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The Fear of Number Two
#1
(This post was last modified: 09-06-2020, 04:26 PM by TheHockeyist.)

The New England locker room. Dark and silent. It's sometime past midnight. An irritated man in a Wolfpack jersey has sat down on the bench with nothing more than a journal and a pen. He is angrily scribbling, with exclamation marks and ink splatters sprinkled in for good measure.

He then stops. He looks down in reflection, with a solemn look on his face. Slowly, the muscles of his face slowly tense up. He grasps the pen tighter. His face turns a distinct shade of red.

With no warning, the man stands up, jerks his arms, yells something incoherent under his breath, and then sits down, slamming his bottom against the bench. He takes the pen again and jabs the page several times, yelling incoherent syllables as he does so.

Several minutes pass. Rapid page turning, more scribbling. The door to the rink opens several times, and wadded sheets of inked paper are thrown onto the ice each time.

The door slams. Silence.

A few minutes later, crying sounds are now heard in the locker room. The crying turns to anger.

"I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS!"

It's clear something has affected him. What exactly it was is unclear.

A few minutes later. The man scribbles more. His handwriting is unclear except for the bold, angry exclamation marks that stand out.

Distressed, he calls out in desperation, as if demanding that God intervene on his side. "Это... это невозможно... Как это произошло?"

His cry went unanswered, as he is the only one in the locker room at this hour. Even if someone else were in the locker room, odds are that they would not have been a Russian speaker.

He sighs again, picks up the journal, and starts to tear up.

"Моя жизнь... кончена. Прощайте."

He takes something in his hand that looks like a syringe and starts to jab himself with it. Halfway through the motion he stops himself.

"I... I don't even know if I should do this."

He looks around for anyone else.

"Awooooo? Nightly howling time, anyone? Awooooo?"

The man grows desperate in a search for anyone else. He packs up his journal and pen before walking out onto the rink.

"Hello? Awooooooooo?"

No answer.

"I... I love all of you. I just... I don't want this to be over so soon!" Tears form in his eyes.

"I never asked to be put in this position..."

Intense sobbing.

"Sasha, Frans, Slap, Dom, Sven, Jakub... what will they make of this?"

More sobbing.

"I just... why? I signed a long contract with these guys and now... how? Why the hell did this happen?!"

The man bends down, eyes almost touching the ice.

"Whyyyyyy?!?!?! This cruel universe, whyyyyyyy?!?!?! I just... I just wish it wasn't this way. I was settling in for the rest of my career and now... I just..."

"Why does it have to be over so soon?"

Silence.

"I beg the hockey gods for my forgiveness! I don't even..." An intense burst of sobbing.

"I'd give anything to not have to do this! I hate this! Why do I get involved in something that's not even my fault?! JUST WHY DID THE LEAGUE HAVE TO EXPAND AT THIS TIME?!?!?! And why is it that everyone's expecting that I get taken?! I just... I don't understand... I know who will likely be Number One, but why am I Number Two? I never wanted to be Number Two!"

"How will I explain this to everyone? I was just... why must I be forced to sever ties with a team I've not even known for two years?"

Silence.

"I swear, every time I join a team, it's cursed..."

He gets out the syringe again.

"Goodbye, cruel world. Прощай..."

He puts the syringe up next to his skin and considers what he's about to do. After two minutes of hesitation, he puts the syringe back in his bag.

With nothing more said, the man gets up and sits back down again with his journal, tearing another page out slowly. He crumbles it up and throws it onto the ice. One minute later, he packs up and heads for the door. Viewing him from behind, the name on his jersey is clear. "VOLKOV" in capital letters.

He mutters something to himself before sitting down next to the door, waiting for that dreadful morning.

After twenty minutes, he just scribbles on a piece of paper and tapes it to the window. "Help Igor feel better." He sat down next to the sign and waited for sunrise, when his team would start to check in to the locker room.

As they enter, the best he greets them with is nothing more than a small whimper.

"Awoooooo..."

[Image: x9gTXZa.gif]

S48 Four Star Cup Champion (Vancouver Whalers)
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#2

I have a fear of number two after eating a bunch of jalapenos

[Image: iUd7IJE.png]
[Image: rhodes.png]




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#3

Who does number two work for?



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#4

Fake news

[Image: Fitted_3.png]


2x 4Star Cup Champ s49 s50

1x commissioners excellence award s 50
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