The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

Page 132

"Look at the battlefield, Frankie."

Victor didn't turn around, his voice calm, "Another battlefield."

Frankie walked over to him and handed him a cup of coffee.

"New York is not a battlefield; today is just a pre-battle ceremony. Remember, speak less and smile more later. Most of the reporters' cameras and questions are aimed at Fury. You are a supporting character, but after this is over, you will no longer be a supporting character."

Viktor took the coffee, took a sip, and found the bitterness unpalatable.

“I know. 400,000 to 250,000, former WBO champion to a ‘very resilient young man’, I understand the price difference and the title.”

There was no dissatisfaction in his tone, only a clear understanding.

Demanding an equal appearance fee was a negotiation tactic taught to him by Frankie—to ask for an exorbitant price and then negotiate a lower one.

Ultimately, he received $250,000, which was the limit Frankie could achieve for a young man who had just recovered from a serious injury and had not yet won a truly top title.

"Tyson Fury..."

Frankie pondered, "He's a beast, but a clever one. Don't be fooled by his off-field antics. His punches can kill."

Viktor finally turned around, and the flame in his eyes flickered.

"He didn't even win that easily. Frankie, the punches I took were to learn how to make others take even harder punches."

Frankie looked at the young man in front of him—a 400-pound body that seemed out of place with the traditional physique of a boxer, like a mobile fortress, and the amazing endurance and explosive power hidden deep beneath the thick fat and muscle.

He knew Viktor was special, but he was also well aware of the dangers ahead.

“Let’s go, 'orc',”

Frankie patted Victor's unusually broad back and used a slightly teasing tone to ease the tension, "It's time to go and meet that 'giant'."

·······

The signing ceremony was held in the conference hall of a luxury hotel.

Just as Frankie had predicted, the scene was packed with reporters, whose main focus was always on Tyson Fury, who stood 206 centimeters tall and weighed 280 pounds, taking up one end of the sofa like a small mountain.

Fury was wearing a flashy shirt with the top few buttons undone, revealing his hairy chest.

He smiled broadly, waved, and answered reporters' questions with ease, as if this were not a signing ceremony for a competition, but his own personal talk show stage.

His weight was mainly concentrated around his waist, making him appear round, but his broad frame and still strong arms silently proclaimed the terrifying strength he possessed.

But as everyone knows, Fury has no waist, he doesn't even have a neck—he can pull his shorts up to his chin.

The commotion caused by Victor and Frankie's entrance was much smaller.

Flashes of light appeared sporadically, and reporters whispered among themselves, the keywords being nothing more than "tough," "fat guy," "newcomer," and "fifteen rounds."

Viktor wore a simple sports jacket, the taut fabric highlighting the astonishing dimensions of his 400-pound frame at 185 centimeters tall—his shoulders were even wider than the towering Fury's, his waist was thicker, and his whole body seemed to be cast from hard rock and resilient rubber. His steps were steady, carrying an almost oppressive presence.

The two parties sat down, and the agents began exchanging and signing the contracts.

The flashbulbs reached their peak at this moment.

After signing the document, Fury threw down the pen and leaned back into the sofa, which groaned in pain.

He finally looked directly at Victor across from him, a scornful smile on his face.

"So, this is my next challenger?"

Fury's voice was loud and clear, with a deliberate mockery, "Hey kid, does your mom know you skipped school to play adult games? Remember to ask her for the milk money later?"

A burst of laughter erupted from the group of reporters.

Viktor raised his eyes and met his gaze calmly.

Frankie nudged his leg under the table—Victor had quite a criminal record.

Victor spoke, his voice not loud, but exceptionally clear, drowning out the noise in the arena, "I'm more concerned with whether I can win a worthwhile fight. As for your fights, I've seen quite a few, and you're definitely very 'adult'—especially the way you lay in the ring counting stars after Douglas knocked you down last time."

The scene fell silent for a moment, then erupted into an even bigger commotion.

Fury's smile froze for a moment, then immediately became even more exaggerated: "Wow! You've got a sharp tongue! I hope you can take as many punches as you have, kid. I don't want the fight to end in the first round; that would be a disservice to the Las Vegas crowd."

Viktor retorted, "I won't let you retire that early. Although, given your 'advanced age' of twenty-nine and your recovery speed, perhaps retiring early is a wise choice, so you don't end up swaying when you walk."

He deliberately emphasized the word "advanced age".

Boxing is not a sport exclusively for young people, but there are very few boxers like Fury who cannot retain their world championship belts. For Fury, although he has not declined at the age of 29, he is no longer in his prime.

“Retirement? Look at yourself, buddy. What do they call you? ‘Beastman’? That’s so fitting. If you walked into a zoo, the chimpanzees would throw you bananas, and the gorillas would see you as a rival.”

Fury chuckled, sizing up Viktor's physique before finding a new point of attack: "Seriously, are you sure you're here to box, and not to participate in sumo or heavyweight weightlifting? Your waistline is almost as big as your height! Do we need to order a bigger boxing ring?"

Reporters' cameras frantically switched between the two, recording every exchange.

This is exactly what the promotional companies and media outlets wanted to see—a heated confrontation.

“My body can withstand my strength. Mr. Fury, your waistline suggests you’ve enjoyed life to the fullest. The difference between us might be that beneath my fat lies an engine capable of going the distance for twelve rounds.”

Victor wasn't angered by the mockery of his physique; he even smiled slightly. "And yours... might just be a souvenir from dinner. In Las Vegas, gamblers will see that clearly."

He cleverly steered the conversation toward the symbolic significance of the competition venue—the gambling city—and whether it was fair or not was for the bettors to judge.

Fury leaned forward, his playful tone fading, his eyes revealing true ferocity: "Kid, June 17th, MGM Garden Arena, I'll beat that fat bulge of yours until you beg for mercy. Four hundred thousand? I deserve more, because beating a punching bag like you is practically charity."

"I think it's worth it to buy your last hope of challenging for the WBO title for 250,000."

Viktor was undeterred. "I'll make you feel like this $400,000 is the hardest thing you've ever earned in your career."

Their eyes met in mid-air, almost sparking a flame.

Although they went to great lengths to mock each other, they tacitly avoided directly attacking the most obvious target—the other person's "overweight body"—because they themselves were not slim.

It's a strange kind of respect, or rather, an understanding that weight and body shape aren't simply labels of superiority or inferiority in this particular contest, but rather part of a strategy.

Frankie and Fury's agents intervened at the opportune moment, smoothing things over by emphasizing that it was "a great sporting competition" and "two very different fighters," among other official phrases.

The signing ceremony ended in an atmosphere of superficial politeness but underlying tension.

······

After the ceremony, Victor returned to his hotel room, took off his coat, and revealed a T-shirt stretched taut by his muscles and fat.

"Orcs..."

He repeated Fury's sarcasm in a low voice.

The word was insulting, yet it accurately described his extraordinary physique.

He never possessed the fluid lines typical of a boxer; his power was hidden beneath a thick wall.

This body weight is his armor, capable of absorbing heavy blows;

It is also a burden for him, and a great test of his speed and physical strength.

Against a giant like Fury, who is 206 cm tall, has a long reach, and powerful core strength, can this armor effectively defend against him?

Could his powerful punch penetrate Fury's defense?

Fury looked down on him, thinking he was just a punching bag.

Most media outlets also share this view.

But this is precisely Viktor's opportunity.

Everyone focuses on his "resilience," but they overlook the fact that he is also evolving. His punches also contain destructive power, but in the past he relied more on attrition warfare.

Frankie devised a strategy specifically to exploit Fury's occasional underestimation of his opponent and lapses in rhythm.

"You can retire at twenty-nine..."

He recalled his own words of retort.

He knew Fury was far from retirement, but it was a psychological tactic, an attempt to plant a seed of doubt in Fury's mind—about his age, about his recovery, about whether he could ever return to his peak.

On the other hand, Tyson Fury also suppressed his smile at a private party.

He took a swig of beer and said to his team members, "That kid's got a sharp tongue and a lot of guts."

He gestured, "His body is like a bucket, but his eyes... damn, there's something about them. Unlike those brats who wet their pants when they're scared."

Although he publicly denigrated Viktor, Fury did not truly despise him.

There are no real fools in the boxing world; any opponent who can stand at this level is someone to be wary of.

Victor Lee's terrifying resilience to blows is well-documented.

Fury knew his strengths lay in his skills, experience, and physical attributes, but Victor was like a stubborn rock that you had to keep hammering until the hammer got tired or the rock broke.

But what if the stone doesn't break?

"I need to gain more weight!"

Fury snorted, "In June, I will show everyone that no matter how fierce a wild beast is, it will be dealt with by its tamer."

But he knew in his heart that this match in Las Vegas, with its enormous attention and betting factors, had to be won cleanly and decisively, without any controversy. This meant he had to directly crush Victor's troublesome defense.

Chapter 111 New York Beauty

In March in New York, sunlight streams through the glass curtain walls of skyscrapers, carving out geometric patterns of light and shadow on the cold streets.

Victor stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of an office building in Midtown Manhattan, looking down at the vehicles and pedestrians below that looked like toy models.

He had just finished a meeting with the head of SHW New York—a middle-aged Chinese man surnamed Chen.

Mr. Chen was indeed as talkative and reliable as rumored, and he gave a detailed introduction to the operation of SHW catering RVs in New York.

In a short period of time, more than 270 RVs bearing the eye-catching SHW logo were scattered throughout major hot spots in New York, acting like mobile money printing machines and accumulating more than $400,000 in profits every month.

This number satisfied Viktor, but that was all.

He was thinking about a grander blueprint and how to more firmly replicate this successful model across the United States, rather than just being complacent with the success of one point.

“Victor, the New York market has proven that our model is viable, but the next key step is standardization and rapid replication, while strictly controlling costs and quality.”

Mr. Chen's words still echoed in my ears.

Victor nodded in agreement. Coming from a business background, he believed more in a down-to-earth approach and controlled expansion.

Just then, his Motorola engine rang.

The caller ID showed Blair Parfait—his ambitious, well-connected CEO who always wanted to “Americanize” everything.