leafs Go!”

Suddenly Naz is beside him firing on the run and shouting as well. They are a team. That means Naz knows Mo won’t fire his RPG’s into a crowd if there’s a chance Naz might get caught. Now that there is no chance of Naz getting hit, Mo fires four of his nine remaining explosives. The result is predictably devastating.

Protected by their Toronto Maple Leaf auto-adaptive body armour, Morgan and Nazem are the only two alive in the room. The two old men on the other side of the glass are panicking. They cannot open the door to escape. They are still trying to force it open when Mo and Naz reach them.

“Just tell us who you work for. We will let you go.” Says Morgan.

“All we want is the name.” Naz adds. “Enough people have gotten killed today.”

One of the goons steps away from the door. “You really think you could protect us from him?”

“Shut up.” Says the other.

“You have no idea what sort of a man your dealing with.” The first goon continues. “If we talk he will know, and he will come for us.”

“Jesus, fucking shut up!” The second goon shouts.

“Are you ready for that boy? Are your ready for Ten Eel?”

The second goon whips out a piece and shoots the first goon before the Leafs can react. Screaming he puts the gun under his chin and pulls the trigger. The silence is raw as the gun blast fades from the small chamber.

“Who the fuck is Ten Eel?” Naz asks.

Morgan shrugs in answer. He doesn’t know. (Morgan will have to wait to find out more about our mysterious villain. But you don’t!! Click HERE)

The Toronto Maple Leaf soccer centre is hosting a six and under tournament this week. The stated goal is to help encourage enthusiastic involvement with the community through sport. The actual goal is to allow Leaf scouts an early chance to see some young talent.

Scouting is hard work and serious business. No scout works harder or takes the business more seriously than Mark Hunter. His role as Toronto Maple Leaf director of player personnel has given Mark access to more resources than he knows what to do with. Instead of getting carried away with wild and extravagant scouting ventures, Mark is saving his surplus budget for a rainy day. That is why he only has one crate of pistachio nuts in his luxury box today.

Mark stares intently at the field below him. Six-year-olds run amok chasing the ball in an amorphous pack of small humanity. Mark throws nuts in his mouth ten at a time. He chews up the nuts still enshelled and swallows the jagged paste thus produced. The shell shards tear at his digestive tract delightfully. Mark has the toughest colon in the Northern hemisphere largely due to this practice.

“Just watching you eat those hurts my mouth.” Toronto Maple Leaf assistant general manager Kyle Dubas is sitting beside Mark trying not to listen to the sound of pistachio shells crunching. “Can’t you just buy the shelled kind?”

Mark stares at Kyle. He wants to tell him about how pre-shelled pistachios are for the weak. He also wants to explain that his bulk supplier doesn’t have access to shell-less nuts. Add in that without the shell he is looking at an extra eight cents per gram at the more reputable wholesalers. And even though he doesn’t think it necessary, Mark would remind Kyle that he was not invited to this event anyway.

These thoughts war in Marks head, each one eager to be the first point argued. His cold stare never wavers from Kyle’s eye.

“Well I’m sorry.” Kyle answers the stare. “I thought you might like a little company is all. If you really want me to leave, say so. I just miss you is all, buddy. We haven’t hung out since the draft.”

Mark would say he is sorry and also that he misses his little friend. Mark would say that he has been super busy getting ready for the upcoming draft which is barely ten months away. Mark would ask Kyle if they could go to the peelers after the soccer. Mark would say all these things, but he doesn’t.

“That’s really nice of you pal.” Kyle says. “I would love to hang out after the match.”

Mark’s eyebrow raises one centimetre.

“After the tournament?” Kyle gasps. “I don’t know if I can watch this for that long. What are we even doing here?”

Mark turns his attention back to the game in front of him. The coaches have changed their line-ups, which they do every five minutes, so that every child has a chance to play. Number four on the green and navy team stands a full head shorter than his peers. He also stands several feet away from the rest of the group.

The ball is placed in the centre of the field. The yellow and white team is given possession. A whistle blows and the pack is unleashed. The children chase the ball, only ever kicking it accidentally. The yellow team has gotten confused and they play the ball toward their own net. Green four stands still at the centre line. As the ball slowly traverses to the left corner, green four shifts just a few steps to the left. The yellow team manages to boot the ball out of the corner toward centre. Green four takes two quick steps forward and pounds the ball back into the yellow zone.

“Tell me that kid is playing actual defence.” Kyle exclaims.

Mark smiles.

“Yeah but he’s tiny.” Kyle says.

Mark nods and smiles wider.

“No way.” Kyle doesn’t try to mask his shock. “You mean to tell me that kid is only four years old?”

Mark has turned his attention back to the game. Yellow is streaking up the field with control. With no hesitation green four runs straight at the ball carrier. As green four approaches, the other child braces for an impact. Green four deftly taps the balls to his right and dodges the impending hit. The pack of children have failed to notice the ball. Alone, green four carries the ball on the attack.

The yellow coach bellows at her team to turn around. They do but it is too late. With stellar ball skills green four approaches the yellow net straight on. The little boy is poised for his shot, his leg pulls back, then drops.

The yellow goalie is sitting with tears in her eyes. She hates soccer and hates her mom for making her play and hates the little boy who is about to score a goal on her. Then, strangely, he does not. He slows down, puts his foot on the ball to stop it, then gently rolls the ball into the yellow goalies legs. He smiles his toothiest smile then turns and runs back to his spot in the middle of the field.

“I don’t believe it.” Kyle says. “I just don’t believe it. How can a four year old be so much better than everyone else, and not love to beat them? I don’t think I’ve ever seen such sportsmanship. Look at the goalie, she looked like she wanted to run away a second ago, now she’s smiling.”

Mark chews a hand full of pistachios.

“I get why you wanted this. If all that happens is that we get to watch this one kid grow into a fine athlete than it was worth it. If we can convince his parents to try hockey than all the better, who knows he could grow up to be the next Aust…”

Mark puts a finger on Kyle’s lips and shakes his head.

“Oh come on.” Kyle says. “Who cares if I say his name? It’s just us in here, no one will know. Watch. Aust…Ouch”

Mark gently pokes Kyle’s ribs, fracturing three of them.

The city of Toronto holds it breath in anticipation of the upcoming hockey season. It is the centennial season of the Toronto Maple Leafs and it will be a truly marvellous event. With a hundred years of glorious, and less good, history behind them Leafs Nation feels hopeful. It is a tangible hope. Gone are the fantastical dreams of miracle runs and every Leaf having the year of his life. Instead there is a force surging, building, promising a potent, and oh so entertaining future. With so many questions to be answered on the ice, Leafs Nation may be excused their restlessness. Yet even those stupid few in Toronto who do not love their Leafs can feel a strange sort of a feeling. Like a little pulse, beating through the city.

A push and a pull flow irresistible through the streets. Rubbish spirals about in small eddies created by the architecture of the urban sprawl. The pattern repeats every few seconds. Waves reaching out to topple all they can reach then receding, bringing back all they can carry. Most of the cities inhabitants go on with their day, adapting to the new circumstance and putting it from their mind. The rest complain for affect, effecting nothing.

From the roof of Toronto Maple Leaf tower, Brendan Shanahan and Mike Babcock observe the phenomenon’s source. Looking down at the forest surrounding the tower, they watch as the trees are all seemingly sucked toward a single point and then blown out away from that same point. The trees sway with a slow rhythm, in and out, in and out. As the trees move the men are buffeted by the strength of the blow. They struggle to keep their footing as if the roof of the tower were the deck of an old sailing ship tossed about by an angry sea.

Mike looks through a telescope he has set up on a tripod. He stands back after a moment and smiles. Brendan Looks through the telescope for longer than Mike. When he steps back he shakes his head, speechless.

Mike steps up to the telescope.

“What’cha looking at queermo’s” It is Lou Lamoriello approaching with a large joint in one hand and a pint glass of dark liquor in the other. As Lou approaches, the cherry of his joint is blown right off. “What the splooj was that?” He yells.

“Check it out.” Says Brendan, pointing at the telescope.

Lou steps up and looks through.  A young man stands in a small clearing on one foot. He is still yet sweat is dripping down his body. The tall grasses at his feet are pulled up with every inhale, and blown flat with every exhale. Lou stares, not able to believe that a single body could contain that much unharnessed power. At last he steps away from the telescope.

“Is that really Aust…” Lou begins to speak but Mike presses a finger against the GM’s lips and shakes his head.

“SSSHHHHH” The coach whispers his hush. “Let’s just not talk about it.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Lou says. “Brendan, please, what is this crap? Last year I have to pray every day for some mook who doesn’t even come here, now I can’t even say Aust…” Again Mike presses a finger to Lou’s lips and shakes his head.

“You gotta let me fire this guy already Brendan. Please, just one time then I’ll never fire another coach again as long as I live.”

“How long would that be?” Mike asks. “I would guess about a month. Not exactly a long term commitment to self improvement Lou.”

Lou is just about to tell Mike to go fuck himself when his pants start to buzz.

“Damn.” Says Lou pulling his new iPhone from his pocket. “Hello? Don’t even start. Are you kidding me? Dick tickling ass wart! Stop calling me about this chicken shit, bullshit, nonsense. I can’t help you. Little immaculate zygote Jesus couldn’t help you. Leave me alone” Lou throws his iPhone down and stomps on it several times voiding the warranty.

Brendan stares at his GM.

“It’s Doug Wilson.” Lou finally admits.

Brendan is surprised. The Sharks GM never got Lou so lathered during some pretty long negotiations during last years trade deadline. Lou had always seemed to be able to coax his rival into seeing things the Lamoriello way. Knowing better than to demand Lou speak, Brendan waits.

“He just keeps calling me.” Lou seems to shrink as he tells his story. “Calling and calling. Does he want to talk about a deal? ‘Sure’ he says. But first he wants to know about a shirt. A fucking shirt!” Lou takes a long sip from his glass. “Logan Couture lost his favourite shirt and a stupid floppy hat in the Kawarthas. Some tattooed asshole stole it from him after he tipped his canoe. What the shit am I supposed to do? I keep telling Dougie I can’t just go around taking shirts from people but he keeps calling and calling. I just want the calls to stop. That’s the problem with those things” Lou gestures at the broken phone. “People can always reach you.”

“What if we buy Logan a new shirt?” Brendan asks.

“It’s the principal of the thing Brendan. You don’t just go and hand a man a new shirt. If his shirt is stolen off his back he better go and get the fucking thing. That’s how I was taught. Of course my family is from the old country.”

“Well we have to do something.” Brendan is adamant. There is no reason for competitors to abandon civility. “Why don’t you send Logan a gift card to a nice store.”

“The same reason I never pay for a hookers cab fare Brendan. Principals.” Lou answers.

“I’ll tell you what to do.” Mike interjects.”Go and talk to Logan. Find out about this little canoe trip in the Kawarthas. Beautiful region, gorgeous lakes, just gorgeous. Get Logan to draw his route on a map. Follow the route until you find a tattooed asshole, and get the boys shirt. Then trade it to Doug for a pick.”

Lou ponders the coaches plan for a full minute before speaking. “That is actually a really good plan weirdo. Brendan I need a map of the Kawarthas. Mike, why don’t you get lost for the rest of the day. I’m sick of looking at you.”

“I was here first Lou.” Mike answers and looks into the telescope.

“Dear God and Lord Stanley, thank you for bringing us together here in Toronto and please help Steven Stamkos find his way home.” The whisper echoes through the cavernous halls of Toronto Maple Leaf tower.

“Dear God and Lord Stanley, thank you for bringing us together here in Toronto and please help Steven Stamkos find his way home.” The Tower is deserted so there is no one to feel the walls pulsate rythmically with the ghostly chant.

“Dear God and Lord Stanley, thank you for bringing us together here in Toronto and please help Steven Stamkos find his way home.”

To find the sorcerous source of the spell being cast we have to travel deep below the tower to the rarely used Toronto Maple Leaf sacrificial chamber. The torch light makes the rough hewn stone dance as it flickers and thirteen shadowy figures sway and chant.

“Dear God and Lord Stanley, thank you for bringing us together here in Toronto and please help Steven Stamkos find his way home.”

The thirteen stand in a wide circle. At the centre of the circle a young bulls bleeds out from a fresh cut to the throat. The cut is shallow. It takes over three minutes for the animal to fall. The chanting continues past the death throes. The bulls legs kick in weaker and weaker  reflexive spasms. The sound of thunder echoes across the chamber.

“Dear God and Lord Stanley, thank you Bringing us together here in Toronto and please help Steven Stamkos find his way home.”

Lighting now flails out from the bull wildly, arcing against the floor, ceiling and walls. The rumble of thunder becomes a crushing torrent of sound. Twelve of the thirteen are thrown to the ground. Through gritted teeth the last man standing refuses to yield.

“Dear God and Lord Stanley, Thank you for bringing us together here in Toronto and please help Steven Stamkos find his way home!”

There is a blinding flash. Silence at last fills the chamber. In the endless space of the next moments Mike Babcock, Lou Lamoriello, Kyle Dubas, Mark Hunter, Mats Sundin, Doug Gilmour, Wendel Clarke, Dave Keon, Dimitri Yuskevich, Jeff O’Niell, Darcy Tucker and Darryly Sitler all get to their feet slowly. The thirteenth man, who never fell, is Brendan Shanahan. He blinks rapidly to clear his vision. Stunned by what he sees.

In place of the slaughtered bull there is a twisted lump of writhing meat. Blood seeps from many seams to pool on the floor of the chamber. One of the seams slowly folds back to reveal a mouth and three pale blue eyes.

“Kill me.” The horrible thing groans.

With no hesitation Brendan reaches into his sleeve and lets fly a throwing dagger, which hits the creature directly in the  middle eye. The lump starts to shudder and the groaning becomes more of a squeal. Brendan lifts his foot and slams it down onto the dagger, driving the steel deep into the mishapen nightmares brainstem. It sags and seems to deflate. Silence fills the chamber until Brendan speaks.

“We’ll be right up guys.”

The great Leafs of old all shuffle to the elevator hidden in the chambers stone wall.

“It was worth a try” Darryl says as the doors close.

Brendan, Mike, Lou, Kyle and Mark stand alone in the chamber. Brendan holds out his hands and the others reach out to form a new circle. After a moment of silence they speak in unison as if the words were a spell, and maybe words do hold the power to create.

“Dear God and Lord Stanley, thank you for bringing us together here in Toronto and please help John Tavares find his way home.”

There is a very special clock on the forty-first floor of Toronto Maple Leaf tower. A clock that does not tell what time of day it is, a clock that only counts up. It keeps a constant record of the passage of time. The clock has been with Toronto Maple Leaf organization since the beginning. It has always served the same purpose. It counts the seconds, minutes and hours since the Leafs last won The Cup.

“429,088:38:05” says the clock

Brendan Shanahan stares at the number as it climbs.

“429,088:38:06”

The clock used to be in the Toronto Maple Leafs general managers office but Lou Lamoriello had complained that the numbers had a strange glow that was giving him nightmares. Brendan had the clock moved to his own office before Lou could destroy it.

The clock had not always been digital, the old clock had been a monstrous contraption bursting with gears and superfluous springs. Somebody finally got around to an upgrade in the early nineties but synchronizing the two clocks had been such a concern that minor details like redundant power sources and external back-ups had been neglected. Kyle Dubas had figured out how to manage the transfer using his smart phone, and now the clock was humming along, keeping perfect time. Brendan even liked the glow.

“429,088:38:14”

Brendan stares at the clock. Hating it and loving it simutaneousely. Hating the constant reminder of so many years of failure. Loving the relentless increase in pressure. Every second weighs on the Toronto Maple Leafs president. He longs to push the button that will reset the clock to zero. That dream sits like a warm meal in the belly of his imagination. Brendan thinks back to his own time with The Cup. Try as he might he cannot convince himself that the memories look better in blue and white. The past was glorious. The glory has past. The future is where the brightness lies.

“429,088:38:17”

Still, so much was uncertain. So many variables would irrevocable alter the course of his beloved Leafs. Brendan whispers a prayer under his breath.

“Dear God and Lord Stanley, thank you for bringing me here to Toronto, and please help Steven Stamkos find his way home.”

The habit is a comfort to him even though he knows free agent signings, much like league expansion, are never certain until the deal is signed. For a second the draft lottery coalesces in Brendan’s conscious mind but he dismisses it with a will. Such a massive roll of the dice makes his hackles quiver. Whatever happens will be how it happens. All control is an illusion. There is no power that is not granted. Especially the power of fate.

“429.088:38:24”

Brendan breathes and thinks about positive things. He thinks about Mike Babcock. He thinks about twelve chances for the brilliance of Mark Hunter to draft a gem. He thinks about minor league playoffs and the value of experience. He thinks about one hundred years of proud tradition resting on his shoulders. It is with honest and well deserved pride that Brendan wears the title of Toronto Maple Leaf president. With his team and his plan in place anything is possible.

“429,088:38:29”

A fly buzzes past Brendan’s ear. He recognizes this fly. He has seen it buzzing around all year. Until now he had been too preoccupied with running the Leafs to take care of it. Now the season is done. Brendan tracks the fly as it zips around his office looking for a place to land.

It finally comes to rest on the clock. With careful ease Brendan pulls a throwing dagger from the lining of his suit. Faster than thought he lets the weapon loose. His aim is true. There is a satisfying hum as the dagger slices through the air. The fly notices the projectile in time to realize it has no hope. Still, it tries to take off. Too slow, the fly is cut in ha