The forty-first floor of Toronto Maple Leaf tower is where we find the office of General Manager Lou Lamoriello. The luxurious space occupies fully half of the floor. For this reason, amongst others, there is not a lot of activity up here. Lou will often leave his door open. This in no way signifies an open door policy. If anything it is a trap for the uninitiated. Lou can rant for hours about poor etiquette, and even the slightest breach will set him off. Lou’s profanity laden ranting has become legendary in his short time in Toronto, a fact not lost on his boss Brendan Shanahan.

Brendan has no time to play around though. The Toronto Maple Leafs president has many duties and obligations. Still, he has learned to respect Lou’s ability to be catastrophic. The open door is not in itself uncommon, the silience emanating from Lou’s office certainly is. Without the slightest hesitation Brendan strides through the door.

“Hey Brendo!” Lou greets Brendan with a wave and a warm smile. “I am just meditating, care to join me?”

Lou is sitting on the couch in front of his television with headphones on. He is watching Die Hard. On his lap Lou holds two open bags of salt and vinegar chips. There is a box of red wine beside him.

“You want some pedicure fish?” Lou is soaking his feet in a tub filled with small fish. The fish are eating the dead skin off his feet even though it tastes horrible.

“I’m okay thanks.” Brendan cannot take his eyes away from the feet and the fish. “This is not meditation.”

“Sure it is.” Lou answers. “I’m sitting quietly and breathing. What could be more meditative than that?”

“You’re watching television.” Brendan says.

“It’s Die Hard.” Lou replies. “ I watched this movie so many times I could quote it in my sleep. Seriously. What could be more relaxing than watching a New York cop take out a whole gang of Australian thugs? Watch this, he’s going to try on this guys shoes but they don’t fit do they? Poor bastards gotta kill all these pricks barefoot.”

“They aren’t Australian.” Brendan says.

“Who’s not?” Lou asks.

“The bad guys in Die Hard.” Brendan ignores a lot of Lou’s oddities, but this he cannot let go. “They aren’t even Austrian. They’re German I think, listen to their accents. It’s nowhere close to Australian.”

“Are you gonna join my meditation or are you just gonna stand there and harsh my buzz?” Lou asks.

“You cannot be searching inward for peace while watching Bruce Willis kill a mess of Germans. Real contemplative meditation is a chance for your mind, body, and spirit to join together in a common goal. It is a chance to exercise muscles in your mind that are so often ignored in the daily grind of our fabulous techno-rich lives. If you want to meditate with me for real, I would love to Lou, but this is not for me.”

Lou crams several large chips into his mouth. One escapes only to land in the foot fish tub. After munching on Lou’s jammy toe knuckles for over an hour the fish eagerly swarm the chip and devour it in seconds. Sensing the mood in the tub Lou tosses a handful of chips in.

“Well if you’re not here to relax then wha’d’ya want?” Lou pours more wine into his plastic cup.

“Just need to get a summer contact list from you Lou.” Brendan is certain he knows how this will end, but he must go through the motions regardless. “So we can reach you in the off season if we need you. I talked to Nathan, he said you were very abusive when you refused.”

“Who the fuck is Nathan?” Lou asks.

“Your receptionist.” Brendan says.

“Oh, Nancy.” Lou laughs. “Yeah he asked me for my phone number so I told him to go trawling for wang at the pier. So the little bitch told on me? I ought to fire him.”

“You aren’t allowed to fire anybody Lou.” Brendan says for the four hundred sixty-seven thousand two hundred and second time. “We just need to know where you will be for the off season.”

“Where the fuck do you think I’ll be?” Lou drains his cup and fills it with more wine. Picking a few chip crumbs off of his belly Lou stares straight into Brendan’s eyes. “I’m staying here for the summer.”

Brendan knows Lou is not playing around. He does not want to rattle the mans cage, still there are certain realities that need to be made clear.

“You know that most of the tower staff have the summer off?”

“D’uh” Lou says before eating more chips.

“That means no snake farm, no roller coaster, no haunted garden.”

“No haunted garden!” Lou interrupts. “that’s horse dicks. You don’t need staff for that, it’s just a garden.”

“It’s closed.” Brendan’s tone allows for no dissent.

“Horse cocks in the ass.” Lou mumbles.

“Brendan, there you are.” The voice of Mike Babcock booms across the palatial office. Mike approaches with a hearty grin. “I just wanted to find you real quick Brendan. Me and the coaches have a lot of work to do, but we can’t slip up now.” Mike holds out his hands and bows his head. Brendan takes the coaches hands in his own.

Lou does not tell the two men to get a room. Instead he pauses his movie and closes his eyes.

After a moment of silence the three 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 Steven Stamkos find his way home. And fix his blood clot, too.”

“Well, I got to go” Mike says, but hesitates. “Are you watching Die Hard, Lou?”

“I sure am, fizzle nuts.” Lou answers. “Have a seat, I can get you a tub of pedicure fish if you like.”

“I really have a lot of work to do.” Mike does not turn away. “I do love this film though, and your not even half way through.”

“I’ll go back to the start. I can’t watch this movie too much.” Lou is thrilled at the prospect of company. “You need to relax a little Mike. The season is basically done. You did a great job. Take an afternoon off. Your assistants can handle the team can’t they.”

“You know why this film is so great?” Mike asks Brendan.

“Because Willis is hard as fuck!” Lou answers.

“Well sure.” Mike says. “But there’s more too it than that. What really turns Die Hard into a classic is that he’s barefoot. Every human being can relate to being barefoot at an unfortunate time, and what time could be more unfortunate than Christmas in Nakatomi tower. When John McClane needs to kick through the window with his poor tattered feet you can’t help but wince. It taps into our fundamental humanity and any film that can do that is a masterpiece in my view. It’s too bad about the sequels, but they aren’t all terrible.”

Lou decides to subtly bait the metaphorical hook. He pulls out a joint the size of a babies arm and fires it up.

“Don’t worry Brendo.” Lou says. “This is only my third joint today. You in?” Lou sends a little sweet marijuana vapour to brush past the coaches nose.

“What the hell.” Mike says, jumping into the seat next to Lou. “The season’s practically over anyway. Brendan would you mind letting the boys know I will be a little late, about a hundred and thirty-two minutes or so.”

“Really?” Brendan in genuinely shocked.

“Just leave already.” Lou says. “This guy just can’t appreciate art, I tell ya. He started talking to me right in the middle of a scene. You want some pedicure fish?”

“Of course I do.” Mike answers with a grin. “And some chips.” Mike takes one of Lou’s bags.

“Brendo, send Nancy in here on your way out, will ya!” Lou calls over his shoulder.

“Brendan!” Lou yells when the president doesn’t answer. “He’s a nice guy, but way too tense.” Lou says to Mike.

“You’re right, Lou. He should really try meditating.” Mike answers

“Grind!” Mike Babcock yells.

Sweat drips down Jake Gardiners nose. As the longest serving defenceman on the Toronto Maple Leafs Jake is used to working hard. He puts his head down and pushes with a grunt. His mind wanders as his body works. He remembers a time, two years ago, when he was pushed just as hard, though for much less of a reason.

The Toronto Maple Leafs had lost to the Philadelphia Flyers the night before. Then coach Randy Carlyle had skated the team ragged. After practice most of the team had left the rink and returned to their lives. Not Jake. He stayed behind for duty and for loyalty and because he had no say in the matter.

Phil Kessel liked waffles after practice. He also liked ping-pong. On that day two years ago Phil had demanded that Dion Phaneuf, The Toronto Maple Leaf captain in those days, play him in a best of seven ping pong series. Jake had to hold Phil’s waffles. They played for hours. Any time the plate was nearly empty someone from the Toronto Maple Leaf cafeteria had appeared with more waffles, heavy with melted butter and syrup. Jake’s arms had burned. His legs had lost all feeling. The plate never wobbled.

“Eat shit, fuck face!” Phil shouted after every point he scored against Dion. “Time out.” He would say when he wanted a waffle. Phil would fork a full waffle into his mouth, bit several times, than swallow the wad. Then he would take a sip from the tub of hard lemonade he had set beside him.

“Let Jake go home.” Dion said more than once.

“I tell you what fuck face, beat me one game and he can go.” Phil winked at Jake. “Don’t worry Waffles, it’ll never happen. Hey, after I beat stupid over here why don’t you come and watch me bang a hooker. You can have seconds.” Jake opened his mouth to answer. “Shut up. Time in!” Phil loved catching Dion by surprise.

The captain was good. His reflexes were quick. He returned the ball with amazing power. Still, somehow, Phil always had his paddle in the the perfect spot every time. They would rally ferociously over a single point, sometimes for a half hour or more. Dion would win some, but Phil always came out on top. Finally, after midnight, the series had ended with the inevitable Kessel victory.

“Fuck you, you stupid piece of shit!” Phil yelled at Dion. “Oh god, you suck so bad. Great game, not! Fuck are you stupid.” Phil had grabbed a waffle and thrown it at Dion. The captain caught it, and ate it out of spite.

“Catch this!” Phil had said. He squeezed one of the larger pimples on his ample forehead. The white head exploded and sailed across the ping pong table. Dion tried to dodge but the load of skin oil had caught him squarely in the eye.

With impossible strength Dion had flung the table out of his way. With super human speed the captain rushed at Phil, grabbing him by the throat with one hand and lifting him off the ground. Face red, the captain had pulled his fist back, knuckles white with tension.

Phil had looked shocked, even scared, at first. As more time passed his sardonic smile had returned.

“Go ahead, smash my head in. I know you want to. Just one problem right. Who’s gonna score when I’m gone?”

Dion had smashed his fist into Phil’s gut then dropped him.

“I hardly even felt that.” Phil had laughed. “This guy is such an idiot over here. My gut is the source of my strength!” The laughter had taken on a maniacal tone.

“What the hell is this?!” Randy tripped over the upturned ping-pong table when he burst into the room. As usual the coach was too late to make a difference. His tumbler of rye had spilled all over his pants making it seem as if Randy had pissed himself.

“Aw” Phil had mocked. “Did little Randers have a wee-wee”

“Gimme a hand will ya Jake.” Dion had gone over to the coach and was trying to lift him. Randy was trying to stand himself which was making it more difficult.

Jake handed the plate of waffles to Phil without meeting his eye, then went over to help his captain and his coach.

“What the fuck do I want these for, losers?” Phil dropped the plate and left without another word.

As Jake and Dion cleaned Randy up and got him into a cab he never stopped mumbling.

“I hate that fat lazy prick, oh I want to hurt him, but I can’t can I? Oh no, no one can touch ugly old Phil. Oh I hate that ugly lazy prick. Pour me another round and I’ll tell you all about it.”

That had been then. Jake has seen his new coach drink, but he has never seen Mike Babcock drunk.

“Grind.” Mike shouts.

Jake, along with the rest of the Toronto Maple Leaf defence, works the handle of the four tonne, stainless steel, floor to ceiling meat grinder that is the pride of the Toronto Maple Leaf cafeteria. Mike brings it on most road trips.

“More eels!” Mike bellows.

The Toronto Maple Leaf forwards are standing around a 7500 gallon tank filled with eels. Each player holds a barbed spear and is working as quickly as they can, catching eels to pitch into the grinder. The task is hard enough that even with twenty guys they can barely keep up with the demand.

The two goalies probably have the hardest job. Using fifteen gallon buckets they are catching the ground up eel meat and running it over to the rest of the coaching staff who man the double sized waffle irons. The buckets fill fast. The players are out of breath. They never slow down.

“Don’t let that meat hit the floor!” Mike reminds his goalies.

After two hours Mike finally calls a halt. His coaches have worked hard, cooking twenty eel meat waffles for each player and setting a long table for the whole team to eat together.

“Alright men.” Mike addresses the group. “You worked hard today, I am proud of your effort, but lets not kid ourselves, the work is just beginning. Each of you has twenty eel meat waffles. The first three men to finish theirs get to eat five bonus waffles. The last three have to eat five punishment waffles. Everyone in the middle gets to clean the meat grinder. But first, we need to say a little prayer.”

The Toronto Maple Leafs all bow their heads. 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 Steven Stamkos find his way home.”

Mike waits for three heart beats. “On you marks! Get set! Go!”

With a smile the head coach watches his team rise to the occasion of the eel meat waffle challenge. There is no better meat for testing a mans resolve than eel meat. Some start fast, cramming the greasy treats into their faces as fast as they can. Others pace themselves, taking measured bits. It does not matter to Mike how they get through the challenge, just that they do it as a team.

The Toronto Maple Leaf nano-technologies laboratory is amongst the most advanced on the planet. The Toronto Maple Leaf sattelite tracking network is second to none. Yet even with all their resources there are gaps in the system. Simply put, as the satelites traverse the sky in their non-synchronus orbit the area of satelite coverage shifts and small pockets of the planet are left uncovered for small fractions of time. Lou Lamoriello has memorized where and when these pockets occur. He uses this knowledge to slip away from the Toronto Maple Leafs undetected.

Any time personnelle slip off the grid it takes the tracking system several milliseconds to reaquire the asset. So long as they have remained in place this process is quick and relatively simple. What Lou does is follow the quiet zone for as long as he can. Once the automated system has failed to pick up his signal near it’s last location a manual search is required.

“I found him!” A low level monitorring tech announces her success. Brendan Shanahan and Kyle Dubas are at her station quickly. “Here he is, in the school.”

“Why the heck would he go there?” Kyle asks without expecting an answer.

The Toronto Maple Leaf primary school is not far from Toronto Maple Leaf tower. It has nothing to do with the hockey team, it is just a nice public school for children ages 5 to 12. There is no reason for the Leafs GM to be there early on a Tuesday morning.

“Let’s get over there quick.” Brendan says. “Whatever he’s doing, he will just have to stop. If he moves call us right away” This he says to the technician who nods as Brendan leaves with Kyle right behind him.

At the school they find everything quiet. Morning classes have begun. No one in the office knows anything about Lou’s visit. Kyle uses his phone to connect to the Toronto Maple Leaf tracking software and they follow the app to the Kindergarten class. Without knocking they enter the class. Lou is standing at the teachers desk. He looks over and nods but does not stop his lesson.

“Rule number two is M.O.B. That’s money over bitches class.” Lou says. “This is a hard rule to follow but an important one. And it doesn’t just apply to the boys. Money over bitches means choose with your head not your heart. Some stupid bitch is always gonna try to get your shit all twisted. In times like these you need to be calm, focus on what you need to do to get your money. Sometimes the bitches are gonna make you money and that is when you keep a bitch, but if the bitch starts steppin’ then you need to squash ‘em.”

“Lou?” Brendan interrupts tapping his wrist where a watch would be if he wore one.

“Brendo, have a little respect here, I’m teaching.” Lou shakes his head then speaks to the class. “Here is an example of M.O.B. My boss is being a bitch, but I need my job to make money, so I don’t call him out on his bitch tendencies I just follow orders like a good soldier.

“before I leave I want to show you a magic trick. You kids like Magic?” The children cheer. Lou reaches behind the desk and pulls up a small cage with a little bird inside. “Everyone sees the sweet little birdy? Good.” Lou puts a silk cover over the cage. Holding the top and the bottom of the cage he pauses for dramatic effect.

“Shazam!” He shouts as he seperates the top from the bottom with a flourish. In one hand he holds the empty cage, in the other bottom plate. The little bird is gone. The children clap in awe.

“Now here is the lesson class.” Lou puts the top part of the cage down and steps around the desk. “Everybody come in close.” The children lean in. “Can anyone guess where the birdy went to?” Several of the children guess incorrectely. “Well here he is.”

Lou pulls up on a small ring in the center of the cage bottom. As he pulls, the springs in the cage reset and the four walls of the cage lift off the bottom and lock into place. The smeared remains of the bird are stuck to bars. It’s tiny little beak falls onto the floor.

“Remember kids, there is no magic in the world, just blood and lies. Salut.” Lou leaves the cage on the desk and walks out as the children begin to cry. He pushes Brendan and Kyle out in front of him then slams the door. “What’s so damn important you had to interrupt my lesson?”

The cries from the class room have gotten louder as the children begin to piece together what they have just witnessed. The Kindergarten teacher does his best to shift focus but the task is near impossible. Tiny impressionable minds weep over a lost innocence that can never be recovered.

Brendan remains calm. “You left a bomb threat on Mike’s desk.” Mike Babcock is the Toronto Maple Leaf head coach. Lou had left a note for Mike which promised his death in no uncertain terms.

“What else can I do? You won’t let me fire him. The asshole keeps winning. He’s gonna mess up our draft position.”

“Is there a bomb?” Brendan asks.

“No.” The D’uh is implied by Lou’s tone. “I haven’t had time to make a bomb yet. I was hoping he would get the point and save me the trouble.”

“You can’t blow up the coach Lou. Now you owe Mike an apology.” Brendan walks away from the crying children. Lou and Kyle walk with him.

“This is bullcrap Brendo.” Lou says. “At the start of the season I’m supposed to be okay with losing because it’s all about the draft, then I’m supposed to be okay with winning games at the end of the year even though we may miss out on first overall because of it.”

“It’s all pretty simple Lou.” Kyle answers, which annoys Lou. “We don’t care where we pick in the first round.”

“That’s retarded.” Lou answers. “Brendo, this kids on the meth.”

“I’m serious Lou.” Kyle laughs. “Sure first overall is a good headline, but the first round really doesn’t matter. There are always more hits than misses in the first round, so every team has a good chance at a good young player. It’s in the late rounds that our picks really count. That’s what Mark is for.” Mark Hunter has the greatest eye for hockey talent since old Conn Smythe and he works for the Leafs. “Finding real players in the late rounds is better than finding gold. That’s where we can really beat the other guys. That’s where we build our team.”

Lou glares at Kyle. Kyle stares right back with a grin.

“Keep it up ass.” Lou finally says. “Maybe you’ll be the one we find spread all over the parking lot.”

“No bomb threats Lou.” Brendan says.

“This is crap.” Lou mutters.

“And you owe Mike an apology.”

“Whatever.” Lou lags behind as Brendan and Kyle get into the Toronto Maple Leaf stretched Humvee limosine. “Hey, I think I left my weed in the class. Just go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

“Let’s go Lou.” Brendan says.

“But the teachers gonna find it.” Lou whines as he gets into the limo then groans when he sees Mike is waiting for him.

“Hey Lou, got your note.” The coach says.

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that.” Lou sounds anything but sorry. “I was just kidding, I won’t blow you up in your car.”

“And you don’t mind if I do my best to win some hockey games?” Mike asks.

“No, I don’t mind.” Lou says with a sigh. “I guess first overall doesn’t matter in the long run.”

“It’s a lottery Lou. We can still draft first overall even if we aren’t the worst team in the league.” Mike is cheery in his hopefulness.

“Sure we can.” Lou is resigned to his fate of missing out on a generational talent.

The four men ride in silence until an alarm starts beeping from Mike’s pocket. The coach pulls out a small digital watch and presses a button to stop the noise.

“It’s nine o’clock, lets say it real quick here.” The coach insists.

He bows his head and the other men do the same. 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 in Toronto, and please help Steven Stamkos find his way home.”

Brendan takes a beer from the limo’s mini fridge. “Kyle, can you schedule a trauma counsellor for those kids, see if you can get someone in there this afternoon.” The Toronto Maple Leafs president drains his beer dry and takes another one.

“What do you need to do that for?” Lou asks.

“Those kids aren’t going to be able to sleep for a week.” Brendan says. “Most of them are probably going to be scared for life because of what you did in there.”

“I don’t get what the problem is.” Lou shrugs. “I learned about life and death at four years old when I saw my father banging our nieghbour in the shed behind the barn over freshly slaughtered lamb carcasses. I turned out fine.”

Games Night is Brendan Shanahan’s favourite night. Once a week the Toronto Maple Leafs president invites some friends over to relax, unwind, and allow both mind and spirit a chance to stretch. No hockey is discussed on Games Night, a rule that everyone appreciates. Another rule of Games Night is that no one is allowed to make Brendan’s private staff uncomfortable.The bevy of beautiful naked women that manage Brendan’s private penthouse sanctuary on the forty-second floor of Toronto Maple Leaf tower have enough work to do without being offered a penis every thirteen seconds.

The only person who has a problem with this rule is NHL commissioner Gary Bettman. For this reason, along with many others, Gary has been banned from Games Night. Tonight he showed up anyway.

Brendan, along with Kyle Dubas, Mike Babcock, Lou Lamoriello and Jeff ‘Snacks’ O’Niell, had just opened their dice sacks when the door of Brendan’s private elevator opened. After some shock and anger Brendan had finally been convinced to let Gary have a second chance. He was beginning to regret his choice.

Dungeons and Dragons is a game that requires a complete buy-in from all the players to be enjoyed to the fullest extent. Gary is a reluctant player at best. As GM (Game Master in this case), Lou has to alter his narrative to re-introduce Gary’s halfling wizard. Without complaint Lou deftly arranged for the party to find Gary trapped in a cellar underneath the enchanted castle.

“That’s stupid.” Gary says. “I’m an all powerful mage. I appear in a puff of smoke and save the day. I don’t get trapped under an empty barrel.”

“You hear a muffled sort of squeaking, and you see a scrawny pair of legs flailing around under a barrel.” Lou says, ignoring Gary. “What do you do?”

“I walk over and try to lift the barrel.” Mike says. He is playing a Paladin, which means he must always make the most righteous choice.

“You manage to lift the barrel off easily and a disheveled halfling stands up.”

Everybody looks at Gary. Gary takes a sip of his beer and waits. He turns to one of the beautiful naked women and asks for some pretzels. His gaze is unconciously locked on her as she leaves.

“Gary.” Lou says with rising frustration. “Introduce yourself to the party.”

“I’m Gary.” Gary says.

“Ho Gary.” Kyle says. His boisterous Dwarven fighter is happy to be taller than someone in the room and greets the halfling warmly. “How did ye manage to get stuck down here little friend.”

“Hold on.” Snacks cuts in. He is playing a female rogue and she does not trust anybody until they have proven their value. “How do we know this twerp is friendly? He could be a spy, or even the master of this castle.” Snacks looks to Lou. “I roll an arcana check to see if he has a magical aura about him.” Snacks rolls high.

“He is defiinetley magical.” Lou says when he sees the result of the roll.

“I don’t trust him.” Snacks says in game. “He’s crawling with magic.”

“This is stupid.” Gary says. “You know I’m a good guy, let’s just play.”

“It’s a role playing game Gary.” Snacks says. “We are playing. We just snuck into an enchanted castle and found you in the basement. You have to convince us to trust you.”

“I trust you.” Mike says.

“You trust everyone,” Snacks says.

“My character has faith in the goodness of all creatures.” Mike proclaims.

“Your character is an idiot.” Snack replies.

“Yeah, he is pretty dumb.” Mike admits with a smile.

“I trust him. “ Kyle says. “Dwarves have a good sense of these things.”

“I don’t” Brendan says. Brendan is playing an Elven druid, and he has learned to be cautious in his centuries long life. “What are you doing down here Gary? Answer false at your peril.”

“Okay, um, what am I doing down here?” Gary looks to Lou.

“He’s your character. Figure it out.”

“Just give me a minute to think here.” Gary says.

They wait. Gary ogles the beautiful naked woman who carries in a large bowl of pretzels. He is so focused on her nudity that he doesn’t even notice it is a different woman than the one who left the room. He takes a sip of his beer.

“Okay.” Lou gets fed up and stands. “I gotta piss. When I get back you better have something or else you got dragged down here by a troll who is gonna want to eat you soon.”

“That’s a pretty good idea, isn’t it?” Gary asks. “I think I’ll just use that.”

“Gary, don’t be a prick.” Says Snacks. “If you use that idea than we are going to have to kill that troll before we can do anything else.”

“So.” Gary says. “We could use a little action.”

“That’s not what this game is about Gary.” Brendan says. “We are trying to stop an army of zombies that was sent from this castle. We need to get to the master of this castle in the best shape possible. The more we have to fight, the less likely we will be able to beat the main villian in the end. A troll is a serious monster.”

“Whatever.” Gary has made up his mind. “Don’t be pussies. We are going to beat the shit out of this troll, and then kill it with fire.”

Brendan sighs. Once Gary has made a decision he never goes back on it. The group waits. They sip their drinks and Snacks lights a joint. They continue waiting.

“Being old must suck right.” Gary says.” I bet his piss is like ranch dressing.”

“So, you guys watching any good shows?” Mike says, changing the subject.

“Oh god yes.” Kyle gets excited. “ I finally started watching Sons Of Anarchy. It is awesome. I’m nearly done the first season, it’s so good. I literally never want to stop watching it. I think I’m going to buy a bike.”

“I know right. “ Snacks is a huge SOA fan. “It just keeps getting better and better too. I’m a little jealous, I wish I could go back and enjoy it for the first time again.”

“Totally.” Gary also loves the series. “I couldn’t believe it when Tig killed Donna instead of Opie. Man Clay is an asshole. I love when Jax shoots him in the neck. Almost as much as I love when he shoots Gemma.”

Every man at the table stares at Gary in various states of shock.

“Why?” Kyle shakes his head. Disbelief and sadness clouding his every thought. “Why would anybody do that? I just said I was watching the show. Why would you ruin that.”

Snacks is furious. “Holy fuck Bettman. You are the worst guy ever. Just die somewhere. Everything about you is pathetic. Weasels think you’re a sneaky piece of shit.”

“What’s Sons Of Anarchy?” Mike asks Brendan quietly while Snacks rants on.

“It’s a show about a motorcycle gang. It’s really awesome.”

Lou has returned to the table. He listens to Snacks for a moment.

“Nobody likes you Bettman. Nobody wants you around. Ever. You stink. Literally there is a smell that comes off you that just, I can’t even explain it, it’s just bad. I hate you so much. You make everything worse. Every choice you make is as dumb as it could possibly be. I want to choke you with your own baby shoe laces.”

“Whats going on?” Lou finally interupts.

“This sack of gizz rags!” Snacks points at Gary. “Just spoiled SOA for Kyle.”

“What? But he just started it.” Lou is stunned. “Your not even out of the first season yet are you?”

Kyle shakes his head,

“I’ve had it.” Lou says. “Brendan, I know this is your place, but I’m the GM and I am not letting this fucking asshole ruin our game anymore. Get the fuck out!”

“Come on guys.” Gary is adept at snivelling. “It’s just a TV show. What’s the big deal?” I promise I won’t say anything else. Oh man will you be surprised when Terra dies. Boom, fork in the head! Holy smokes is it brutal.”

“Jesus Gary.” Brendan says.

“OUT!!” Lou screams.

Two beautiful naked women escort Gary to the elevator. They are disgusted, not just by his unique odur, but also by his scrawny childlike frame. No woman could be confronted by such a man and feel anything but revulsion.

“This is bullshit fellas.” Gary says as he is lead away. “I’ll be back.” He tries to break free of the beautiful naked women but his strength is nowhere near enough. “You can’t play without me! I’m the commish! You need me!”

The elevator doors close and everyone in the penthousse breaths easier.

“I really hate that guy.” Kyle says.

“Everyone hates him.” Lou says.

“He’s like a booger.” Snacks adds. “A really hard one stuck so far up your nose hole that you can’t pick it, but it’s there and its hurts and you just want it gone. That’s fucking Bettman.”

An alarm sounds from Mikes shirt pocket. He pulls out a small digital watch and presses a button to silence the noise.

“It’s ten o’clock guys.” Mike says. “We gotta say it quick. Just one second here Jeff.” Mike never calls him Snacks.

The four members of the Toronto Maple Leafs bow their heads. 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 Steven Stamkos find his way home.” In his head Snacks echos the prayer but he knows better than to interfere with the ritual.

“Okay.” Lou says, resuming the game. “ Gary the halfling regales you with a rousing tale of his prowess and expertise. He claims he has been sent on a mission to destroy the power of this cursed castle and will gladly allow you all to help him. Boldly the halfling leads the way out of the cellar. He takes three steps down the corridor then sets off a trap. Spikes shoot up from the floor impaling the hapless moron and killing him instantly.”

“I search his corpse for loot!” Snacks says immediately.

The cavern is dark, moist and warm. Fear grips the hearts of the Toronto Maple Leaf LTIR team. The youngest of the four men in the cave, James van Riemsdyk, feels that fear more keenly than the rest. James was only recently added to the LTIR team. He had always believed that the Long Term Injured Reserve team was a dreary purgatory best avoided at all costs. The Toronto Maple Leafs had a different take on the matter. For the Leafs being assigned to the Legendary Trinket Investigation and Retrieval team was an honour and a dangerous privilege.

Today James, along with Stephane Robidas, Nathan Horton, and Joffrey Lupol, is  kilometers underground following a clue to the legendary sword Excalibur. They have been walking in the darkness for over an hour and James is convinced that they are actually underneath the Atlantic ocean. They had entered a cave near the Southwest coast of England and, after several twists and turns, were making their way, deeper and deeper, in a nearly straight line.

Without their Toronto Maple Leaf night vision goggles the team would never have been able to proceed. But the goggles chafe James’ forehead. His foot is not nearly healed enough to make all this walking comfortable. James squeezes the handle of his heavy warhammer. The tension has been mounting ever since the team had heard the warning. A skeleton had been stacked in a neat little pile near the cave entrance and as the first Leaf had entered the cave the skull atop the pile had spoken a dire prophecy.

“All who enter will remain for all time! No change, no growth, only stagnant, death awaits you! Your quest for power will destroy you! Your hearts desire will be the last thing you ever see!”

The skull might have had more to say but James had smashed it into powder with one swing of his hammer. Now he regreted the action and felt as if the cave held a special malice for him alone. Up ahead Nathan signals for a halt. He holds his beautiful samurai sword, a genuine Masamune tachi, and stands staring around a sudden bend in the tunnel.

“What’s the reading?” Nathan asks in a whisper.

Stephane check his Toronto Maple Leaf GPS tracking unit. For some reason the location he programmed into the unit will not stay still. He tries to re-calibrate the device to no effect. Despite impossibly bouncing all over the place their target is relatively close to them.

“I am getting some strange sort of feed back or something.” Stephane says after a moment. “We are getting close, more than that I cannot say.”

“What do you see?” Joffrey asks Nathan.

“Light.” Nathan answers.

No word could have been more surprising. If there was light that implied that there were people who needed it. If there were people down here they had been here for a long time, since the Leafs had found evidence that they were the first to discover the cave in centuries.

“Okay team.” Nathan says. “Time to get combat ready.” There is no official leader of an LTIR team, however Nathan and Stephane have been on the list for some time now and their experience lends them an air of command. James is thankful for the veteran leadership. Suddenly an alarm sounds from James’ wrist watch. The rest of the team remembered to put theirs on vibrate. James curses as he quickly turns off the noise. Silence returns to the cave for only a moment. From far ahead there is the sound of a gong that echoes and sustains itself far longer than any natural sound should.

“The light just went out.” Nathan says.

“Fuck.” James is furious at himself.

“Shake it off buddy.” Stephane puts a hand on James shoulder. “Shit happens, now we deal with it. Let’s just say it quick and then keep moving.”

“We don’t have time for that shit now.” Nathan hisses.

“We have to.” Stephane insists.

“I think we better say it.” Joffrey chimes in. “Babs will be angry if we don’t”

“You think he will know?” James asks.

“Babcock always knows.” Joffrey and Stephane answer at the same time.

“Fuck, fine. Let’s just be quick.” Nathan finally agrees

After a very brief moment of silence the Leafs speak in unison as if the words were a spell. And maybe words do hold the power to create.

“Dear God and Lord Stanley” The cavern trembles at the invocation. “Thank you for bringing us all together in Toronto and please help Steven Stamkos find his way home.”

“Did you guys feel that tremor?” James asks hoping they did not.

“Come on.” Nathan answers. “Let’s find out how totally fucked we are.”

Nathan leads with his sword held high. Stephane is just two steps behind him with his Glock 9mm pistol. James follows. He carries his twelve pound warhammer on his shoulder. The deadly weapon needs space to be used effectively and James is anxious in the tight corridor. Bringing up the rear Joffrey holds a normal arrow on the string of his bow.

After only a few steps the light ahead of them returns. The Toronto Maple Leaf night vision goggles react instantly to the sudden brightness, protecting the vision of the team.

“I don’t like this.” James says.

“Duly noted.” Nathan says. “Keep moving.”

As the Leafs get closer to the light they start to hear a faint creaking sound. It almost seems as though an old wooden house is being buffeted by a strong breeze. Closer to the light the sound becomes louder. A rattle, like dice in a cup joins the steady, rythmic creaking. The light intensifies and the Leafs cannot quite discern the nature of the movement ahead of them. Their goggles adjust to the glare as they step out of the corridor and into a vast underground chamber.

On a raised mound of stones, directly ahead of them, a majestic sword stands, hilt up, shining brightly. The swords gleam glitters off piles and piles of golden treasure that line the sides of the chamber. As vast a collection of wealth as has ever been seen on this world.

The Leafs barley even take note of the loot. Standing on the mound before the sword is a toothless hag. She shrieks in bitter excitement.

“Come and claim your prize.” She is waving and twirling about wildly. “Come and join the gaurdians of the sword!” She cackles as she spins.

Arrayed before her, between the Leafs and the sword, an army of skeletons, apparentely the gaurdians of Excalibur. They raise their weapons at a silent command and begin to march forward. Each eyeless skull focusing an unblinking gaze on the Leafs.

“Damn.” Joffrey says, replacing the normal arrow in his quiver and pulling out a special one.

“Stand back guys, I got this.” James steps forward with a grin. Balancing the hammer on his shoulders, he spits on his hands and rubs them together. “This is gonna be fun.”

As James awaits the skeleton army the rest of the Leafs LTIR team prepare as best they can. Skeletons are hard to fight. They cannot feel pain, and can continue fighting even after being cut in half. Bullets, blades and arrows are not well suited for smashing walking bones. Nathan locks his sword into its steel sheath. Blunted, the weapon will work well, although the altered balance will take some getting used to. Stephane holsters his gun and puts on a pair of brass knuckles. He will be the most exposed of all the team, but swallows his fear. Joffrey has eight special arrows in his quiver. He hopes he doesn’t need them all.

The skeletons advance with slow steady steps. They are all armed differently, almost a journey through the ages of ancient warfare. Rotted leather armour and pitted old iron clings to the bones as they rattle on. There is some sort of intelligence behind their march because at the front of the horde each skeleton is armed with a shield and spear of some kind. Twenty meters away, those shield bearers lock step and form a wall. The maneuver is done with silent precision.

“Can you open that up for me please?” James asks.

Joffrey fires one of his arrows right over James’ shoulder. It hits the middle of the metal boss in the center of a rotted wooden shield and explodes. The explosive is set in the arrowhead so as to send it’s destructive force in a forward arc. So James is safe as he races after the arrow. Dozens of skeletons are destroyed in the blast. James starts to spin, using the momentum of his run to propell his hammer. Its wide head obliterates everything it touches. The Leaf spins so quickly that none of the unholy host can even get close. Shattered ruins are sent flinging about the cavern. With wild enthusiasm James lays waste to the army, and they do not seem to notice.

After a moments pause the skeletons resume their march, closing the gap in their formation.

“James!” Nathan shouts as he backs up.

Never stopping, the whirling storm of destruction spins back the way it came. Dozens of skeletons are obliterated with each passing moment yet there are hundreds more to take their place. Joffrey sends all his remaining explosive arrows arching into the rear ranks of the army hoping to relieve some of the pressure. As the skeletons close he uses his bow like a club. Nathan smashes down each skeleton that approaches. With a flurry of punches Stephane begins to chip away at one opponent after another.

The Leafs are holding the skeletons at bay, but they all know that they odds are too overwhelming. Eventually mortal muscles will tire, the undead never do.

The blood is pounding in Joffreys ears. His whole world has shrunk to the space directley in front of him. Every grinning skull he destroys is replaced immediatley. Nearly overwhelmed the Leaf laughs in the face of his doom.

“I just wish that witch would shut up.” He says.

On the stone mound, in front of the shining sword, the toothless old hag has not stopped spinning and cackling. The three Leafs by the entrance seem to realize the significance of this together.

Joffrey takes a step back into the corridor. Stephane and Nathan immediately shift over to cover him as best they can. With the speed of thought Joffrey pulls out a normal arrow and fires it straight and true into the eye of the witch.

She collapses in a heap. Like bones blown over by a breeze her army does the same.

“Whoa.” James nearly stumbles but stops himself. Dizzy, he shakes his head and wobbling, he returns to the team. All around them the treasure begins to flicker and fade. Last of all is the sword. Its light is slow to diminish even after the sword itself has completely vanished.

“Just an illusion.” Nathan says with disgust. “Just a trap. Let’s get out of here.”

At the opposite end of the cavern Arthur, the nightmare king of Avalon, tightens his bony grip on the true sword Excalibur. His very real fear is the most thrilling sensation he can recall feeling in ages. Two holy powers had been called upon in his sanctum, and the first incursion in centuries nearly succeeded. Arthur vows to learn more of these powerful Leafs. The time has come for the once and future king to face this new and dangerous world.

Silence rules the forty-first floor of Toronto Maple Leaf tower. Brendan Shanahan and Mark Hunter do nothing to break the spell as they approach the daunting doors of Lou Lamoriello’s office. The foul reek of sweat and stale smoke assaults Brendan’s nose as he opens the door. When he steps inside he is surrounded by snoring, as if the very walls were deep in slumber. The dim light from the hallway does little to illuminate the scene. What he can see is a mess of beer cans, chip bags and pizza boxes.

“Mark can you hit the lights please.” Brendan waits for Mark to find the light switch in the darkness. The big man moves silently. With admirable consideration Mark decides to turn the dimmer switch to its lowest setting, allowing himself and Brendan enough light to see without disturbing those asleep in the office. Sadly nothing protects them from the disturbing sight.

A fire pit smoulders in the center of the room. The remains of a roasted goat have been piled on the ashes. The goat was clearly slaughtered nearby where blood has splashed all over the walls and pooled on the floor. Garth Snow, GM of the New York Islanders, lies naked cuddling the goats severed head covered in clotted blood. Next to the fire a large pile of empty pizza boxes stirs and collapses to the floor exposing Don Sweeney, GM of the Boston Bruins, his bare ass in the air and a half eaten pizza slice is stuck in his hair. In a chair near to Lou’s desk Dale Tallon, GM of the Florida Panthers, is using an empty bottle of rye as a pillow. Goat blood is painted all over his naked body in shamanistic swirls and shapes. Throughout the room dozens of old men snore naked.

Kyle Dubas is curled up on Lou’s desk. The Toronto Maple Leaf assistant GM is fully clothed and seems to be having troubling dreams. He cries out with pathetic moans between snores. Reaching out and drawing back simultaneously.

Standing behind the desk is Lou himself. In one hand he holds a tumbler filled with brown liquor, in the other an enourmous joint burns slowly. His head is tilted back and his eyes are closed. His snow white bush glimmers in the joint light that shines on his ample manhood, which stands in triumphant erection for the first and last time of the year. Brendan thinks his GM is asleep until he lifts the joint to his mouth and takes a deep long toke.

Even as Brendan starts to make his careful way toward his GM, Lou’s eyes open.

“Wait outside Brendo, I’ll be right there.” Lou does not move as he waits for Brendan and Mark to leave his office.

Fifteen minutes later Lou emerges, still naked, and quietly closes the door behind himself. He has refilled his glass and a new joint is tucked behind his ear. Puffing on the old joint in his hand Lou smiles as he greets his boss.

“Hey Brendo, What a night. We were celebrating a job well done, what with the trade deadline passing. We kept it pretty low key, you know, civil. I wish you could have been there but, GMs only. You would have so proud of Kyle, he really held his own. He’s gonna be great for this organization for years to come. What can I do for you? I was just about to have a hot beer and a cold shower but I can put that off if you need me to.”

“You were supposed to hold a press confrence yesterday.” Brendan tries not to sound too angry.

“Oh, yeah, I blew that off. Screw ‘em. All they have is idiot questions about stupid crap anyway.” Lou takes a sip of his drink.

“Well I rescheduled it for today, you need to be ready in an hour. Is that enough time? Or should I call in some help?” Brendan has a staff of stylists on call twenty-four hours a day.

“Damn it Brendo. Fuck. Why’d you do that.” Lou whines, drinks and smokes. “Whatever. I guess I’m gonna talk to the media. My boner wasn’t gonna last much longer anyway. Don’t call your goons, I can be ready in an hour.”

“Thank you, Lou.” Brendan says.

“You better thank me. I gotta listen to idiots come up with seven thousand ways of asking me about Marlies or tanking.” Lou takes an angry swig and spills as much as he drinks. “I hate that word. Fucking tanking! What the hell did they think we were talking about when we said ‘acquire as many draft picks as possible and give our younger players a long look to see what they are about.’ It’s not like we didn’t tell them exactly what was coming. And now we stick to what we say and people are all shocked and saying we are trying to lose games. I hate losing games. And I know that crazy fuck Mike hates losing at least as much as I do. Nobody wants to lose! How is that something I need to explain to those godless media monsters?”

“I know Lou.” Brendan puts a supportive arm around Lou’s shoulder and immediately regrets it. “I know it’s stupid. But that’s what people want to talk about. Never mind that we are doing what we said we would. They want us to trade for Subban and Stamkos and a Stall. They want to draft first every every summer and lift the Cup every spring. Just remember that none of them matter. Not one little bit. All that matters is that we win. And we will. Until then you have to answer stupid questions over and over again. At least we can focus on our team for the next few weeks, and not worry about the others so much.”

“Your right Brendo.” Lou says, cheering up. “Things can only get better from here right.”

“Have mercy Lou,” Mike Babcock has jogged up the stairs to the forty-first floor though you can hardly see any effects of the effort. “Where are your pants?”

“Don’t be scared Mike, this is what a man looks like.” Lou waves himself at the Toronto Maple Leaf head coach.

Mike recoils in disgust. “It’s so wrinkled. How are you still alive, old man?”

“What did you need Mike?’ Brendan asks, hoping to divert the brewing confrontation.

“I just came up here to say it real quick. So much to do with all the young men coming up. But how can we keep our heads held high if we don’t give our best day in and day out? That’s what I tell my kids, and anyone else who will listen. Let’s get going here.”

The coach bows his head and holds out his hands. Brendan, Mark and Lou join hands and form a circle with Mike. After a moment of silence the men 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 Steven Stamkos find his way home.”

“Great chatting with you gentlemen, I gotta go, lots of work to do. So much work.” Mike begins mumbling to himself as he leaves the group. He leaves the way he came, bounding down the stairs six steps at a time.

“What did he say?” Lou asks nobody in particular. “That fuck is crazy. You should really let me fire him Brendo.”

“No.” Brendan replies. “Mark can you please get Kyle out of there. Lou, you need to send your guests home and get ready to go in front of the media.”

Mark immediately slides into the pitch black office.

“Brendan please.” Lou protests. “Don’t humiliate me. You gotta let those guys rest. They earned it. General managers work harder than any other human on earth ever, for the forty-eight hours leading up to the trade deadline. They blew off a little steam and now they’re recovering. Don’t worry, they won’t cause any trouble and I will be ready in thirty minutes. Please don’t make me kick them out.”

Brendan considers his options and finally decides that the path of least resistance is best.

“Fine. Let’s go.” This he says to Mark who emerges silently, cradling Kyle in his arms. Mark has also grabbed an eight pack of Black Label pilsner which he hands to Brendan.

Lou watches them leave then looks down at his flaccid penis. “Can you believe those assholes stole our beers? Come on weiner, let’s go get ready. Maybe we can find some pizza.” He lights the new joint off of the old one as he heads back into his office to prepare.

The garden on the roof of Toronto Maple Leaf tower is open to the public. On this chilly February morning only Lou Lamoriello is enjoying it. He is wrapped in a woolen blanket, smoking a cigar and tossing old pizza crusts at the birds. He wants to feed them but is only managing to scare them away. Some of the bolder pigeons fly back down to pick at the projectiles to the delight of the GM.

The sun rises over the city of Toronto. Lou sits on a heated bench and falls asleep. The cigar clings to his lip dangerously close to the blanket. Lou smokes in his sleep and ashes fall into his lap. This is how Brendan Shanahan finds him. Kyle Dubas and Mark Hunter flank the Toronto Maple Leaf president. Mark is drinking a hot toddy and Kyle is playing SimCity on his phone. They watch Lou for twenty minutes. Finally the cigar burns Lou’s lips and he wakes with a sputter.

“Brendan, crap.” Lou stands up and stamps out the stogie. He pulls another one out from under his blanket and sucks on it without lighting it. “I was just bird watching over here. What are you doing sneaking up on me like that? A guy could get shot doing that sort of thing. What do you want? Did we have a meeting?”

“No Lou.” Brendan says. “We don’t have a meeting planned for today. I just wanted to see what you were doing. With the trade deadline coming up I imagine you’re very busy making and taking calls right. Have you got any more deals cooking?”

Lou pulls a pizza crust from under his robe. Carefully he aims at the nearest pigeon. Squinting, he looks down his arm and waits. The gentle breeze dies completely. Lou cocks back his arm and hurls the crust hard. He nearly clips the bird as it flies away.

“Damn.” He says. “You assholes distracted me. I almost had that one. I have lots of deals in the works. I can’t even remember them all, that’s how many deals I’ve got cooking. Don’t worry, if my phone rings I’ll answer it.”

“Kyle, can you call Lou please.” Brendan says.

“Yup, just a sec.” Kyle collects the iron he needs to fabricate the nails required to upgrade his residential properties, then orders  all his factories to produce more. It takes a minute for the factories to spit out the resource. Kyle spends this minute browsing the online trading post but doesn’t find anything worth buying. Finally he closes the game and opens his contact list. He finds Lou’s cell number and calls it.

“It’s ringing.” Kyle says.

“Can you put it on speaker please.” Brendan asks.

Kyle presses the speaker button and the sound of ringing spills out of his device. For several moments this is the only sound in the garden. Lou makes a show of checking his pockets then shrugs.

“I bet the dummy has the wrong number.”

“Hello this is Lou.” It is Lou’s voicemail that finally answers. “If I wanted to talk to you I would have answered my phone. Fuck off. I’m busy.”

“Gimme a break Brendo.” Lou pulls a pizza crust out from under his blanket and takes a bit. “I know what I’m doing. I didn’t just leave my phone somewhere and forget about it. The old Let Your Calls Go To Voicemail gag is one of the oldest tricks in the GM book. It’s all part of the process. Haven’t I made enough magic happen yet for you to trust me?”

“How does not taking calls help you make trades?” Brendan asks.

“Because if some shmuck leaves a message then I know he’s desperate.” Lou answers.

Mark tosses his empty cup over his shoulder and wanders over to the edge of the roof. He snorts like a walrus with a sinus cold then slowly lets a loogie drop from his mouth over the side. He watches the spit as it falls but loses track of it before it lands far below.

Lou takes a bit of his soggy cigar end and chews it. He then takes another bit of pizza crust and chews wetly as he wanders over to Mark. He looks over the edge of the building and spits out his cud ball. Both Lou and Mark watch in silence as the tobacco, saliva, and pizza dough reach terminal velocity. The ball lands on the street with a thwack missing several heads, but catching one new pair of sneakers in the splash zone.

“See, the trick is to chew up something fibrous but colourful. That way you can watch it all the way down.” Lou hands his wet cigar and half pizza crust to Mark as he explains. “I find that the heavier I make the wad the more likely it is to hit where I aim.” Mark nods as he takes the ammunition from Lou. “The thing to remember is that it’s all a game.” This is directed to Brendan who has been exercising his patience. “If I talk to another GM than he knows what I am trying to pitch. If I don’t talk to that GM than not only does he need to wonder what deals I am trying to work, but who I might be working them with. I’m planting seeds of doubt, then, when those seeds grow into a doubt bush, I pick the berries dinglling in the breeze. Dingle berries Brendo, dingle berries.”

“I can’t believe that actually makes sense.” Brendan says to Kyle.

Kyle does not look up from his phone. He is trying to decide whether to  comission more power stations or save up to buy an education department for his SimCity.

“Still,” Brendan walks over to Lou and Mark by the building edge. “I would like to know what sort of plans you have going into the deadline. I mean there are lots of interesting possibilities right, given our cap space and our long term goals.”

“Sure Brendo, I got plans.” Lou says. “Possibilities? Lots of things are possible. I could trade our next four first round picks to get the Stalls out of Carolina or I could give Reilly and Marner to Edmonton for Nugent-Tompkins.”

“Hopkins” Kyle chimes in to correct Lou.

“Gesundheit.” Lou says.

“Don’t make either of those trades.” Brendan says.

“I know boss. We want to gather picks not send them away.” Lou shakes his head and does not say what he really wants to say. “I understand the plan and I’m going to stick with it no matter how much I hate losing.”

“Any more talks with Stevie?” Brendan means Steve Yzerman, the GM of the Tampa Bay Lightning.

“We haven’t talked since the last time.” Lou says. “He will only make a deal for Stamkos if we throw Rielly in the mix. He won’t budge on that. Fuck ‘im! If he wants to be a stubborn prick he can lose his franchise player for nothing.”

“It would be nice to ship some contracts out to make more cap space though.” Brendan says.

“Sure it would be Brendo, but no one would ever trade Stamkos for Lupol and Bozak.” Lou pulls another pizza crust out from under his blanket. This one he hurls at Kyle, who does not notice the projectile until it is too late.

“Ass!” Lou shouts at Kyle. “come over here. Kids these days. Am I right.”

Mark and Brendan do not respond, they are watching Marks tobacco/crust wad plummet to the ground. Marks aim is true and he dents the hood of a taxi on the street below. Kyle has put his phone away and stares daggers at Lou as he walks over to the group.

Lou clears his throat. “So listen, you know I hate doing this but we gotta be productive today right.” Lou lowers his voice to a whisper forcing the other men to lean in close. “We all know Yzerman is painted into a corner here. Stamkos will only waive his no trade to come here but we ain’t willing to give up what he wants. Our best play is to just keep prayin’ and waitin’. So let’s do this.”

“Ha!” A shout erupts from behind a bush, surprising the group. Mike Babcock stands up wearing his Toronto Maple Leaf urban camouflage suit. “I caught you! I knew you believed in it too. This is great, let’s all say it together.”

The Toronto Maple Leaf head coach jogs over and holds out his hands. The others reach out and they form a circle. As one they bow their heads. 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 Steven Stamkos find his way home.”

“That was great guys.” Mike says. “Gotta run. We are having goat for our team dinner tonight, so I’m taking the boys to the farm. Any man who won’t slaughter his own goat is benched, so this is gonna be a great trip.” Mike whistles as he leaves the group.

“God I hate that guy.” Lou says. “Just let me fire him Brendo. He’s creepy. How the hell did he sneak up on us like that? I think he’s a witch.”

“No.” Brendan says.

“Fine, if I can’t burn him at least let me tie rocks to his ankles and throw him in a river. Then if he floats he’s a witch, and I can fire him up. If he drowns then we know he was an innocent soul and he’s freezing in Hel.”

Brendan, Mark and Kyle stare at Lou blankly. The silence stretches out awkwardly.

“You know, Hel, the Scandanavian underworld where souls go when they can’t get into Valhalla. It’s freezing cold all the time and there’s a snake that might just swallow you whole. Pretty miserable really. Almost like East Jersey, now that place is miserable. One time I saw a hooker pee on a guy on a street corner there. It was awful. You guys wanna go to the peelers for breakfast?”

The Toronto Maple Leaf fallout shelter can comfortably house sixty-seven people for over a year. For this reason Toronto Maple Leafs GM Lou Lamoriello has invited only forty; The whole roster of players, some key front office personnel; two trainers; and the cook from the Pizza Pizza up the street. A low buzz of conversation fills the shelter. Everyone is wondering why they are here. Lou steps up onto a coffee table and waits for everyone to quiet down.

“I am very glad you could all make it today.” Lou’s voice carries well in the small space. “You may be wondering why I called you here, well I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the world will come to an end today.” The shocked silence lasts for only a second and then the room erupts in confused agitation. “Don’t worry, we’re safe down here and after the damage has been done it will be our responsibility to repopulate the Earth.” Lou looks over to the two trainers and winks. Too late, it dawns on them that they are the only women in the shelter. “Now if everyone will just relax, there will be hot pizza in just a few minutes, and we have lots of beer and rum to drink.”

Lou walks over to the Pizza Pizza cook, who has crumpled to the floor in a weepy heap. “Hey, get up.” Lou says. “You got a lot of hungry mouths to feed, get going.”

“This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.” The eighteen year old repeats manically as he sobs.

Lou’s arm is caught in a firm grip. “Come with me.” Brendan Shanahan looks angry. Lou doesn’t struggle as the Toronto Maple Leafs president pulls him to a corner of the shelter away from the din. “Explain.” Brendan says.

“Not much to explain Brendo. I’ve been preparing for this day for twenty five years. I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you, but I didn’t want to start a panic until we were safe.”

From the center of the room one voice rises above all the others. “Everybody sit!” It is Mike Babcock, the Toronto Maple Leaf head coach. His command is obeyed immediatley. “Now, I want everyone to close their eyes and focus on breathing in and out. Do that until I tell you different.”

Lou looks at the coach with mixed surprise and frustration. “What the hell is he doing here? God damn it. How am I supposed to build my post-apocalyptic paradise now”

Mike strides over to Lou and Brendan as silence takes over the shelter. He has controlled his emotions and so does not punch Lou in the mouth immediatley.

“Lou, we have a problem.” The coach says.

“Tell me Mike, what’s your problem?” Lou does not try to hide his annoyance. “My problem is that somehow you stowed away in my shelter and I never brought rations for you. Well your not getting any of my pizza pal. Not one slice.”

“My problem is that we have a hockey team down here getting scared instead of at the rink getting better. What are we doing down here Lou?”

“I told you, we are staying safe while the world ends.” Lou says.

“Okay. Why do you think the world is ending.” Mike speaks as he would to a small and particularley dense child.

“It’s kind of a long story.” Lou says.

“Tell us.” Brendan demands.

“Okay. It was June 23 1989. I had just finished eating the worst Peking duck I ever had in my life. I was sucking on the beak when the waiter brought me my bill, and with it a fortune cookie. Now usually I don’t even open the fortune cookie but on that day I was so disappointed with my meal that I decided to try one. So I open up the cookie and I get this fortune.” Lou pulls a small slip of paper from his jacket pocket “It says You will receive an important message today. And look at the numbers on the back: 2, 16, 20, 88. So I leave the restaurant and I had to run because I was late for my movie. I missed the previews but luckily was in time for the film, and what movie was I going to see? Ghostbusters 2 of course. Biggest movie of the summer.” Lou pauses to let this sink in. “And while I was watching the movie, I received my important message, just like the fortune cookie said. Maybe ten minutes in, one of the characters says the world will come to an end on February 16 2016 or 2/16/20 and 8 plus 8 equals 16, just like my fortune cookie. And I’ve been waiting for this day ever since.”

Brendan is stunned into silence. Mike is not.

“Ghostbusters 2.” The coach closes his eyes and sighs deeply. “Might be the most disappointing sequel I have ever seen.”

“Take that back!” Lou shouts and aims a slap at the coaches face. Mike leans back at the last second and avoids the blow wihout openning his eyes.

“Think about it for a second Lou. Put aside the special effects, which were way ahead of their time, and forget the amazing on screen chemistry that seems to infect the whole cast. There are two major holes in the screenplay that cannot be ignored. The whole premise of the movie is flawed from the beginning. The audience is supposed to believe that a mere five years after the marshmallow man incident, the Ghostbusters have been largely forgotten. Okay, I can believe that the public has marginalized the efforts of the team, but for city officials to no longer accept the existence of  ghosts as fact is ludicrous. Even if we can agree that a certain level of animosity has developed over liability issues, it just does not make sense that the Ghostbusters need to battle against city hall again. It’s bad writtting plain and simple.

“And how about the ending. All of a sudden the ectoplasm that can make a toaster hop to music is able to bring the Statue of Liberty to life? Suspension of disbelief is one thing, but this breaks the rules that the movie itself established. Don’t get me wrong, visually the moment is wonderful. My issue is that the screen writters are expecting us to just accept that by placing a nintendo controller on the statue the Ghostbusters will not only be able to have complete control over the statue’s fine motor skills but they will be experts at it. Beyond going for a walk, they make the things head turn and they make it punch through the museum skylight, it’s just so far beyond the parameters that were established earlier in the film, it doesn’t make sense. Just thinking about it makes me angry.

“I hate when film makers take advantage of our goodwill. They knew that everyone wanted more Ghostbusters, so instead of giving us the perfection we deserved they simply threw together some storyboards and churned out one hundred and eight minutes of junk and told us to swallow it. Ghostbusters 2 represents everything that is wrong with Hollywood. Movie makers are nothing more than story tellers and the story needs to be the most important part. Stunning visuals can highlight a fine tale, but they can never replace it.

“Oh, and the end of the world prediction is for February 14 2016. Your two days too late.”

“What?” Lou says, stunned.

“You heard me. Chloe Webb plays the role of Elaine, a guest on ‘World of the Psychic with Dr. Peter Venkman’ and she predicts the end of the world to be on Valentines day 2016. So you missed it.”

Lou deflates as he absorbs this information. “Are you sure?” He asks with little hope.

Mike does not dignify the question with an answer. Instead he addresses the group.

“False alarm folks, the world ended on on Sunday so we’re all good. Lou, open up the doors. Leafs, we are late for practice. Get a move on.” Mike ushers everyone out of the shelter then looks to Brendan. “Lets say it while we have a minute.”

Brendan and Lou bow their heads with Mike. 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 Steven Stamkos find his way home.”

Mike hurries after his Leafs. Brendan and Lou are alone in the shelter. Brendan puts an arm around Lou’s shoulder.

“I can’t believe this Brendan. I’ve spent the last twenty-five years worried about the wrong day.”

“It happens Lou.” Brendan says as he leads Lou back to the street. “Come on, I will buy you some lunch.”

“I’m not even hungry. Let’s just go to the peelers.” After a moment Lou adds, “I’m pretty sure they have crab cakes on special. Maybe I’ll have some crab.”

Dion Phaneuf awakes with a start. It is early in the morning and the sun has yet to peek over the horizon. Dion sets his alarm for sunrise everyday. Something is wrong and it is this wrongness that has woken Dion.

He gets out of bed and stretches. Reaching out with his extra senses Dion senses an emptiness he hasn’t felt in over five years. Confused and startled Dion takes a step in the darkness. Pain rips through his body as his shine bumps hard into the coffee table of his unfamiliar hotel room.

Now Dion is truly frightened. He should not feel any pain. Concentrating Dion tries to lift himself off the floor. Flight was the first super power he discovered as The Captain. It has always come easily to him, until today. Again and again he leaps futilely, unable to sustain any sort of loft.

At last he gives up and curls up into a ball on the floor. He weeps because he knows that the lose of his powers can only mean one thing. Only the captain of the Toronto Maple Leafs can call on the powers of The Captain. Dion’s time as a Leaf is over.

“No. Please.” He weeps and begs an unforgiving universe. “Please don’t take this from me. Please.”

There is no answer because the deal is done. Farewell Dion Phaneuf.

On the forty-first floor of Toronto Maple Leaf Kyle Dubas waits. He is standing at the door to Lou Lamoriello’s office and he has been there for some time. Kyle does not want to knock until Lou is finished yelling. Kyle can’t make out what Lou is yelling about but every time he thinks it is over Lou starts screaming again. A hand lands on Kyle’s shoulder surprising him.

“What’s going on?” It’s Brendan Shanahan with Mark Hunter behind him.

“I didn’t want to disturb Lou, it sounds important.” Kyle says.

A profanity laced tirade streams out from behind the door. Brendan nods to Mark who opens the door. Lou is pacing across the length of his palatial office. He is holding his phone so pacing is not easy since he insists on using a land line.

“This is garbage Murray! Garbage! What kind of monkey wart horse chunks is this prick trying to pull? Who does he think I am? I’m the boss! Fuck Bruce Springsteen! Although his show is still magnificent.” Lou notices Brendan, Mark, and Kyle. “Make this right Murray. I’ll call you later.” Hanging up, Lou sits at his desk with his phone in his lap. “Pour me a drink will ya.” He says to no one specific. Mark, who was going  behind the bar anyway, nods his acceptance of the task.

“Whats the matter Lou?” Brendan asks.

“Oh, it’s my agent.” Brendan and Kyle each look to the other but neither man can offer any sort of clarification. Lou continues. “I am trying to play the role of myself in Plug Life; The John Scott Story: Making an All-Star but I am getting totally screwed.”

Mark brings Lou a quart of rum which the GM gulps down noisily. He finishes the drink and waves his glass at Mark. Shaking his head, Mark gives Brendan and Kyle their drinks and gathers Lou’s glass to refill.

“How are you getting screwed?” Brendan asks.

“It’s total crap. The studio is trying to tell me that I am not in the story. I don’t buy it. I have shot down more trade proposals for that hump than anyone in the league. One time I went over to his house to tell his kids how brutal their dad was. Who does that kind of crap? Only me! It’s a total conspiracy.”

“Maybe they just didn’t write you into the movie Lou.” Kyle has learned how to aggrivate Lou and rarely misses an opprotunity to do so.

“Oh please. Next you’ll tell me that the U.S. government didn’t fabricate the Zika virus as a way of testing mosquitos as a bio-weapon delivery system.”

Mark brings Lou another quart of rum then returns to the bar for his own drinks. While Mark drags the two kegs over to his seat the three other men in the room stare at each other in silence. Instead of drinking, Mark begins a series of stretches to limber up his back. Eventually Kyle can’t help himself.

“Those are only rumours. Nothing has ever been proven.” He says.

Lou rolls his eyes. “Sure thing ass. It’s all just a theory. Though no one denies that the discovery of the virus took place in a laborotory in Rockefeller center, and it was found in a monkey that was bred in captivity and subsequently destroyed. Just  a cluster fuck of strange coincidences right. God your gullible. I bet the Easter Bunny leaves a note under your pillow when he collects your teeth too.”

Mark get on top of one keg in a handstand with the tap in his mouth. As Kyle begins to answer Lou, Brendan waves him off and changes the subject. “We are getting ready to head to the airport. Are you all set?”

Lou perks up. “Are you kidding? I’m super excited for our Western Canadian trip! I packed my good sandals, my triple thick condoms, my denim suit, and all my fanciest jerked meat. The only thing I’m gonna need to pick up when we land is KY jelly. God I love Calgary. The tap water tastes just like the East river back in New York. Call me sentimental, it tastes like home.”

Mike Babcock bursts through the door of the office. The Toronto Maple Leafs head coach looks frustrated. Peter Holland slips in behind his coach trying to go unnoticed.

“Lou are you trading Pete?” Mike demands.

“Who?” Lou asks with a shrug. Mark slips out of his keg-stand and lands with a crash on the floor. There is a pause while Mark shakes off the fall and gets himself set up again.

Mike turns and pulls Peter in front of him. “Peter Holland. Our Peter. Are you trading him? He told me that he read he is going to get traded on this trip and he doesn’t want to go.”

“I thought it was Dion?” Lou looks over to Kyle who gives a tiny head shake. “Let me think.”

Lou stands up and walks over to the Leaf. He wraps an arm around Peters shoulder and takes a swig of his rum.

“Petey, can I call you Petey? Listen, hockey is a business. And business is like family. Sometimes a family member moves away to another organization, and even though you still love them you may have to hide their corpse in the concrete foundation of your new house. It’s an unfortunate set of circumstances but these things happen all the time. So you see, everything will work itself out. Traded, not traded, it’s just a state of mind right.” Lou puts his glass in the Leafs hand and forces him to drink.

“There you go.” Mike says grabbing Peters arm and pulling him from Lou’s grip.

“I bet your more nervous now then before” Mike takes the rum and downs it in one gulp. He tosses the empty glass to Lou and drags Peter to the door.

“Now go pack your things. It’s an eighty minute jog to the airport and we are leaving in twenty.” Closing the door behind the bewildered Leaf, Mike turns back to the group. “I hate Twitter. I am sure it was invented to drive me insane. Can we say it quick before I go?”

Brendan, Kyle, and Lou bow their heads with the coach. Mark lets the keg tap fall from his mouth with a clang but stays upside-down. After a moment of silence the men 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 Steven Stamkos find his way home.” Mike is already headed out the door when the others look up. “Gotta go. Lot’s to do. Lou, have a little respect for yourself, buy some better rum.”

Lou grumbles all the way to the bar. As he fills his glass he looks to Brendan.

“Anyone who doesn’t understand that cheap rum is every sailors wet dream needs to be fired. Please Brendan. I’ve fired coaches for less.”

“No.” Brendan says in a tone that invites no dissent.

“Great.” Lou whines. “What else can go wrong today.”

Mark sucks the first keg dry. With an unexpected dexterity the big man hand walks from the empty keg to the full one. He almost losses his balance switching the tap over, but manages the difficult manuever with style, using his head to pump the tap with an upside-down pushup.

“And you know what else ass,” Lou says turning to Kyle. “Lyme disease is man made too. The Nazis invented it during the cold war.”

“Okay, let’s go.” Brendan says. Herding his management team to the airport will take the better part of the afternoon. But they will be ready when they are needed because they are true professionals.