About

Welcome to my town, Briar Hollow. When you cross into our county, you’re greeted by a faded wooden sign, a post office that closes whenever Doris feels like it, one café/bar. Before you ask… yes, they serve coffee and booze from open to close. A recycling center, a public library, the tiniest fire station ever built, and a convenience store with exactly three working gas pumps. And that’s the town. Thanks for coming! 👋🏼 Visit again soon. Well… that’s the gist of it, anyway. That’s what the naked eye sees. But every miserable little town needs some kind of excitement, right? Ours just happens to involve an abandoned warehouse, bare knuckles, and enough blood to keep a questionable medical team employed. See, a few years ago, The Backroad Saints took over an old warehouse on the far side of the county. They fixed the roof, hauled out the junk, hung up some lights, and somehow turned the place into somewhere people actually wanted to be. Then they built a ring. Now, whenever someone gets challenged, they fight. No gloves. No points. No fancy judges holding up little cards. You fight until you can’t anymore. That’s how we decide who wins. Of course, there are rules. You never park near The Hollow. You leave your truck at the library, the diner, or somewhere else innocent-looking, then get “shuttled” in. If you show up to work or school with a black eye, a broken nose, or a suspicious limp, you hit your steering wheel while swerving to avoid a deer. No exceptions. And if someone challenges you? You can accept. Or you can reject. Nobody’s forced into the ring. You might get called a coward. You might spend the next month hearing about it every time you walk into the café. But eventually, everyone moves on. Usually. Because this is Briar Hollow. We keep our secrets. We protect our own. And if the sheriff ever asks… There is no warehouse. There is no fight club. And you definitely didn’t see me standing in the middle of the ring, covered in somebody else’s blood last week.