Sweetdreamer:
thanks dear... You welcome here, you can take a sit, or thronekid can help you... Just drop what you want lols!! Thronekid is the waiter here...

wow thats good,can i have the menu list

prettydiva89:

wow thats good,can i have the menu list

haha, i'll whisper to the waiter now.... Thronekid where re you?

Sweetdreamer:
thanks dear... You welcome here, you can take a sit, or thronekid can help you... Just drop what you want lols!! Thronekid is the waiter here...

Nw, we'r up nd runnin

Sweetdreamer:
haha, i'll whisper to the waiter now.... Thronekid where re you?

be quick in doing that...am seriously hungry

Sweetdreamer:
haha, i'll whisper to the waiter now.... Thronekid where re you?

*pantx into d thread,just escapd narrowly frm B.K*
Nw,i'm here!
Place yr orderx

thronekid:

*pantx into d thread,just escapd narrowly frm B.K*
Nw,i'm here!
Place yr orderx

ice cream and chicken will do for now

prettydiva89:

ice cream and chicken will do for now

Owk!
.[servex it t ha,little did she knw ther's an engagement ring inside d cream.]

thronekid:

Owk!
.[servex it t ha,little did she knw ther's an engagement ring inside d cream.]

lolz

prettydiva89:

lolz

I serious o

Op,............you've got a nice story bro,just chillax,dun rush,space your work and punctuate so your work can be neat,apart that,you are doing a great job here.


More ink to your pen.



Update please,patiently waiting

ormorlehwah , grocery ,
christybabe , ice4jez ,
pwettynini , chijudith ,
fluffyp , blesynluv ,
kennylizzy , lilypet ,
bibiolu , gra890 ,
unibenstudent ,
tuddiies , peacynelson ,
olasunbophummie ,
debbysky , aprilwise ,
maputohq , shaks97 ,
rmfunky , benz4pimp ,
Hyfe , mohjisolah ,
bdaniel178 ,
muniratAbolanl ,
ziziola , bumsiee ,
spotmataz, ogunsiji ,
zikyke , mohjisolah ,
larteefah , hnkan ,
mitchelle55 , HelenBee ,
Oluwatyna ,
preciousberry , mary
haam , lyzee21 ,
ebonyme890 ,
ifedinna ,eielalove ,
alayormii , rudepen ,
sebak , chistar ,
kingphilip. fembleeze1,Fatalveli,Shaxee,harjibolar10,d9ty7,bluestarry,kinwayne,onemansquad,tekno4life,athanatos,nitefury,chistar01,Teebashy,crowny1,kayemjay,tiffanyj, TiffanyJ and a host of others,you guys are all invited!

Fembleez1:
Op,............you've got a nice story bro,just chillax,dun rush,space your work and punctuate so your work can be neat,apart that,you are doing a great job here.


More ink to your pen.



Update please,patiently waiting

thank you very much... I'll try and work thinqs out...

Mehn dis story go swit lyk tom tom
#followin bro

Onemansquad:
Mehn dis story go swit lyk tom tom
#followin bro

thanks bro!!

My Oga. thanks for the invites.

we dey your back till d end...


#Following..

Abeg we fit get Alomo and Suya here..

samsondavid:
My Oga. thanks for the invites.

we dey your back till d end...


#Following..

Abeg we fit get Alomo and Suya here..

lols, you welcome to the house, thronekid... Provide his need la....

Sweetdreamer:
lols, you welcome to the house, thronekid... Provide his need la....

Owk boss.
'
. Can you please make your request again? @ samsondavid

thronekid:

Owk boss.
'
. Can you please make your request again? @ samsondavid

just chill bottle water

thronekid:

Owk boss.
'
. Can you please make your request again? @ samsondavid

samsondavid, thronekid is waiting for your requests...

samsondavid:





just chill bottle water

no bear? Lols, i guess you need juice right to top the suya

Sweetdreamer:
no bear? Lols, i guess you need juice right to top the suya

I don't take alcohol.. d drink is OK. thanks

samsondavid:



I don't take alcohol.. d drink is OK. thanks

alright bro... I'll update this story tomorrow when am less busy...

samsondavid:





just chill bottle water

U statisfied now or anyfin else u nid?

“I know what you’re
going to say. I heard
about it.”
“I’m not going to say
anything. I’m just
wondering about this
loss. It sounds
suspicious to me. No
tools or computers
stolen. I still don’t think
we’ve got the whole
story here, and that
could mean non-
disclosure. In which
case we could VOID the
policy ab initio.”
“Marty. Get a grip. Bad
losses happen to good
underwriters. It’s not
your fault, and I know
that. Leave the
investigation to the
Claims Department.”
“Okay. I faxed the
broker to get the line
security in there or else
face the hammer.”
“That’s all we can do.
Now blow it off. You’ve
had bigger losses than
this. Besides, it builds
character.”
“It builds my stress
level is what it does.”
Leaving Gerry to her
managing, he returned
to his cube feeling
dissatisfied. It was a
mystery, that was for
sure. But if he were
reading this mystery in
one of his detective
novels, he would’ve put
it down by now. Too
boring. Something about
this was not right, but
it wasn’t really his place
to intrude. Let the
Claims Department do
their work. They were
thorough, Jason’s
bluster
notwithstanding. If
there was something
to find, they’d find it.
Time to shake this off
with a little caloric input.
He sat in the lunchroom
quietly munching his
sandwich. People came
and went, mostly going
back to eat at their
desks, or going out for
lunch. Martin was a
fixture in the lunchroom:
same time, same lunch,
everyday. Lunch was
about giving his mind a
break. No magazines or
TV, no conversation, no
stimuli. It wasn’t a Zen
thing: be the sandwich,
one hand clapping, or
whatever. It just felt
good to decompress
and not think about
anything, if he could
manage it. Concentrate
on the flavor of the
sandwich, and the
chocolate bar.
It was the chocolate
bars that gave him the
spare tire, he felt, but
he couldn’t stop. They
were an addiction. He
was about 5'10", pudgy,
especially around the
gut. The old hairline was
slowly retreating on
him. At 38 years old,
this was right on
schedule. Par for the
genetic course. Thanks,
Grandpa. But it didn’t
help that the media
was always
bombarding women
with images of the ideal
male, an ideal he
couldn’t live up to. Calvin
Klein underwear ads had
set his self-esteem
back a pace, he could
admit it now.
He poured another cup
of coffee and went
back to the cube. He
tried to get back into
the flow of things, but
the stupid loss kept
bugging him and he
ended up just staring
off into space for long
periods of time, just
trying to crack the code
of this puzzle. That
was how George, the
bicycle courier who did
their head office mail
run every day found
him, lost in thought at
his desk.
“Hey, buddy,” he said,
picking up the name
plate on his desk and
flipping it over in his
hand, tapping it on the
desk. “Where’s my
envelope?”
“Hey, go easy on the
name plate.”
“Sorry about that. I
don’t want to break the
last link to your sense
of identity.”
“Don’t worry, my
name’s sewn into the
backs of all my shirts.”
“There you go. You’ll be
fine.”
“All right, just let me
collect it up.” Martin got
up out of his chair, glad
for something else to
think about and a
chance to shoot the
breeze with George. He
had been doing the pick-
ups at their office for a
few years now and he
and Martin had been out
for drinks a couple of
times after work. He
was a good guy,
despite his scary
appearance. Tall,
sunglasses, white
man’s dreadlocks,
tattoos, pierced this
and that… he wasn’t
like Martin’s insurance
friends, but that’s
what he liked about
him. He was different.

“No rush. I’m ahead of
schedule today,” said
George.
George came with him
into the mail room, and
talked to him as he
gathered up all the
envelopes, memos, and
various other
correspondence,
packaged and weighed
it all, and wrote out the
receiving slip.
“So, rough day, or just
hungry?” said George.
“It’s been one of those
days. Started out okay,
but it all went quickly
downhill this
afternoon.”
“Sounds like a pretty
normal Monday.”
“Yeah, I guess. Well,
here it is. Signed, sealed,
and now just to be
delivered.”
“Thanks. We going for
drinks tonight, Marty?”
“Not tonight, but
maybe some night this
week.”
“Just say the word.”
George put on his
sunglasses as Martin
walked him out through
the office and over to
the main door. “See ya.”
“Bye, George,” called
Janice.
“Bye.” The door closed
behind him.
“Whew, he’s cute,” said
Janice. “Do you know if
he’s single?”
“Um, yes. I mean, yes, I
do know he lives with
his girlfriend.”
“Too bad. Such a hottie!
He can deliver my
package anytime.”
Janice was kind of a
hottie herself, in that
secretary way. Single
secretaries exude this
air of availability and
eagerness, like
bridesmaids. She was
no supermodel, which
Martin didn’t mind. That
type of woman
intimidated Martin,
anyway. They always
looked so severe, so
hard, with angry-looking
cheek bones. He always
imagined them as
martial arts experts,
capable of knocking his
block off if he so much
as looked at them.
No, she was solidly
built, pretty, and
seemed fun to be
around. Shoulder length
blond hair product hair,
small features, fair-
sized bust and hips.
Looking very fertile. In
her early 30's, he
guessed. But she would
probably say no. Look at
him. Why would she go
out with him? He
wasn’t much to look at.
And even if they did go
out once or twice,
something would
happen and the whole
thing would go to hell,
and it would hurt. Then
he wouldn’t be able to
look her in the eye here
at work the next
morning. Always have
to pretend to check out
the paint job on the
walls as he walked by
her desk. And face the
shame of a failed office
romance. It wasn’t
worth it.
Quietly back across the
office, shy glance
around, wishing he could
turn himself invisible,
wanting to escape
people’s notice and
make it back to the
safety of his little cube
without anyone
confronting him. Feeling
strangely persecuted,
as if everyone were
against him. Couldn’t
seem to face anything
or anyone right now.

When George threw a
leg over the handle bars
and popped his toes
into the clips, he felt like
the bike became a part
of him, part of his
movements, the
smooth motion of his
legs compelling his
forward momentum in
a way he now found
more natural than
walking. A low tech
cyborg. He positively
flew on the longish trip
north, his powerful legs
carrying him faster than
all the six-cylinders-in-
V-formation, power-of-
two-hundred-horses
metal monsters lined up
every block from Front
Street to the 401 along
Yonge Street, the trunk
of the tree that grew
into the longest street
in the world.
Passing Bloor Street,
Rosedale, the three
long, slow inclines of
“heartbreak hill” leading
up to the Chum FM radio
building, and then on
past St. Clair to the long
stretch of greenery in
the Mount Pleasant
Cemetery, finally pulling
up for a red light at
Davisville Avenue.
Catching his breath a
bit, he stood on the
pedals, balancing the
bike and looking up
ahead at the giant
triangular neon
strawberry on top of
the Canadian Tire
building across from his
destination, and
thought about ten
floors of white collar
desk jockeys pledging
daily allegiance to that
symbology--in the
elevators, on every
door, on their business
cards and letterhead,
and on their paychecks.
Chuckling to himself at
this foolishness, he put
his legs to the task at
the turning of the light,
and took off bearing
north again, pulling up in
less than a minute
outside 2161 Yonge
Street. He locked up the
bike and took the seat
with him onto the
elevator to the 7th
floor. Opened the double
doors and announced
himself.
“Courier.”
“Oh, just a second,”
said yet another
receptionist. “I’ll get it.”
George stood by the
reception desk. The
office slaves were
giving him the
surreptitious once and
then twice over. He cut
a dashing figure in his
courier get-up, and he
was used to turning
heads. The bicycle
shorts and zip front
shirt were skin tight,
and left little to the
imagination. You got
used to having your
wobbly bits on display.
Besides, he was in
fantastic shape from all
the riding and he
collected stickers and
buttons from all the
offices that he visited
and displayed them on
the strap of his satchel,
which was emblazoned
with the logo, Matrix
Messenger Service.
“Here you go. 385 King
Street East, as fast as
you can go.”
“If you’ll just sign here.”
On with the Ray-Bans.
Had to have the shades
if you didn’t want to
get bugs in your eyes.
“Thanks.” Out the door.
On the bike.
It wasn’t about the
money, which was shit.
It wasn’t entirely an
aversion to the office or
even factory
environment, although
that was part of it. It
was all about this, the
wind in his hair, the
bike... this feeling.
For the trip south, he
decided to do the
Gothics tour along
Church Street, since it
was on the way. He
pushed east along
Soudan, and then south
on Mount Pleasant, past
the rear gates of the
cemetery, along past
St. Clair, and then riding
the pedals all the way
down the hill past the
David A. Balfour Park.
Got over onto Church
and then continued
south.
First the beautiful
“Bishop’s Palace”
rectory just after
Dundas with its
awkward third story
added like an
afterthought 50 years
after the main building
was finished.
Completely
compromises the
original structure, and
doesn’t even look like it
fits, but as always, it’s
efficiency over
aesthetics. Definitely
something we can
relate to in the 20th
Century.
Then the back of St.
Michael’s Cathedral and
its “Victorian Gothic”
cruciform shape. George
had to pause to admire
the soaring tower, spire
and the dormers, which
were designed by a
different firm of
architects after the
original structure was
completed, in about
1850 as he recalled
from his class tours.
Onward then, to
beautiful Met United,
the “Cathedral of
Methodism” in the High
Victorian Gothic style,
1875 approximately.
This one, with its
massive tower and four
smaller spires, was
more his taste
architecturally, although
he kept riding in the
interest of time.

The last church on his
mini tour was at his
turn onto King Street:
the St. James
“Cathedral Church” and
its single, massive, 300-
foot-high tower and
spire—the tallest
steeple in Canada. It
was built by architects
Thomas Ridout and F.W.
Cumberland round about
1850. He tried to
imagine how it must
have looked when the
majestic spires of
these churches
dominated the skyline,
when the scale of
buildings was low.
Then, as if the city
knew he needed a
break from all the
gloomy Gothics, there
was the exuberant St.
Lawrence Hall and all
the feathers, swords,
and bugles you could
imagine. William
Thomas, 1850’s,
Renaissance style. The
names of these
architects like childhood
heroes from bubble
gum trading cards. All of
it seeming so long ago
now.
He stopped in front of
385 King, locked up his
bike, and made the
delivery.
After the last drop of
the day, he retired to
the favorite watering
hole. It was a biker bar
on Temperance Street,
which is to say, bike
courier bar. They all
hung out there with
their bikes leaning up
against the patio
railings, trees, and the
walls of stores next.
The shit was shot,
tired limbs rested up on
the tables, and they all
partook of libations care
of the fermented
grape, sour mash,
barley and hops. Except
for George.
“Pellegrino. No ice.”
“Oh, sure. Do you want
that with a twist?” said
Big Eddy.
“Yeah, how about a
twist of bite me.”
“Awww, tough day,
honey?”
“When isn’t it? The
time I waste standing
around, waiting for
people to put things in
envelopes. Meanwhile,
the radio’s buzzin’ with
other pickups.”
“Boo-hoo,” agreed Eddy.
There were two Eddy’s:
Big and Little. Little Eddy
was actually the taller
of the two, but rail thin
and quiet... a.k.a. Long
John Sliver. Big Eddy, on
the other hand, was
built like a fire hydrant:
short, but a physically-
imposing specimen. He
was all biceps, pecs,
deltoids, and no neck.
His thighs were like two
big paint cans, both
from the riding and the
working out. He always
wore a World Gym t-
shirt, but despite the
“dumb jock”
appearance, he was
actually quite intelligent,
and was the undisputed
leader of the group.
Chet broke in then to
one-up him. “Oh, poor
you. I had another
knockdown today.
Cabbie, of course.
Bastard didn’t even
stop.”
Nobody had more
knockdowns than Chet,
but whether this was
the cause or result of
his utter stupidity was
always up for
discussion. Everyone
craned their necks to
admire the fresh cuts
and abrasions.
“Whoeee. Gonna need a
skin graft?”
“That’s some scrape.”
“Why are cyclists
invisible to cabbies?”
“Don’t forget to save
any medical bills for
your taxes.”
“Are you always this
much of a weenie,
Frank?”
“Save them for his
lawyer, more like. Did
you get the plate?”
“Hey, he’ll thank me
come tax time.”
When they all had a
drink, George proposed
the nightly toast.
“Gentlemen, let’s
charge our glasses to
the deity who
preserves us and keeps
us safe from harm,
keeps body and soul
together, a shield
against the cabbies, the
pot holes, the sewer
grates, and the bloody
tourists walking against
the lights.
“To fleet-footed
Hermes, Messenger of
the Gods.
“To Hermes,” they all
agreed.