dmims Page 30
Page 30
"Of those nine losers in the top ten, I'm the only one who's truly amazing!"
Viktor deliberately raised his voice so that several tables around him could hear him, and exaggerated his drunken state by saying, "I could knock people out with my eyes closed."
He tapped his temple. "Boxing isn't just about muscles, it's also about fat. None of them can beat my five layers of armor!"
Frank scoffed, "Come on, kid. In the South District, boxing is always about who's tougher. Your psychological tactics won't work on the streets."
Victor did not immediately refute, but slowly finished his drink, letting the suspense build up in the air.
The other people in the bar seemed to be chatting amongst themselves, but Victor could sense that they were all listening intently.
"Speaking of psychology..."
Victor suddenly changed the subject, "Have you heard that Reggie from Foucault's Boxing Gym has gotten into trouble lately?"
He casually tapped his fingernail on the glass, saying, "His little black lover came to our door with their illegitimate child, and the court ordered him to pay $1,600 a month in child support."
Frank's eyebrows practically flew off his hairline: "Sixteen thousand? Can a cruiserweight boxer earn that much?"
Viktor chuckled inwardly; the fish had taken the bait.
'Gicker is Foucault's pillar,'
He shrugged. "Although his performance has declined significantly lately, he can't sleep at night and gets distracted during training..."
He deliberately dragged out his words, "I wonder who got the 1,600 dollars!"
Frank's eyes lit up, and Victor could almost see the abacus swirling in his mind.
Kevin stroked his chin thoughtfully, his gaze shifting between the two men.
"I have to go,"
Viktor suddenly stood up. "There's training tomorrow morning."
He deliberately dropped a few banknotes 'accidentally' at Frank's feet, watching the old thug bend down and pick them up with astonishing agility.
Three days later, Victor stood in the boxing ring of the Chicago Elite Boxing Club, sweat dripping down his brow bone, shimmering with an amber light under the glaring spotlight.
His chest heaved violently, and each breath carried the metallic, bloody smell of rust.
The venue was stiflingly hot, like a sauna, with the smells of cheap tobacco, sweat, and cheap beer mingling together, making it suffocating.
His opponent—a white boxer named "Iron Man" Tommy—had been knocked down for the third time.
Tommy's once-proud golden curls were now stained with blood and sweat, sticking to his swollen face.
He tried to support himself with his trembling arms, but his right elbow buckled and he fell heavily onto the canvas stained with sweat and blood.
"...Seven! Eight!..."
The referee's hoarse voice rang in Victor's ears, but it was almost drowned out by the audience's frenzied shouts.
The sounds echoed under the tin roof, creating a resonance that bordered on religious fanaticism.
"Get up, Tommy! I've staked all my money on you!"
A man in a crumpled Brazilian suit shouted from the second row, his tie askew, his face flushed with anger and alcohol.
Viktor licked his cracked lips, the taste of blood stimulating his senses.
A thin stream of blood trickled down from the wound on his brow bone at the edge of his vision, but he could no longer feel the pain.
Pain is a daily occurrence, an old friend that has accompanied him through his five years of being bullied at school.
When the referee counted to eight, Tommy managed to get up, but his eyes were already unfocused.
His legs felt like two uncontrollable rubber tubes, his knees trembling incessantly.
Viktor could see the fear in his pupils—the instinctive reaction of an animal facing inevitable death.
Victor gave him no chance to catch his breath.
His muscle memory was faster than his thoughts. A textbook-perfect right hook sliced through the damp air, landing on his opponent's ribs. As his opponent loosened his grip in pain, he followed up with an uppercut, the fist striking his chin, cleanly ending the match.
Tommy's body flew backward like a puppet with its strings cut, crashing into the ropes before silently sliding to the ground.
The stadium erupted in deafening cheers and curses.
Banknotes flew through the air like confetti, some people laughed, some people cried.
Viktor stood under the spotlight, sweat glistening on his bronze skin, the old and new bruises on his chest telling tales of countless nights like this.
The referee raised Victor's arm high, but he felt no joy of victory.
Only a familiar emptiness remains, heavy like a piece of lead in my stomach.
"What a beautiful strike! Another liver punch followed by a hook!"
A hoarse voice rang in his ear.
Victor turned his head and saw his coach, old Jack's, wrinkled face.
Wearing an ill-fitting suit, his tie stained with pasta sauce from lunch.
Tommy's probably going to dream about your fists tonight.
Viktor emerged from between the ropes, ignoring the spectators who wanted to pat him on the shoulder or give him a high five.
He headed straight for the locker room, and Joey jogged to keep up with his obese body.
On the sidelines, his agent, Jason Cruz, squeezed through the cheering crowd to hand him a towel and a water bottle.
"There's news,"
Jason leaned close to his ear and whispered, "Reggie's all taken care of. Frank, along with the woman and the child, blocked the entrance to Foucault's boxing gym, and Reggie signed the check on the spot."
Viktor wiped his face with a towel, concealing the smile on his lips:
"Frank is really efficient,"
He responded in a low voice, "It's only been two days, five or six days faster than I expected."
Jason handed him a newspaper; the local paper displayed Reggie's 'last words'—"Damn Gallagher!"
Victor tossed the newspaper back to Jason and headed towards the locker room, avoiding old Jack.
"So he now needs to spend $1,600 a month?"
Old Jack listened, and it became more and more familiar.
"Yes, with his bills on the table, I guarantee he's in dire straits right now."
Old Jack understood somewhat. Before taking his leave, he advised, "Off-ring tactics can't last. If you want to make a living in boxing, you can't rely on off-ring tactics."
This annoyed Jason: "Who does he think he is? There's no need for us to stay at Foucault's gym now!"
Viktor interrupted him: "No, he's right. It's difficult for me to establish myself in the professional boxing ring right now. Off-ring tactics are useful, but we can't rely on them forever. The fights in the ring are what matter the most."
"What about Reggie?"
"Jason, what happened after you got there?"
Jason was delighted: "We don't need to frame him. I found the person who supplies Reggie. He said Reggie buys at least $800 worth of goods from him every month, and next Tuesday is one of them."
"next Tuesday?"
Victor thought to himself, "That means there are only four days left! Let's get him!"
"It's not good for us to step in; it would put Frankie in a difficult position. Black can't be paired with White."
Jason gave his reasons.
Victor thought for a moment and came up with an idea: "Tell Frank a piece of information that he can make a fortune."
"How to do it?"
Michael's brain isn't working properly.
Jason nodded: "Good idea. Frank is willing to risk his life for money. Let him call the police first, then go to his door to extort money. We'll definitely make a fortune."
Victor instructed, "Compose a letter from the newspapers and tell Frank what to do."
"You're such a bad seed!"
Chapter 26 Successful Ascension: Eliminating Competitors
Victor Lee stood in the ring of the South District Thug Boxing Tournament, sweat trickling down his brow bone, gleaming coldly under the spotlight.
The roars from the audience surged like a tide, but he could only hear his own steady breathing and his opponent's rapid panting.
The big guy who used to be a hospital caregiver was already lying in the corner, his left eye swollen shut, while Victor's knuckles were just beginning to turn red.
"next."
Victor spoke to the referee, his voice not loud but loud enough for the whole stadium to hear.
Amidst the jeers and insults from the crowd, two days later, Victor met his next opponent.
The guy who came up from the dock was even more troublesome than the previous one. His fists were as hard as steel ingots being loaded and unloaded, but Victor's oil-coated fat was more uncomfortable than his armor. Even a mosquito would have to do the splits if it stood on it.
As the dockworker threw his signature left hook for the third time, Victor dodged it as if he had rehearsed it a thousand times, and his right fist struck the man's liver like a viper.
The dockworker's expression as he knelt was one of bewilderment—he couldn't understand why his trump card was ineffective against this Asian player.
What was most unacceptable was that the opponent's full-motion punches were like aimlessly swinging a sledgehammer; the seemingly ordinary fists had a force of over 400 pounds, and one punch knocked him down.
Viktor didn't celebrate; he simply walked calmly back to his corner. He was feeling very unwell because he was exhausted so quickly—perhaps he needed to see a proper doctor.
On the ten-player round-robin standings, his name was ranked third—one of only three players to have won all three matches.
But the real competition, he thought, might never take place on this ring.
·······
At 9:15 a.m. on Tuesday, Frank Gallagher arrived precisely at Reggie Thomas’s apartment building, downstairs.
Victor sat in the coffee shop across the street, observing everything through the edge of a newspaper.
The newspaper-print letter and the bottle of cheap whiskey given to Frank three days ago are working as intended.
"Your lover wasn't as pathetic as you were in my bed last night!"
"Your son was whining and whining while watching me and your wife last night..."
Frank's voice was loud enough to be heard throughout the street. Following the instructions in the letters, he deliberately poked at Reggie's most sensitive spots, saying, "She said that a real man is someone who—"