Clearly, I Should Never Hold Contests

Howdy, Kittens. Remember that slashfic contest I had over the summer?
I learned a few things from it, such as sex scenes and fights are much harder to write than I thought they were, and that I really suck at running contests.

I only had one entry (the rest of the stories were ones I wrote), so your winner by default is.... (drumroll)

Garrett Bauman of Maple Leafs Hot Stove!

Congrats, Garrett! Your entry of "Being Tomas Kaberle", a heart warming/heart breaking tale about everyone's favourite rosy-cheeked Czech is the winner!

For your prize....um....email a request of a scene and I will cartoon it. And mail it. My work of Matt Stajan on a unicorn was partially inspired by this piece, in fact.

Congratulations again to Garrett, winner by default (2 of the sweetest words in the English language)

Slashfic Summer: Pythons of London

Starring JaredofLondon from Die Hard Blue and White.
I'm going to call this just hardly PG-13 on account of some naughty words. Oh, and here is the origin of "Pythons".

Jared of London came home from yet another long night of hauling around guns and big bags of money. It was an OK job--it paid bills and put a roof over his head, but it was sadly lacking in the hot women, ninjas and monkey butlers he had always dreamed about. He entered the apartment, flicked on the light, and saw the one thing he never, ever wanted to see sitting on his couch. It was That Guy, who so often appeared in Jared's "Talking to Myself" series.

"Morning, Jackass!" said That Guy as he took a swig from what happened to be the last bottle of beer in Jared's refrigerator.

"OK, That's it!" yelled Jared. "You come in here, drink my beer, eat my food, track in mud and you don't even chip in for rent! we're settling this RIGHT. NOW! YOU'RE GOING DOWN, ASSHOLE!"

"Make me!" said That Guy as he finished the beer. Jared had always feared the day would come, when he and his intruder would have to fight for control. Jared rolled up his sleeves as That Guy advanced menacingly toward him. Jared saw That Guy coming and pinned his back to the ground. That Guy kicked Jared in the ribs and somehow, Jared's own foot began to hurt. Jared threw a few haymakers to That Guy's face but stopped when he realized his face was hurting too. That Guy then kicked Jared in the stomach, leaving Jared winded just long enough for him to wriggle free. That Guy tried to escape, but Jared grabbed his legs and punched him in the back of the knees, causing That Guy to fall to the floor. Jared searched for something--anything--he could use as a weapon when he saw a small kiddie pool filled with Jello on his floor.

"Weird" said Jared to himself. "I don't remember that being there before..."

"Shirtlessness can only improve this situation!" yelled That Guy, tearing off his shirt while tackling Jared. A dazed (and somehow shirtless) Jared tumbled backwards into the kiddie pool of Jello. That Guy saw his chance, and pounced on Jared, who bit That Guy on his arm. Jared sprung to his knees and tried to drown That Guy in the pool of Jello until he realized he couldn't breathe. Suddenly, both Jared and That Guy tried to punch each other at the same time, and thier fists connected! Python met python, fist hit fist. Time stopped, and the universe said "Oh." All it could say was 'Oh.'

Several hours later, Jared woke up on the floor of his apartment. He was covered in broken glass, blood, and Jello. Jared wasn't totally sure what had happened, but he knew three things for certain: his place was a mess, he hurt like Hell, and there was a piece of paper stapled to his hand. Gingerly, he lifted his arm to read the message scrawled across it: "You're out of beer, milk, eggs, and bread. --That Guy. P.S.: Fuck you!"

"What an asshole!" sighed Jared, right before he passed out again.

Slash Fic Summer: Cherry Popping

Another slash for you all to enjoy. It's done from Ron MacLean's persepctive. I'm going to give it a rating of pg-13 on account of lots of violence and blood. I'm also giving a glove tap to JaredofLondon for helping me out with the ending.


Another Saturday, another late night. I wondered If I was getting a bit too old for Hockey Night in Canada. I thought that maybe it was time I hung up the mike and relaxed a bit. Then I stopped myself. Sure, some time off might be nice, but what would I do with my time--knit? Twitter? No, I figured, at least for now, Hockey Night In Canada was the perfect fit for me. It was something I loved doing,something I was good at, and I worked with people I really liked.

Except for Don Cherry. I had tolerated his presence for so long, it nearly drove me mad. I'm pretty sure I'm now deaf in one ear on account of his rambling and ranting. And while the viewers at home could grab a snack, change the channel, or hit the mute button, I had no such luxury. I couldn't even roll my eyes. I had to look interested and smile and nod the whole time.

One night, I knew that I just couldn't stomach another night. I had thought about standing up and saying "Don, you're a jackass!", slapping his ugly bulldog face, and storming out of the studio. Don went on another of his tirades about the conditions of the league, telling kids "Now, watch--watch this! We got it? Yeah, DO. NOT. DO.THIS" He found yet another suit that nearly blinded me--who told him that lime green and navy check with a Snoopy tie was a good look? I tried to be a voice of reason. I said, "Now Don, that's not the only thing that matters--" but he cut me off. "WHAT ELSE MATTERS? Back when I was coaching the Bruins..."

That son of a bitch cut me off for the last time. I felt my hand curl around my pen. After that, I felt as if my mind had left my body and my hand and mouth were operating under someone else's control. I picked up my pen and plugned it into Don's neck. I yelled "Will! you let! Me finish! A goddam! Sentence! Once in a while! JORDAN STAAL WEARS A VISOR WHEN YOU AREN'T WATCHING!" as I accentuated every few words with another stab. I looked at Don's mutilated neck and face and plunged my pen into his eye socket.

It was a dream that I had had dozens of times before. Usually, I woke up shaking and in a cold sweat, so agitated that I could only go back to sleep after a slice of white bread and a glass of warm milk. But as I felt Don's hot, sticky blood drip off my hands and suit, it hit me. "Ron, this isn't a dream. You actually just stabbed Don Cherry to death on TV in front of millions of people." I looked into the camera, my bloody hands shaking so badly I dropped the pen.

Somehow, I knew the show had to go on, even if I didn't know if they were still broadcasting. I cleared my throat and tried to continue: "So, the, uh Buffalo Sabres are up 2-1 against the Ottawa Senators after a late first period goal by...". Somewhere, I heard P.J. Stock yell "Victory is mine!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something I never expected to see. I saw Don's hand, wrapped in a sequined glove, punch towards the sky. I heard a faint rendition of "Thriller" in the background. Don retook his seat, cleared his throat, and said, "Ronnie, that was a good ol' Canadian stabbing! The sorta thing Bobby Orr woulda loved! Support the troops!"

I was shocked, stunned and amazed. Don continued, "Yanno, Ronnie, that's why my suits have these crazy high collars. You never know when you might be on the wrong end of a good ol' fashioned shivving."

"Oh." I said. All I could say was "Oh."

Slashfic Summer: Requiem for a Heartache

This is kind of, sorta a parody of Dream Me for a Tragedy. If you can’t access LiveJournal, it’s a slashfic starring Sidney Crosby and Jordan Staal where Staal has HIV (thanks, Wrap!) It was so over the top and melodramatic, I feltI had to do a tribute of my own.

Lee Stempniak was hungry for something mere food couldn’t provide. He and Mike Van Ryn had be only friends when they first met, but coming to Toronto had made them both realize that they had something deeper and more meaningful between them. Lee kissed Mike deeply, his hot tongue probing and pulsating with urgent need.Mike knew what they both wanted and needed, but he also knew something Lee didn’t know, Mike pushed Leeaway. “Lee, no. We can’t...” he added. “What do you mean ‘we can’t’?” asked Lee, flames of desire still burning in his eyes. “Lee”, Mike stammered, “We...”. He sighed. “I have HIV.”

The color drained from Lee’s face. “Oh.” he said. All he could say was ‘Oh.” The pair looked at each other for whatseemed like forever until they both started to cry. With the tears came Mike’s story--a drug addicted nurse injected herself and then her patients, and Mike had the awful luck of being under her care after one of his many injuries. Leestopped sobbing long enough to choke out “But...how did you get to the NHL, where guys are always getting cut andthere’s blood all over, without anyone knowing you have HIV? That doesn’t make any goddamn sense. Look, this is hard and I think I need some space to think things out. I should leave.”

Mike looked puzzled. “But Lee...isn’t this your house?” he asked

Lee sniffed and answered, “Oh, yeah. Right. Listen, not to be a total dick, but uh...”
Mike stopped him. “Yeah, I’ll get going. So...see you at practice tomorrow?” Lee nodded as Mike left.

The next day at practice, Lee felt like lead. He wondered if anyone else knew about Mike’s HIV. Surely the trainersmust know, since they would be the ones dealing with an injury. Lee’s contemplation was broken by the entrance of Matt Stajan and John Mitchell, joking around as usual.

“...so I’m like, ‘That’s what your mom said!’” laughed Matt.

“Oh man, that’s good”, giggled John “You gotta see this crazy guy I saw last night--I have his picture on my phone.”John turned on his phone and suddenly he yelled, “What the fuck? My phone fuckin’ died on me!”

“Heh, maybe it has teh AIDS”, chuckled Matt.

“Yeah, it’s got phone AIDS” sniggered John.

"You guys shouldn’t joke about that,” Lee interjected. “People die from AIDS every day and it’s not a fun death.”

“People die of cancer all the time--way more than AIDS--and that doesn’t stop Jason Blake from making cancer jokes”, returned John.

Jason turned around at the mention of his name. “That’s different”, he said. “If you make cancer jokes, you’re still an insensitive jerk. If I make cancer jokes, it’s OK because I’ve earned it.. If you survive cancer, you get to make all thecancer jokes you want. You even get a little card and everything.”

Practice went normally, with Lee dutifully fulfilling the role of teammate and player. After the skate, which CoachWilson was going over some plays, Lee realized he couldn’t keep silent anymore. “OK, so Van Ryn, you go--” Lee stood up and cut off his coach.

“And Van Ryn is a jackass!” cried Lee. “Seriously Mike, you thought you could go on forever and not tell anyone you’re sick? What the FUCK, MIKE?!”

Mike tried to defend himself : “Look, my counts are good, “I’m as healthy as I can be--”

Lee cut him off: “How could you be so STUPID, MIKE?” He continued quietly. “How could you be so selfish? All those long, late night talks about honesty and trust and you couldn’t mention ‘Oh, by the way, I have AIDS’?

“I do NOT have AIDS. I have HIV, you asshole!” yelled Mike.

“See, this is why I don’t date teammates” Matt whispered to John.
“You’re gay?” asked John.
“I’m bisexual, asshat”, snorted Matt.

Lee left the room, not caring he was still in full gear, with tears and sobs pouring out of him.

Nothing could have prepared Mike for the visit he had from Matt Stajan the next day. “Mike, “ said Matt, “I dunno how to say this, but...Lee Stempniak died last night. He accidentally fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck.But at least the docs don’t think he suffered at all. The way he landed, he was probably dead before you could say‘Deus ex machina.’”

Mike was stunned. He and Lee were supposed to separate after HIV decaying into AIDS becoming the death sentence, not through some quick and stupid accident.

“I never said I was sorry.” Mike sighed.

Slash Fic Summer Entry: Being Tomas Kaberle

First entry into the contest! I'm not revealing authors until I decide a winner, because I can and I want to be all mysterious-like.

Being Tomas Kaberle

I don't know why everybody in Toronto wants to trade me. All I've ever done is my best for this team, yet the fans care more about some random prospect who might be a good player than an All-Star who loves the city and doesn't care how much money he is making. Lately I've been really hurting inside because of this. What did I do? Whose feelings did I ever hurt? And why do so many people want to hurt mine?

I need to sort this all out, I need somebody to hold me and tell me everything will be all right. Pavel Kubina used to be my go-to guy for this sort of thing. He was always so caring. Always giving me these deep stares from across the room, like he wanted to say something deep and profound but couldn't. No words were ever needed, I just felt safe knowing his eyes were on me. But now he's gone, and I will need a new hetero soulmate if I am ever to get myself through all this pain.

Everyone always talks about what a good guy Matt Stajan is, so I thought maybe I'd ask him for some advice. I found him at the rink handing out puppies to sick kids. "Matt," I said, "what do you do when you are depressed and the whole world seems to be against you?" "Well Tomas," he said, "I just find a big, beautiful pair of eyes to stare into while I pour my heart out and have a good cry. Like when Carlo and Steener were traded, that broke my heart so much." Right then and there I wanted to tell him how beautiful his eyes were, and how I could really use a friend like him, but before I could say anything he pulled out a compact mirror, stared deeply into his own reflection and murmured softly, "Carlo ... Steener ... why?" as he started to weep uncontrollably.

At a loss for what to do, I patted him awkwardly on the head and wandered over to the exercise room to work out my frustrations. Walking in, I spotted Ron Wilson doing his morning workout routine, swinging wildly at a life-sized Howard Berger blowup doll. "Coach Wilson," I asked between haymakers, "I am depressed. Everyone wants me traded. Why?"

"Well Tomas," he said, wiping the blood from his knuckles, "when things don't go well in this town, everyone tries to place blame. Usually they pick the guy they expected to lead the team over the top. And when the team fails, the fans decide they need to go another direction. They decide that player can't help them and must be traded, no matter how talented he is or hard they tried to help the team win.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Are you saying I am that player?”

“Basically,” he said, placing a bloodied hand on my shoulder, “you've become Bryan McCabe."

"Oh," I said. All I could say was "Oh".

Has it really come to this? Am I Bryan McCabe? I wanted to tell Coach Wilson how much I missed Caber and all those nights on the town, and how much he would have loved to have coached a player with such a big heart. But before I could blurt it out, Coach Wilson cut me off. "Sorry Tomas,” he said in a dismissive tone, “I'd love to keep chatting but I've got to go bench press Simmons right now."

Reflecting on my conversation with Coach Wilson, I came to the sudden, sad realization that my time in Toronto may be done. I love this city and this team, but maybe Caber was right, maybe a fresh start isn't as a bad as it first seems. Perhaps I could even join my good friend Kyle Wellwood in Vancouver. After all, he says there is a bakery near the beach with muffins to absolutely die for. Mmm, sweet, gooey, delicious melt-in-your-mouth muffins ... I'm starting to feel better already!

Czech Mates, part 2

Czech Mates Part 1



There are still no entries in the Slash fic Summer contest, so here is Czech Mates 2 to spark your creativity. As before, this is from Pavel Kubina's perspective.

I knew my chance to reach Tomas was getting smaller all of the time. At the end of the season, I knew I would be open game to be traded, and I wouldn’t see him except as an opponent. It made me sad and nervous that I only had maybe one more chance to talk to him before it was too late.

There was a Leafs end of the season party, and so I went. I put on some of my best clothes, and I even shaved. I triedto get myself excited and pumped up for the party. I thought “Tomas will have to notice me now.” But then I feltself-doubt creeping in. I thought, “What if he doesn’t laugh at my jokes? What if he’s not interested in me like I’minterested in him? I shouldn’t even go--I’ll just look like a fool anyway. Maybe I should just stay home and watch cartoons.” I stopped and looked in the mirror. “Pavel”, I said, “you’re a handsome man, you’re fun to be around, you work hard, you’re full of energy, and you’re all around a good guy. Who wouldn’t want you as a buddy? You’re going to go to that party and have a good time!”

The party wasn’t anything special--just the guys hanging out, having some drinks, telling stories about each other,Jason Blake trying to convince the rookies to do dumb stuff. In other words, the usual. I saw Tomas all alone in a corner, like he usually was. Even in his own house with his closest friends, he was still so shy. It was something Iliked about him--he never needed to show off or impress anyone. He at least made an effort to go to things like thiseven though I could tell he’d rather not. Maybe all he needed was a little help from the right person, a very close friend, and he could be more comfortable in himself....

I tried to talk to him as something deeper than teammate and “guy I know.” I really did try so very hard. But I stumbled and stuttered and he stumbled and stammered back. We ended up trading short, pleasant bits about theparty, how the weather was finally getting better and stupid stuff like that.

I went to get another drink in hopes that when I came back I would be bolder. and still I couldn’t talk to him like I wanted. I finally excused myself for “another drink” and asked my friend Matt Stajan for advice. I didn’t know if hecould be of any help, but anything he said had to be better than listening to my inner voice calling me an idiot. I explained my situation and Matt told me, “If you really want him to notice you, just grab his ass. It’s how we roll inMississauga.”
“Oh.” I said. All I could say was “oh.” I knew I couldn’t have enough courage to be so bold with Tomas. If anything,a move like that would scare him away. I thought that maybe if I sent him an email later, explaining how I felt, maybe if I could talk with him when it was just us, he could be a little more at ease. But part of me gave up that night, simply because I could never have the courage, no matter how much I wanted it.

I tried talking to Tomas one more time, and it was still awkward and hard. The night between us ended in a long hug.I could feel that Tomas wanted something but he also didn’t have the nerve to say something. I left empty handed and heavy hearted. I kept looking over my shoulder and thinking I could go back...but I know that was just my dumb heart talking and that maybe I should listen to my head instead.

CONTEST! and other stuff

I figured I'd tie up some things here:

First off, Since the summer is really damn boring I am having a contest! It's the first ever Loser Domi's Slash Fic Summer! So get those twisted minds a-workin' on some NHL slashfic. Here are the rules:

1: You can keep it as tame or a saucy as you like.

2: It must involve at least one person with some sort of connection to hockey. This could be a player, a broadcaster, a writer or even a blogger. Perhaps you want to write about how players "relieve stress" while on the road? Maybe Pavel Kubina and Hugh Laurie get a little saucy at the International Hobo Beard convention? OR you want to figure out what Chemmy and PPP really do on their sexy vacations together? Go for it!

3: I'm putting a limit of 1000 words maximum per story.

4: (And this is crucial) Every entry MUST contain the following phrase: "'Oh' he/she/I said. All he/she/I could say was 'Oh'".

5: Email your entries to me at loserdomi@gmail.com with either "contest" or "LD, you are soooo cool and I have daydreamed about kissing you" in the subject line.

6: I don't really have prizes, but I could send you some old textbooks I don't need anymore, or some random crap I find cleaning.


Second thing, I will be doing a "time to say goodbye" type series for the players who leave the Leafs for free agency (hobobeard... :/). Just give me a bit to work them out.