dmims Page 5
Page 5
Victor ignored them; he wasn't afraid of gangsters—construction workers often helped their bosses settle disputes, and he'd seen these guys before; they were just asking for a beating.
“There’s an immigrant at school whose father is a corrupt official. I learned from him.”
"Who is it? What's your name?"
Third Master pressed on: "You know, we can find out."
Victor spread his hands: "I don't know about that. It seems his father was captured, so he lost his helper. Then this guy was tied up with millions of dollars, drained dry, and starved to death."
Third Master found out—because they were the ones who did it.
But what Third Master didn't know was that it was all just a coincidence. That arrogant dog thought he was a superior person and completely ignored Viktor, the fat man.
Third Master took the envelope, didn't even count the contents, and threw it into the drawer.
He picked up an iron pendant from the table and tossed it to Victor: "Wear this, and as long as you don't cause trouble for others in Chicago, nobody will bother you."
Then he took out another key, "23 West Street, top floor storage room. Renew your subscription in a week, or get out."
As Victor left the tea room, he felt several gazes cast upon him from the shadows, but no one stopped him.
Number 23 West Street is a dilapidated six-story apartment building. The top floor is cold and damp in winter and unbearably hot in summer, but it has a bed, a stove and a private bathroom.
For Viktor, that was enough.
For the next three days, Victor wandered around Chicago's South Side like a ghost.
During the day, he sat in a cheap café reading newspapers, listening intently to every conversation around him;
At night, he frequented bars and billiard halls, exchanging a few beers for all sorts of information.
He pays particular attention to three types of messages:
The latest shifts in gang dynamics, police patrol routes—avoiding gun searches, and any potential legal job opportunities.
On the morning of the fourth day, Victor stopped in front of the job posting for Morrison Hardware Store.
The store needs a warehouse manager; the salary is meager but legal.
Just as he was writing down the contact number, a voice came from behind him:
"Looking for a job? Someone like you should go to a bar; they always need guys who can intimidate people."
Victor turned around and saw a white man wearing a leather jacket with the word 'white supremacy' tattooed on his neck.
"Thank you for the suggestion."
"I'm speaking calmly," Viktor said, noticing the outline of the pistol at the man's waist.
The man grinned, revealing a gold tooth, and said irritably, "Get lost!"
Viktor did not respond, but simply left.
He knew he was starting to attract attention—both gangsters and police would look down on the unemployed.
Time is running out; he must make a decision as soon as possible.
Find a job, maintain the status quo, and start earning money as soon as possible.
Or perhaps they could invest their current limited funds in the long term to seek better job opportunities?
But reality drives progress, and the South District doesn't tolerate idlers.
Victor's pager went off, and Old Joe sent a message: "You have a package!"
······
Uncle Joe examined the package with his oil-stained fingers, turning it over and over, his brow furrowed so deeply it could trap a fly.
The package was wrapped in cheap kraft paper with "Viktor Lee" scrawled on it in black marker. There was no sender information, only a postmark from the Third Post Office in the South District.
Old Joe muttered, tapping the workbench with a wrench, "Wasn't Viktor unconscious the other day?"
The electric fan in the garage creaked and groaned, making the early autumn heat even thicker.
Twenty minutes later, a rusty bicycle crashed into a trash can outside the garage.
"Uncle Qiao! What package is in such a hurry—"
When Victor pushed the door open and came in, Old Joe almost didn't recognize him.
Five days later, this slovenly young man, who used to always wear T-shirts two sizes too big and had greasy, tangled hair, was now wearing dark blue cargo pants and a large white-gray shirt. His 400-pound frame stretched the fabric taut, making him look like a bull that might break through the fence at any moment.
"It seems you've already decided what you're going to do?"
Looking at his nephew's outfit, Old Joe could tell he was planning to work while exercising; otherwise, he wouldn't have dressed so maturely.
"Yes, I'm going to work at a timber mill. They need someone to sort timber, which requires strength and stamina."
Avoiding his uncle's gaze, Viktor grabbed the chilled cola from the workbench and chugged down more than half of it.
"Where's the package?"
Old Joe silently handed over the suspicious package.
Victor used the protrusion on his ring to cut the tape, and a black card with gold trim slid to the ground.
Old Joe bent down to pick it up and gasped – the card had an embossed image of a blood-stained boxing glove, with the words '23rd South District Bad Boys Boxing Tournament - Self-funded contestant' printed below.
"what is this?"
Viktor unfolded the documents in the package, and a photograph fluttered out.
The photo shows him fighting with three thugs in a junkyard last week. Someone drew an arrow above his head in red pen and labeled him 'Victor Lee'.
Old Joe snatched the attached letter, his eyes widening behind his reading glasses.
"Damn it! This is a death notice!"
He shook the letter, "Of the 62 people who participated last year, 15 died and 23 were crippled! Those Italians put performance-enhancing drugs in the athletes' drinks, and the Irish gangs would put things in their opponents' water..."
Viktor stared blankly at the prize money figures on the last page of the tournament handbook: $50,000 for the champion, $20,000 for the runner-up, and even those eliminated could earn $3,000 just by making it into the top sixteen.
"The key point is that in these low-level competitions, there are no doping tests; they'd practically stuff explosives into their veins,"
Old Joe suddenly grabbed Victor's shoulder: "You don't even have the right not to participate, see? They took your identity information, paid money, and signed a contract. It's Jack's black gang. They specialize in finding people to sign contracts and then collecting breach of contract penalties!"
Victor realized something was wrong, but the garage door suddenly trembled from the blaring sound of a horn.
A bright red Porsche 911 was parked across the entrance, with its rooftop speaker blasting deafening hip-hop music.
Mark, the son of the school board member, rolled down the car window. His platinum blonde hair looked like a burning magnesium strip in the sunlight—but only half of it, the other half was covered by white gauze.
"Look who's here! The future boxing star of the South District!"
Mark mimicked the commentator's tone, and the three boys in the passenger seat burst into hyena-like laughter.
A boy with a lip ring in the back seat held up a piece of paper. It was a drawing of Viktor on a boxing poster, with the caption "The last fight of Fat Softie Viktor".
Viktor's fists clenched so tightly they cracked, but Old Joe held onto his overalls straps firmly. "Don't fall for it, kid. They're just trying to provoke you into playing."
Mark tossed a flyer into the garage; it featured a candid photo of Victor being splattered with tomato soup in the cafeteria.
"Listen, fat pig,"
He rolled down the car window, revealing a crocodile-like smile. "Either you go up in the ring and get beaten into a pulp, or the whole South District will know you're a coward who doesn't even dare to step into the boxing ring, and then your organs will be cut off and dumped on the roadside!"
As the Porsche roared away, an egg was thrown from the back seat, exploding into a scum-filled puddle near Victor's feet.
The twilight light streamed through the greasy window, casting interplay of light and shadow on Victor's face.
He picked up the egg-splattered envelope and found a note inside: "The entry fee has been paid by Mark Williams. Looking forward to breaking your nose in the squares—Tournament Director J."
Victor held the list, seething with hatred.
In five days, he thought about doing many things, but he never considered pursuing a career in sports—of course, he could as a manager, but there was only one reason not to: with a weight of 400 pounds, it would be difficult to maintain good health.
But now, there are basically no other options:
In America, a coward only faces certain death.
Uncle Joe knew this too: "There's no other chance unless you leave Chicago now. Jack won't let you leave so easily, after all, the penalty for breach of contract is three hundred thousand dollars... Mazefak! Three hundred thousand!!!"
Now only one question remains: Does Victor understand the power of this?
"Uncle, what should I do to qualify for the ring in the remaining month?"
Chapter 5 Victor is a real man
Rain dripped down Victor's waterproof jacket, leaving dark marks on the slippery cobblestones of Chinatown.
He looked up at the faded red signboard—'Zhao Family Bajiquan School'—the red Chinese characters on the signboard shimmering eerily under the neon lights.
"This is it. Master Zhao's apprentices are the most favored by Third Master because they are all very good fighters. If what you want catches his eye, Third Master will protect you."
Old Joe patted Victor's broad back and said in a low voice, "Remember, don't say anything unnecessary. Master Zhao is very respected in this area, and he's also very straightforward. He doesn't like nonsense."
Victor nodded, his massive 400-pound frame standing out starkly in the narrow alley.
The gym door creaked open, and a unique smell of sweat, herbs, and wood wafted out.
A dozen or so students dressed in black training uniforms were practicing basic stances. Their shouts were in unison, vibrating rhythmically on the wooden floor.
"Qiaoqiao, it's been a long time."
A hoarse voice came from inside the room, "You said you brought me business?"
The interior was dimly lit, and the scent of sandalwood was even stronger.
Master Zhao sat in a mahogany armchair. He looked to be in his early sixties, with his gray hair neatly combed back and his sharp eyes that seemed to see through everything.
He was wearing a dark blue Chinese-style stand-up collar shirt with the cuffs rolled up, revealing his forearms covered in calluses and small scars.
His forearms were very strong, and he held a long, pure copper pipe, the smoke from the burning tobacco inside being quite invigorating.
"Master Zhao,"
Old Joe took off his hat and showed rare respect. "This is my nephew, Victor. He's in trouble. Someone has signed him up for the boxing match a month from now."
Zhao the boxer's gaze swept over Victor's entire body like a knife.
He stood up; his height only reached Viktor's chin, yet he inexplicably gave off a sense of oppression.
"Turn around once."
He gave the order in heavily accented English.