ProstheticConscience
Check dein Limit
Continued from the trade thread that got hopelessly derailed by Ryan Miller contract talk for some weird reason.
Note: This is still not the Ryan Miller thread.
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The time: May 2020.
The scene: A Brooklyn sports bar.
10pm. The after-work crowd has long since left. The sports fan crowd is filtering out the door in twos and threes into the night. It's a subdued crowd. The Islanders are out of the playoffs again. Tavares did what he could, but it just wasn't enough. Johnny Boychuk broke his leg in the first round, Nick Leddy was sent to rehab for addiction to a drug not yet synthesized, and Travis Hamonic went mad from the stress, found curled up in the fetal position on the dressing room floor after a fight with Jarred Tinordi. Islander Nation was crying out for a defenseman, a big, tough, hulking defenseman who could skate, shoot the puck and bust heads in equal measure...but there was nobody to answer the call.
At the end of the bar sits a forlorn, rumpled figure. Grey, disheveled hair, eyes so bloodshot they look like road maps of Shanghai, still-visible stains from the bloody mary he slopped down his shirt three hours ago, sensible shoes. His stubble is visible from space. His expression bears the weight of a thousand traumas. The bartender's long since stopped trying to engage him in conversation, and the other patrons anxiously avoid his haunted gaze. Then, above the bar, the tv's NHL coverage flips over to the west coast feed. It's the Vancouver Canucks steamrolling another hapless opponent. The camera angle switches to an ice-level angle.
Out of the mist, a figure looms forward. Much as a poor medieval farmer once dreaded the appearance of an armored enemy knight charging towards him on horseback, the terror in the other team's eyes is palpable. Huge, terrifying, tossing bodies through the air as though they're made of papier mache, he strides inexorably forward. He arches back to shoot the puck, and as he follows through the sheer volume of air displacement made by his massive bulk scything through the atmosphere of the hockey rink creates a gust so powerful the horrified skaters in front of him are sent crushing backwards, their skates creating rooster tails of shaved ice in a vain attempt to hold position. The puck deforms from the incredible speed of the shot, the twine in the back of the net barely moves as the puck shoots through it to be embedded in the boards behind. You can see the goalie's tears even in standard definition. You can see his lips moving: "It's just not fair...it's just not fair..."
A small voice in the corner pipes up: "We traded that guy for who...?!" The rumpled man at the bar suddenly bolts for the door, drunken stumbles sending chairs flying as he tries to leave. "I didn't know! I DIDN'T KNOWWWWW!!!!" he screams as he crashes out the door. "Garth! GARTH! Hey, nobody's blaming you! Garth? You want me to carry your tab forward? Garth!" the bartender calls after him, but he's gone, a trail of wreckage behind him.
A man in an Islanders jersey sidles up to the bar. "Hey man, did he just run out on his tab?"
"Yeah, no big deal though." replies the bartender. "He'll be back. He always comes back."
The Islanders fan turns to the screen, sees another huge play by the unstoppable juggernaut and sighs. "You know, that guy used to be in our system."
The bartender wistfully gazes up at the screen.
"I know, man. I know."
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Continue discussion of Pedan's awesomeness here.
Note: This is still not the Ryan Miller thread.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The time: May 2020.
The scene: A Brooklyn sports bar.
10pm. The after-work crowd has long since left. The sports fan crowd is filtering out the door in twos and threes into the night. It's a subdued crowd. The Islanders are out of the playoffs again. Tavares did what he could, but it just wasn't enough. Johnny Boychuk broke his leg in the first round, Nick Leddy was sent to rehab for addiction to a drug not yet synthesized, and Travis Hamonic went mad from the stress, found curled up in the fetal position on the dressing room floor after a fight with Jarred Tinordi. Islander Nation was crying out for a defenseman, a big, tough, hulking defenseman who could skate, shoot the puck and bust heads in equal measure...but there was nobody to answer the call.
At the end of the bar sits a forlorn, rumpled figure. Grey, disheveled hair, eyes so bloodshot they look like road maps of Shanghai, still-visible stains from the bloody mary he slopped down his shirt three hours ago, sensible shoes. His stubble is visible from space. His expression bears the weight of a thousand traumas. The bartender's long since stopped trying to engage him in conversation, and the other patrons anxiously avoid his haunted gaze. Then, above the bar, the tv's NHL coverage flips over to the west coast feed. It's the Vancouver Canucks steamrolling another hapless opponent. The camera angle switches to an ice-level angle.
Out of the mist, a figure looms forward. Much as a poor medieval farmer once dreaded the appearance of an armored enemy knight charging towards him on horseback, the terror in the other team's eyes is palpable. Huge, terrifying, tossing bodies through the air as though they're made of papier mache, he strides inexorably forward. He arches back to shoot the puck, and as he follows through the sheer volume of air displacement made by his massive bulk scything through the atmosphere of the hockey rink creates a gust so powerful the horrified skaters in front of him are sent crushing backwards, their skates creating rooster tails of shaved ice in a vain attempt to hold position. The puck deforms from the incredible speed of the shot, the twine in the back of the net barely moves as the puck shoots through it to be embedded in the boards behind. You can see the goalie's tears even in standard definition. You can see his lips moving: "It's just not fair...it's just not fair..."
A small voice in the corner pipes up: "We traded that guy for who...?!" The rumpled man at the bar suddenly bolts for the door, drunken stumbles sending chairs flying as he tries to leave. "I didn't know! I DIDN'T KNOWWWWW!!!!" he screams as he crashes out the door. "Garth! GARTH! Hey, nobody's blaming you! Garth? You want me to carry your tab forward? Garth!" the bartender calls after him, but he's gone, a trail of wreckage behind him.
A man in an Islanders jersey sidles up to the bar. "Hey man, did he just run out on his tab?"
"Yeah, no big deal though." replies the bartender. "He'll be back. He always comes back."
The Islanders fan turns to the screen, sees another huge play by the unstoppable juggernaut and sighs. "You know, that guy used to be in our system."
The bartender wistfully gazes up at the screen.
"I know, man. I know."
-------------------------------------
Continue discussion of Pedan's awesomeness here.
About an hour. Got the idea while washing dishes.
