Jack Boyer

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juicebox1988 resident

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<p id="docs-internal-guid-fd1c7a07-7fff-e735-70cb-6ede11858486" dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Name: Jack Boyer</span></p>
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Age: 33</span></p>
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sex: Male</span></p>
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sexual Orientation: Straight</span></p>
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Relationship status: In a relationship</span></p>
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hometown Laredo, Texas </span></p>
<br style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><br style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Growing up, I would lay upon the cool moist grass of my Pa’s ranch, watching the clouds drift across the sky and vanish upon the horizon. Times were simple back then, I was your average boy, playing baseball whenever I had a chance to, spending the warm humid summers cracking the bat against that laced white ball that was iconic for the American dream, and attending the Veterans Day memorial parade every year. Seeing the soldiers, Marines, navy and air force marching  in their uniforms. </span></p>
 
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">From the moment I saw them, I knew what I wanted to be. I knew one day I was going to be a Marine. That’s exactly what I became too. The moment I graduated from high school and was seventeen years old Ma and Pa signed me off and set me on my way to find myself  in this world. That bus ride to Parris Island, North Carolina was like walking in a boy… and coming out a man but nothing could prepare me for what I’d become.</span></p>
 
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">They tell you what war is like, but nothing compares to actually experiencing it. The sounds, the vibrations, the way everything tunnels in and everything moves slower… that tunneling effect being a cause of life or death, forcing yourself to emerge into the light and the present. Not many men handle it the same, one moment I’m convoying down that long empty road, laughing and talking about the girls back home that I miss, being an eighteen year old boy I was not prepared like I thought I was. </span></p>
 
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There’s a sound I’ll never forget, and if I close my eyes and listen past all that ringing that still remains. I can still hear that ripping of metal, and if I think hard enough I can still feel my body feeling weightless and my arms drifting above my head from gravity. The explosion was a well placed RPG, and for you people that don’t know, an RPG is a Rocket Propelled Grenade. Soviet design RPG-7 hit the Soviet Union’s army in 1961 and after the Soviet-Afghan conflict almost anyone from a child to an elderly man was sporting one of these tank stopping blunder busters. </span></p>
 
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With the Mine-Resistant Ambush Protected (MRAP) vehicle, it was designed to protect us, but also made us a massive target, with a well coordinated ambush we found ourselves trapped in that hunk of rolling steel. I’ll save you the graphic details… but they are still burned in the back of my eyes, every time I close them I swear I can still see their faces. Garcia and Powell, Semper Fi my brothers…</span></p>
 
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, where was I… yes these cock suckers were everywhere, appearing out of nowhere. Gun fire muffled from that high pitched ringing that still buzz to this day. Big fat 7.62x39 projectiles impacting the truck and everything around us, motors exploding just outside that door. I could hear the convoy returning fire with the thumping “Ma Deuce” M2 Browning Machine gun. Thump thump thump, it was never ending. But sound wasn’t the only thing I wasn’t prepared for, that warm crimson wetness slowly faded into my senses. My forehead was bleeding and I had a horrible pain in my leg. Upon looking at it… the damn thing was broken right at the knee cap bone sticking out and everything. </span></p>
 
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Needless to say, I survived, unlike many before me and many after. I’ll never forget their faces and their memory lives on within me. That broken leg got me my first Purple Heart and it wouldn’t be my last but this story isn’t focused around my time in Iraq and Afghanistan. It’s about what came after…</span></p>
 
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After being discharged under medical conditions, I was no longer considered fighting shape, bad back; horrible knee, I found myself on that bus five years later rolling into Laredo, Texas. Lost and confused, Ma and Pa passed away a year back, horrible car accident, Rest In Peace. Lost the ranch to the bank and I didn’t know what to do. Things were different, I was different, I wasn’t sure what to even make of myself. I felt like an empty vessel with no purpose. A ship without a sail.</span></p>
 
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To even feel anything I’d drink at bars and drift around the city at night contemplating… ya know. But anyways, met a guy named Travis Meyer, big son of a bitch with more hair than skin, rode a monsterous custom built Pan head Harley Davidson. He rode with a local Motorcycle club called The Devil’s Own, it was everything I felt I needed. That sense of brotherhood and family, and it contained a lot of fellow veterans of many theaters, from the old timers from Vietnam that were hard mother fuckers, to Desert Storm and even Operation Iraqi Freedom.</span></p>
<br style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><br style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was home, and I felt reborn. Soon after being a hang around I was rocking their prospect kutte, cleaning bikes, doing shit work that no one else wanted to do, but that was alright it gave me purpose. At the time it sucked but I look back at it now and it was the most fun I had in the MC. Fast forward a year, and I was a made man, fully patched in, got my rockers on, my Harley Davidson Dyna roaring down the road, I felt on top of the world, nothing could keep me down. </span></p>
<br style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" /><br style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;" />
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Granted, joining with the MC didn’t help me become an upstanding citizen, may have slung some meth here and there, arrested for assault and battery… but man what a fucking rush. We’d ride the roads as if we owned them, and if you asked anyone else, we did. Going from one strip club to the next, making our rounds to collect and have some fun. Now this is where things got interesting, at least for me. It changed my direction and where I was to where I would be. </span></p>
 
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This saucy chicana caught my attention. Her name, well the name I knew her by at first was Princess, damn did she have legs and she could be the sweetest thing since apple pie, but the moment you pissed her off, she’d turn into one hell of a spicy tamale. I’d go back for more and more, I couldn’t get enough of her, hell even on our first date we spent the night in the drunk tank down at the police station together. </span></p>
 
<p dir="ltr" style="caret-color: #000000; color: #000000; -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"><span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Princess turned into Jenna Gonzalez and I fell in love the moment I saw her. After some time of clapping her cheeks and getting pretty serious with one another, for some odd reason she never wanted to stay in one spot for to long, and no way was I gonna let her go out of my life, so I chartered out into the Nomad chapter of The Devil’s Own MC and we hit the road. Sleeping under tarps along rest stops as we sped down the interstate on my Dyna until the Hathian city limits popped up into view. Pretty low in cash I think we’ll stick around for a bit.. Who knows what might happen here in this new chapter.</span></p>
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November 19, 2021 at 3:56 am
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November 19, 2021 at 7:20 am
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November 19, 2021 at 1:18 pm
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November 19, 2021 at 3:27 pm
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November 20, 2021 at 2:40 pm
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