Official Match Thread Season 37, Round 8: Coney Island Warriors vs West Coast Wonders at Van Cortlandt Park

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Tonga Bob said:
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Steve Buscemi Reaction GIF


I seem to be in the backline, are you trying to confuse the Sim?
 

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zackah said:
Oh am I going to another team again to win another premiership?
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Nah, I don't see you as a Hawks player. Better stay here.
 
zackah said:
Its either that or pretend I don't win a final for 7000 days.

What do you think i'm choosing flog?
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Ok you're choosing flog, it's a free country
 

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Brayden existed in a perpetual twilight. Not of the day, but of the soul. The lines on his face, etched deeper than his years warranted, were a map of a past he desperately wished to forget. Every sunrise was a cruel reminder, a searing light on a landscape of horrors. Sleep, a fragile refuge, was haunted by fragmented memories - whispers in a dead language, the metallic tang of blood, the sensation of cold steel scraping bone.

He lived a solitary life, a ghost in a bustling city. The cacophony of human interaction was a white noise that couldn't drown out the screams locked in his head. He worked at a menial job, his hands, once nimble and strong, now moved with a dull efficiency. His apartment was a spartan cell, devoid of anything personal. No photographs, no trinkets, nothing to anchor him to a life he no longer re```cognized.

One day, a stray cat found its way to his windowsill, a scrawny, tattered creature with eyes that mirrored his own haunted depths. Brayden, hesitant at first, found himself drawn to its vulnerability. He started leaving out scraps of food, the first flicker of warmth in his desolate existence. The cat, cautious at first, eventually ventured in, the silence broken by its soft purr. He named it Shadow, a fitting companion for a man who lived in the perpetual darkness of his memories.

One evening, as Brayden sat hunched over, a tremor ran through him. A single word, spoken in that dead language, ripped through the years, shattering the fragile dam of his sanity. He doubled over, a guttural moan escaping his lips. Shadow, sensing his distress, nudged his hand, a silent plea for comfort.

In that moment, staring into the cat's unwavering gaze, a horrifying truth dawned on Brayden. Death, the sweet oblivion he craved, wouldn't erase the scars. It would only leave Shadow alone, another victim of his cursed existence.

A new resolve hardened his gaze. He couldn't forget, not entirely. But he could choose to exist for something more than just his own suffering. He would learn to live with the darkness, not surrender to it. He would protect the fragile light that had found him in the stray cat's purr.

The path wouldn't be easy. Every day would be a battle against the demons of his past. But for the first time in years, Brayden faced the dawn with a sliver of newfound hope. He would carry the weight of his past, but he wouldn't let it crush him. He would exist, not just survive, for the sake of the small creature who had dared to offer him a sliver of warmth in the desolate wasteland of his soul.
 
Purple7x08_24 said:
Brayden existed in a perpetual twilight. Not of the day, but of the soul. The lines on his face, etched deeper than his years warranted, were a map of a past he desperately wished to forget. Every sunrise was a cruel reminder, a searing light on a landscape of horrors. Sleep, a fragile refuge, was haunted by fragmented memories - whispers in a dead language, the metallic tang of blood, the sensation of cold steel scraping bone.

He lived a solitary life, a ghost in a bustling city. The cacophony of human interaction was a white noise that couldn't drown out the screams locked in his head. He worked at a menial job, his hands, once nimble and strong, now moved with a dull efficiency. His apartment was a spartan cell, devoid of anything personal. No photographs, no trinkets, nothing to anchor him to a life he no longer re```cognized.

One day, a stray cat found its way to his windowsill, a scrawny, tattered creature with eyes that mirrored his own haunted depths. Brayden, hesitant at first, found himself drawn to its vulnerability. He started leaving out scraps of food, the first flicker of warmth in his desolate existence. The cat, cautious at first, eventually ventured in, the silence broken by its soft purr. He named it Shadow, a fitting companion for a man who lived in the perpetual darkness of his memories.

One evening, as Brayden sat hunched over, a tremor ran through him. A single word, spoken in that dead language, ripped through the years, shattering the fragile dam of his sanity. He doubled over, a guttural moan escaping his lips. Shadow, sensing his distress, nudged his hand, a silent plea for comfort.

In that moment, staring into the cat's unwavering gaze, a horrifying truth dawned on Brayden. Death, the sweet oblivion he craved, wouldn't erase the scars. It would only leave Shadow alone, another victim of his cursed existence.

A new resolve hardened his gaze. He couldn't forget, not entirely. But he could choose to exist for something more than just his own suffering. He would learn to live with the darkness, not surrender to it. He would protect the fragile light that had found him in the stray cat's purr.

The path wouldn't be easy. Every day would be a battle against the demons of his past. But for the first time in years, Brayden faced the dawn with a sliver of newfound hope. He would carry the weight of his past, but he wouldn't let it crush him. He would exist, not just survive, for the sake of the small creature who had dared to offer him a sliver of warmth in the desolate wasteland of his soul.
Click to expand...
Same.
 
Purple7x08_24 said:
Brayden existed in a perpetual twilight. Not of the day, but of the soul. The lines on his face, etched deeper than his years warranted, were a map of a past he desperately wished to forget. Every sunrise was a cruel reminder, a searing light on a landscape of horrors. Sleep, a fragile refuge, was haunted by fragmented memories - whispers in a dead language, the metallic tang of blood, the sensation of cold steel scraping bone.

He lived a solitary life, a ghost in a bustling city. The cacophony of human interaction was a white noise that couldn't drown out the screams locked in his head. He worked at a menial job, his hands, once nimble and strong, now moved with a dull efficiency. His apartment was a spartan cell, devoid of anything personal. No photographs, no trinkets, nothing to anchor him to a life he no longer re```cognized.

One day, a stray cat found its way to his windowsill, a scrawny, tattered creature with eyes that mirrored his own haunted depths. Brayden, hesitant at first, found himself drawn to its vulnerability. He started leaving out scraps of food, the first flicker of warmth in his desolate existence. The cat, cautious at first, eventually ventured in, the silence broken by its soft purr. He named it Shadow, a fitting companion for a man who lived in the perpetual darkness of his memories.

One evening, as Brayden sat hunched over, a tremor ran through him. A single word, spoken in that dead language, ripped through the years, shattering the fragile dam of his sanity. He doubled over, a guttural moan escaping his lips. Shadow, sensing his distress, nudged his hand, a silent plea for comfort.

In that moment, staring into the cat's unwavering gaze, a horrifying truth dawned on Brayden. Death, the sweet oblivion he craved, wouldn't erase the scars. It would only leave Shadow alone, another victim of his cursed existence.

A new resolve hardened his gaze. He couldn't forget, not entirely. But he could choose to exist for something more than just his own suffering. He would learn to live with the darkness, not surrender to it. He would protect the fragile light that had found him in the stray cat's purr.

The path wouldn't be easy. Every day would be a battle against the demons of his past. But for the first time in years, Brayden faced the dawn with a sliver of newfound hope. He would carry the weight of his past, but he wouldn't let it crush him. He would exist, not just survive, for the sake of the small creature who had dared to offer him a sliver of warmth in the desolate wasteland of his soul.
Click to expand...
IMG_0731.gif
 
AnUltimateRessie said:
Hello my sweet sweet Warriors. Sorry I haven't shown up much for you this week. Will ensure that I'm a menace on Sunday
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The only thing sweet about us is our disposition, We are the sweat Warriors, see you Friday3.
 
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