thrash. d5. fin.

He hasn't had a silent night in years, or basically, as far as he can remember.

Not that you'd ever hear him complain about it. Rather, he enjoys the sound of the strident crowd, basks in it even. When they roar as flesh meets bone, as the taste of copper bleeds into his mouth, tasting God within the iron, that's when he feels the most alive. It's electric, another jolt to his cacophonous heartbeat, a firecracker cracking in his ear. He was made for this, chiseled from the toughest stone.

He wasn't born into this life, though.

Far from it.

He'd like to forget his beginnings, to act like it was just one bad dream. That like a scar, it'll fade eventually. But his memories are like tattoos, bold and forever etched into his skin. The kid who got his face pummeled into the gravel outside his house, his calves on fire from trying to outrun the other boys, the one whose mother had to pull the shards of stone that tore through his skin? That was him. And the kid who had his nose shattered so many times he believed it'd fall off? It was him, too.

He'd never admit to it. No, to him, Drummond Thrash was a force of nature. A god among men. He had won the most fights of everyone in the ring, went head-to-head with the biggest bull on this side of Five and has the scars to prove it. It wouldn't matter to most, but it does to him. Because he was born for this life, even if his past claimed different.