boyutpedia Page 105
Page 105
"Because he's a tough guy!"
Frankie lowered his voice: "Those softies will make you think all boxers are like that, but tough guys will give you enough respect. Aside from his uppercut, Radok can hardly threaten you!"
Victor nodded and finally stopped stretching.
He walked to the sandbag and gently stroked its rough surface: "Thirteen wins, eleven knockouts. Everyone is afraid of his uppercut."
Victor suddenly gave a mysterious smile. "I don't understand why everyone is talking about me being killed by Razor, as if this battle is destined to end badly for us."
A year ago, I embarked on my boxing career in the South, starting with the All-American Golden Gloves Boxing Championships. Wherever I went, I was warmly welcomed by the audience, and becoming the champion was truly a stroke of good fortune.
That vibrant, flourishing scene is still vivid in my mind. How could it have changed so drastically in just a few months, becoming my final resting place?
Those media people are truly opportunistic!
That doesn't make sense.
What is my heart pounding for? I'm not afraid of burning, I'm not afraid of white-hot temperatures, I'm not afraid of getting burned here or there. My hands, they mustn't tremble!
Regardless of the circumstances, the fight is 385 pounds against 238 pounds. The advantage is on my side!
Frankie's expression turned serious: "Victor, Radok's worth isn't determined by weight!"
"Money doesn't lie, Frankie!"
Viktor repeated what he had said during the day, then made a strange gesture toward the sandbag—his right hand drew an arc from bottom to top at an incredible angle, so fast it was almost invisible. “And I, I never gamble.”
Meanwhile, in the presidential suite on the top floor of the hotel, Ruddock and his team were celebrating "victory in sight."
Three champagne bottles were empty, and the room was filled with a mixture of tobacco and marijuana smells.
"Boss, you shouldn't have provoked that fat guy like that,"
Radok's agent, Carl, said worriedly, "I've watched the video of his first two games, and that guy is a bit strange."
Radok waved dismissively and opened another bottle of champagne: "Strange? That walking lump of fat? Carl, you're too tense. By this time tomorrow night, we'll be partying at nightclubs with checks in hand!"
He raised his glass and shouted at the night view outside the window: "Tomorrow's KO! Let that Chinaman know who's the boss here!"
Chapter 85 Brings You Down to My Level
On August 15, 1985, the Atlantic City Convention Center was brightly lit.
The air was thick with the smells of sweat, leather, and anticipation. Nearly ten thousand spectators filled the venue, their voices echoing through the space like waves.
Victor Lee sat in the locker room, listening to the faint cheers coming from outside.
His fists were wrapped in bandages, and his massive 385-pound frame almost filled the entire bench.
Franchi stood to the side, and old Jack was giving him his final tactical instructions. Viktor listened with great interest—because they were all practical 'killer moves':
"While hugging him, suddenly yell into his ear! The louder the better!"
"Once you're entangled, press down on him forcefully, lean your upper body over him, and make it difficult for him!"
"Push him hard, you might just hit him!"
"Remember, you can use your pectoral muscles to ram him! You're heavy enough that he can't do anything about it!"
Frankie, seeing that the professor had said enough, asked, "Victor, what are you thinking about?"
"Fuck Helmaazel! We've been treated as a warm-up game."
Viktor suddenly spoke, his voice low and deep like muffled thunder.
Old Jack stopped what he was doing. "The official statement is that there is no distinction between undercard matches and official matches. Your appearance fee and Tyson's are both the same: $80,000!"
Victor sneered, raising his fleshy face. "Then why is Tyson's fight later? Why do we have to fight first?"
He stood up, and the ceiling of the locker room—no, its width—seemed narrower. "That bastard Radok is probably furious right now."
Meanwhile, in the dressing room at the other end of the corridor, Razor Ruddock was making his final preparations in front of the mirror.
His 238-pound muscles were as taut as steel, and he practiced his signature uppercut pose repeatedly in the mirror.
His coach tried to calm him down, but Radok's eyes had turned dangerous.
"Victor Lee? That ridiculous fat Chinese guy?"
Radok scoffed, "They think I'm not good enough to fight Tyson, yet they want me to be a warm-up for a walking mountain of flesh? I'll show everyone that I'm the number one challenger for the championship!"
But no one expected it.
······
When the host announced the contestants' entrance, the atmosphere was already thick with tension.
Victor, as the challenger, was the first to step out of the tunnel. His 1.85-meter height and 389-pound weight made him look exceptionally imposing, and his 204-meter wingspan resembled two heavy hammers.
A mixture of cheers and boos erupted from the stands, and flashes of light shone on his oily skin.
"ladies and gentlemen!"
The host's voice boomed through the loudspeakers, "From Chicago's South Side! With a professional record of 2 wins and 0 losses, and a 100% KO rate, Victor Lee... he will bring you a visual feast of Chicago typewriters!!"
Viktor walked towards the boxing ring expressionlessly, feeling the weight of countless eyes on him.
This wasn't his first competition, but being placed in such a position was undoubtedly an insult—Victor's confidence wouldn't allow it!
Immediately afterwards, the host's tone suddenly rose—to the height of three or four stories!
"Next up! From Jamaica, with a professional record of 13 wins and 0 losses, including 11 knockouts, 'Razor' Radok!"
Radock, standing at 1.91 meters tall, appeared at the entrance of the passageway, his arms outstretched like a vulture ready to pounce.
The audience's reaction was noticeably more enthusiastic, which made Viktor's lips twitch.
As soon as Radok stepped onto the stage, he went straight to Victor, and before the referee could stop him, he was already in front of Victor:
"Fatty, I'll make you howl like a pig before it dies."
Victor didn't back down; his forehead was almost pressed against Radok's. "Jamaican bastard, I'll scrub the floor with your face and then help you find your dad!"
The referee quickly stepped between the two, shouting, "Back off! Both of you, back off!"
He glanced nervously at the two men and quickly read out the rules, "Remember the rules: no low attacks, no attacks from behind, separate on my command..."
The piercing ringtone shattered the boisterous noise of the stadium.
The moment Victor and Radok bumped fists in the center of the ring, their knuckles turned white from the excessive force.
Radok's pupils reflected Victor's expressionless face, while Victor's triangular tiger eyes held a chilling killing intent that had swept through Chicago for a year!
"Round One!"
The referee's arm slashed down like a guillotine.
Victor immediately took a half step back, his massive 385-pound body swaying from side to side with incredible lightness.
His hands, clad in red boxing gloves, remained at cheekbone height, like two tightly closed city gates.
The commentator exclaimed, "Look at that movement! It's like watching a Cortez armored vehicle in a blizzard!"
Radok then transformed into a black lightning bolt.
His signature crab walk kept his body at a 45-degree angle, and his left jab, like a viper's tongue, landed precisely on Victor's forearm on all three attempts.
"Too slow, fat man!"
The Jamaican, wiping sweat from his brow and his gold teeth gleaming under the spotlight, was met with a barrage of taunts: "You didn't leave all your speed in the pigsty, did you?"
The audience burst into laughter.
Frankie roared in the corner in Chicago dialect, but Victor just silently parried the rain of jabs—his opponent was too fast; even if he blew everyone away, he couldn't keep up!
Less than a minute into the first round, Radok suddenly changed the pace!
He feigned a slide back, but in the instant Viktor followed, he executed a textbook-perfect shift of his weight—
A left hook tore through the air, followed by a right straight punch.
But the real killer move was that uppercut from below, which caused Radok's entire body to suddenly release like a spring that had been compressed to its limit!
Viktor was shocked and quickly shrugged and lowered his head—but it was too late.
The boxing gloves grazed Viktor's chin, leaving a trail of blood!
"A beautiful triple strike!"
The commentator almost jumped up from his seat.
But the next second, Viktor showed no signs of being stunned by the blow to his chin. Instead, he suddenly pounced forward like an enraged brown bear—a gash appeared on Viktor's throat, and his second chin armor took damage.
He used his superior arm strength to grab him, pressing his entire upper body against the other man's shoulders, and yelled into Radok's ear, "Go find your father! Go find your father!"
Radok, also an old man, shouted in Victor's ear, "Yellow-skinned pig! Yellow-skinned pig!"
As the referee rushed over, Victor suddenly released his grip, and Radok instantly prepared to throw an uppercut. However, Victor braced himself with both hands and delivered a clean, powerful straight punch that resembled a shove, sending his 238-pound opponent crashing to the ground.
"Fuck! That's a foul!"
The referee, expressionless and ignoring Radok, said, "If you want to play, play it now! I'm off duty!"
Another attack, and the two embraced.
"Get apart! Get apart!"
The referee's shouts were drowned out by the screams of the audience.
At the very moment they separated, Radok threw a punch, and Victor threw a punch even faster.
Viktor seized the 0.5-second opening, unleashing a right hook like a woodcutter's axe, followed by a triple punch of left hook and right uppercut.
As the final punch grazed Radok's cheek, the Jamaican's mouthguard flew off, and in slow motion, the silver trail of saliva in the air could be clearly seen.
Viktor thought he had it all figured out!
The emergency call rang.
Victor saw Radok kneeling on one knee, blood dripping from his broken brow onto the tabletop painted with the sponsor's logo.
Radok actually stood up.
Viktor could hardly believe it; he thought the other man's teeth were made of iron, far stronger than his own steel body!
Before turning around, he tapped his temple with his boxing gloves: