Chapter 2

Ryker

I grunted with effort as I leaned into each strike of the punching bag. The creaking of the ceiling could be heard following every blow that landed with a concussive thump, resonating through my single-wide trailer in concert with the aggressive workout mix I always blared when trying to vent my frustrations. The acrid smell of alcohol from my recent bender was pushed out of my pores with every punch and kick I unleashed on the unyielding opponent set before me. This went on for another hour before I felt like myself again.

The sound of my clock radio beeping could be heard in the corner of the room. After giving the bag one more roundhouse kick that left me drenched in sweat and covered in pieces of plaster, I strolled over to the infernal device and gave the power cord a tug, then tossed it across the room. I rolled my shoulders before letting out a long sigh and muttering to myself, "Time to get this show on the road."

I made my way to the bathroom and squeezed my massive frame into the cramped shower. I oh-so-enjoyed using a showerhead that came up to my chest. With 270 lbs of muscle strapped onto my 6’4 frame, it made it a real son of a bitch to get all the nooks and crannies without basically doubling over or taking a knee in this amateur torture chamber. As I made a masculine show of daintily sprinkling water onto my body, I reflected on the events that led me here.

I had always been a corn-fed mother from the sticks with a predisposition to act before I thought. I grew up in the middle of nowhere Arkansas, where things were simple and slow, and people waved when they passed by—Southern hospitality at its finest. But it wasn't all rose petals and butterfly kisses. I spent most of my childhood getting to know my local M.D., in and out of his office with minor injuries earned from constantly getting into fights with kids 2-3 years older than myself. It never failed. There I was, minding my own business when one of the local shit birds took it upon themselves to bully one of my classmates. There was something inside me that would immediately start burning white hot. Next thing I knew, I was sitting on that kid's chest with my blood covering my fists and the sound of someone screaming for me to get off him. Another fight… another suspension… another day. That cycle of events led me to being forced to change schools six times before I graduated. Despite the setbacks I managed to land a full-ride scholarship to college.

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A long time ago, I vowed that I wouldn't end up like my father, needing to work 60 hours a week in the fields just to keep the lights on and my beer fridge full. I was going to be a doctor. So off to school, I went. I was a college student for a grand total of three days before my old friend violence came out to play. I caught two assholes pushing around a girl outside my dorm. That old familiar flame started burning white hot in my belly, and before I could think, I was on them. I lowered my head and drove the first one I reached into a parked car next to him, sending him ass over tea kettle across the hood. His buddy, caught by surprise, turned to see what was going on, but I had already sent a meaty right fist to greet him. It was quick and brutal, and that's all it took, I was kicked out of school. My college days were done, and reality started to settle in. “I am not made for this, I am not meant for this, I don’t belong here.” I spent the next few months wallowing in self-pity until I got a call from my uncle asking me to come to his ranch in Texas and help out until I could get my feet under me. So I packed my bag and got in my truck… three years later, and I am still in this single-wide, working 60-hour work weeks just to keep the lights on and my beer fridge full.