Balancer

Burl stared at the empty highway ahead, his truck humming steadily beneath him as the landscape of small towns and fallow fields blurred past. He had no destination in mind beyond the coordinates of today’s job, which had been texted to him with the usual vagueness. They all started the same—some corrupt official to be quieted, some crooked deal to be broken up, or some pitiful soul caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. This one was no different.

But Burl wasn’t always this man. He could trace the road behind him like a bad map—a life full of bruised knuckles and worn-out shoes, growing up in a crumbling town that had been forgotten long before he’d even been born.

Burl’s mother had done her best, but in a place like theirs, ‘best’ didn’t mean much. She worked factory jobs until the factories left, and after that, they lived on scraps, bouncing between foreclosed homes and distant relatives’ couches. His uncle was the first man who taught him how to fight—“Not for fun, but for survival,” the old man would say, puffing on his cigarettes between sips of whiskey. And Burl learned.

He fought his way out of there, all the way to the military, then through college. But even with an education, something didn’t feel right. The world didn’t care about people like him and his mother. No, it cared about those already standing on top of the hill, not the ones clawing their way up from the bottom. So Burl became the middle ground, the fixer, the balancer—working for the same people who once wouldn’t have given him a second look but now relied on him to keep the machine running smooth.

He squinted into the horizon, gripping the wheel a little tighter. Balance—that was what he had learned to focus on. In fighting, balance kept you on your feet, ready to strike when the time was right. Society wasn’t much different. Too much weight on one side, and everything tipped over. The wrong people gaining too much power? He’d step in and shift things around. The right people at risk of losing it? He’d quietly make sure they held on to enough. Burl had no grand vision, no deep-seated ideology. He only believed in equilibrium. If society stayed balanced, it could move forward.

The wind whipped past as he pushed the truck a little faster. The job ahead, whatever it was, didn’t matter as much as the purpose it served. Each step he took kept things even, kept the machine from grinding to a halt, and maybe, just maybe, left the door open for people like him and his mother to see a little progress.

He chuckled dryly to himself. A far cry from the idealistic kid who once thought he could change the world. But maybe this—this small, steady hand keeping the scales from tipping too far—was the only real way to do it.

Burl’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden flash of a taillight in front of him. A car whipped into his lane, cutting him off so abruptly that he had to slam on the brakes to avoid clipping its bumper. He grunted, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as the truck missed by  inches from the other vehicle’s rear.

“That was dumb,” Burl muttered to himself, giving the horn a brief, measured honk—just enough to let the driver know he was there. No drama, just a reminder.

But the response was immediate. The driver threw his hand out the window, flipping Burl the bird with exaggerated flair before slamming on his brakes hard enough that Burl had to swerve to avoid a collision. His truck veered onto the gravel shoulder, the steering vibrating in his hands as he fought to keep control.

“Guess this guy wants to make a day out of it,”. Before he could straighten out, the other car swerved again, blocking him in and screeching to a halt. The driver kicked his door open and stormed toward Burl’s truck, fists clenched, rage distorting his face.

Burl lifted his coffee cup, not drinking but holding it loosely, almost like a habit. The guy was yelling before he even got close.

Burl watched him approach, shaking his head. He could tell the type—pent-up rage looking for a place to land. He didn’t need this, not today.

As Burl stepped out of the truck, the man swung his fist, a wild punch with more anger than precision. Burl barely moved, lazily tipping his coffee cup and splashing the hot liquid right into the man’s face.

The man roared, stumbling back and wiping his eyes, his anger turning to a deeper shade of red. “You son of a—!” He lunged again, throwing a looping haymaker that Burl saw coming from a mile away

Without moving from his spot, Burl simply ducked under the punch, dropping his level with perfect balance. As the man’s fist sailed harmlessly over his head, Burl drove his fingers into the guy’s solar plexus with surgical precision.

The man collapsed forward, gasping, his body folding like an empty sack as the wind shot out of him. His hands clutched his stomach, knees buckling, and he could barely make a sound.

Burl looked down at him for a brief moment, still holding the coffee cup. He didn’t say a word. There was no need.

Turning back to his truck, he stepped around the crumpled figure and got in, the engine rumbling back to life as he eased onto the road. The guy would be fine in a minute—he just needed time to breathe.

Burl didn’t look back. There were more important things ahead.