Fighting for Mine

Whenever I couldn’t sleep, I trained. Over the years, my sleeplessness helped me whip myself into first-rate shape. There was a time when I used to walk when my insomnia kicked in. Even at four in the morning, I didn’t think twice about strolling through the neighborhood, hoping the buzz of the city would lull me to sleep.

But I was my father’s son.

Instead of just trudging the pavement and clearing my thoughts, I was on the prowl. Any guy who looked fight worthy was in my crosshairs. Big. Small. Black. White. No one mattered. All I wanted to do was punch the shit out of someone.

After a few close calls with the police, I learned working a body bag was safer than pummeling some guy in the street. Training kept my ass out of jail—or the morgue. Random brawls were my father’s game. Whether or not I turned pro wasn’t nearly as important as not turning into the sperm donor.

As a kid, Lor Hanlon was the neighborhood bully. He grew up but remained a mean son of a gun. At six foot six and two-hundred forty pounds, the man was intimidating. My father had never served in the military or worked for the police. Although he had a physique for either one, it was probably a good thing he didn’t venture down that road. I was certain he would have injured an enemy or two or lost his job.