| Sep 28 - 08:32:29 |
|
| Post Reply | Post new topic | Page: 1 |
| Portland, Maine | Started by: MaineRain on Aug 10, '25 01:31 |
|
They call him Maine, not because it’s his name, but because that’s where he was born, in a cold, fog-drenched sliver of Portland no one remembers unless they came from there. A rough town, the kind where the winters bite harder than the people, and the people bite hard. He never talks about his real name. If you know it, you’re either family or dead. Maine grew up hard. His mother worked three jobs, most of them behind counters or scrubbing blood off bar floors, trying to keep him out of the street and the street out of him. She died when he was seventeen, pneumonia, they said, though some folks swear it was the bottle that killed her first. Maine buried her with his own hands, no money for a proper box, no priest, just cold earth and colder silence. He took the only path left, fists. By nineteen, he was making a name for himself underground, putting guys to sleep in smoke-choked basements and illegal rings. The fight never left him, only got more refined. A promoter with connections got him bouncing at speakeasies and strip joints, the kind of joints the cops only raided when they weren’t on the take. That’s where he learned the rules of respect, the hierarchy of muscle, and how to make a man disappear without leaving a mess. When Korea came knocking, Maine answered, not outta patriotism, but because it was that or twenty years for a murder the DA couldn’t quite prove. They dumped him into Special Forces, covert ops, dirty wars, black tape across the dog tags. He did things in those jungles that don’t get medals, only nightmares. He came back colder, quieter, and meaner than ever. The family found him soon after, not the blood kind, the other kind. The kind that made promises in dark rooms and kept them with bullets. They saw what he was, efficient, silent, loyal to those who earned it, a killer with principles, which is rarer than gold in this world. They made him, not overnight. He earned it, the old way, body by body, job by job, silence by silence. Now, when Maine walks into a room, people get quiet, not out of fear, but out of respect. Because they know he’s a man who’s seen hell, walked out of it, and decided to make a little of his own here in the city. He doesn’t smile much, doesn’t drink, smokes Camels, and reads old boxing magazines in his spare time. There’s a scar over his right eyebrow from a fight he doesn’t remember, and a photo of his mother in his wallet, faded and creased. He never forgets where he came from or what he’s capable of. He’s not the boss, but he’s the reason the boss sleeps at night. |
|
| Report Post | Tips: 9 / Total: $1,120,000 Tip |
| Post Reply | View All Threads | Page: 1 |
How much do you want to tip for this post?
Minimum $20,000
Minimum $20,000
