RNP Page 99
Page 99
"All I know is that they're finished; Toyota is going to crush them!"
Victor put the beer back on the table, the liquid sloshing in the bottle. “Tell them to talk again next year, and then get the money ready.”
Foucault whistled: "Radock? I've heard that guy's jaw can smash concrete, and his uppercuts are like razors. Are you sure you want to use him as a springboard?"
Viktor didn't answer; he simply walked to the window.
Thirteen floors below, the streets of Atlantic City resemble a flowing blood vessel.
"That bastard Trump has a brilliant idea. He signed five contracts and crammed in three of Tyson's defeated opponents. Even the Japanese pigs know what he's thinking!"
Foucault raised his head: "It's obvious that Trump is training his 'knights'!"
Lowell nodded in agreement: "If you can win every match, then it looks like the fifth one will be your fight against that Tyson."
"Targeted training will begin tomorrow."
He turned around, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "I need Frankie and Old Jack to find all the videos of our opponents' past matches."
At five o'clock the next morning, Victor was already standing in an unknown boxing gym in Atlantic City.
Sweat rolled down his buzz cut, leaving dark dots on the cement floor.
Frankie was cursing in a Texas accent as he adjusted the height of the sandbags.
"The Canadian from Mazefak, with a wingspan of 2.08 meters,"
Frankie pounded the sandbag with his fist. "You have to deal with him like a viper, one strike to kill him, in and out, don't give him any space."
Old Jack, the coach who was still smoking, threw a stack of yellowed newspapers on the folding chair in the corner.
"A photo of Ruddock in Toronto in 1983,"
He coughed as he said, "Watch how he knocks that big Polish guy's teeth out of the third row with a left hook."
Viktor put on his boxing gloves and began practicing combinations against the punching bag.
A left thrust, a right straight strike, a left hook—each strike was accompanied by the dull thud of bones colliding.
His movements weren't as elegant as those of a traditional boxer; instead, they carried a raw, powerful force, as if each punch was meant to pierce through the sandbag.
This is Frankie's requirement: specialize in the fundamentals, simply memorize the boxing moves with your muscles, and then rely on explosive power and stamina to fight your opponent in the ring.
Frankie suddenly lashed Viktor's ribs with a bamboo stick wrapped in three layers of cotton. "Your chin is brittle than an eggshell against his uppercut. Radok will pry it open like a can!"
Viktor instinctively raised his arm, but the bamboo stick still struck his ribs.
The pain made him grimace.
During the lunch break, Lowell brought sandwiches and bad news.
"Richardson's team requested a weigh-in ceremony before the competition; they wanted to take photos of you two looking at each other and sell them."
Victor wrung out his soaking wet T-shirt and threw it into a corner: "Do whatever they want, as long as they pay more!"
Lowell lowered his voice, “Trump wants you to say something provocative to the cameras before the game, about Kyotaro Fujimoto.”
Viktor paused for a second.
Fujimoto's face, contorted in pain, flashed through his mind—that felt so good!
"Demand more money from him!"
He finally said, his voice hoarser than usual, "At least ten thousand US dollars!"
Old Jack handed him a towel: "Victor, professional boxing isn't just about punching; you have to learn to play the game."
Viktor pressed the towel to his face and took a deep breath.
The fabric smelled of sweat and blood, which reminded him of the first time he walked into the Zhao Family Bajiquan Martial Arts School—who knew that his ambition would grow like wildfire along with his abilities?
Originally, all I wanted was to survive in the South District.
"As long as I can keep winning, Trump will choose me!"
He put down the towel and walked towards the boxing ring, saying, "Three more rounds."
The afternoon training was even more brutal.
Frankie found a sparring partner who was about the same height as Radok and had Victor practice how to cut inside.
Every time Viktor tried to get close, the sparring partner would push him away with his long arm while making subtle, stealthy movements with his elbow.
After being pushed away for the third time, Victor spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva. "This is against the rules!"
Old Jack laughed, revealing a few gold teeth: "The only rule in professional boxing is not to get knocked out. Radok will pinch you, push you, and headbutt you from every angle the referee can't see."
Viktor's chest heaved violently, and sweat trickled down his muscular back.
He suddenly rushed towards his sparring partner, not using boxing footwork, but pouncing on him like in a street brawl.
The two crashed into the ropes, stopping when Viktor's forehead slammed into the other's nose.
"damn it!"
The sparring partner covered his nose and backed away, terrified—Victor laughed heartily and hugged the sparring partner apologizing.
Frankie was about to get angry, but old Jack stopped him.
"see it?"
Old Jack pointed at Viktor, "That's his instinct. Training can teach technique, but it can't teach this kind of beastly intuition."
In the evening, after everyone else had left, Victor remained at the boxing gym.
He took off his boxing shoes, stood barefoot on the floor, and practiced dodging movements in front of the mirror.
The man in the mirror had a round face, big eyes, and a full beard, just like the leopard with ringed eyes described in the book. His short, thick face provided the most stable structure, and his chin would not become like glass.
Victor threw a left hook at the mirror, and spiderweb-like cracks appeared on the glass surface.
Blood seeped from his knuckles, but the pain gave him a strange sense of calm.
"Mister Lee".
A voice came from the doorway.
She was a young, slender blonde girl, holding a voice recorder and a notebook. "I'm an intern at the Brooklyn Eagle. May I ask you a few questions?"
Victor wrapped his bleeding hand in a towel: "No."
"Just five minutes,"
The girl didn't back down, her wedding ring gleaming: "Regarding why you rejected the Fiat endorsement contract, some say it's arrogance, others say you have a more secretive sponsor."
Victor walked toward the locker room.
The girl followed: "Some people say you beat Fujimoto Kyotaro so badly because he looks like someone who hurt you. Is that true?"
Victor whirled around, and the blonde woman stumbled backward and crashed into the wall.
"Want to know?"
The girl nodded.
"Then we can make a deal."
Victor looked at the blonde woman.
The blonde woman knows what a deal is—but her career is her first priority.
"This is not a good place."
Viktor looked around and shook his head: "It's late at night and no one's around, and I'm very irritable."
The blonde woman accepted.
An hour later, the hardworking blonde woman received two words and three hundred dollars.
After she left, Victor stood under the shower and let the cold water wash over his body.
The water was cold, like a Chicago winter, but he stood motionless until his skin turned red and his breathing became steady—the pressure of fighting Tyson was immense.
At 10 p.m., when he finally walked out of the boxing gym, he found Lowell's car still parked on the side of the road.
“Victor, you won’t lack women, you don’t need to choose such a dangerous person. Just ask, and you’ll have enough women in Atlantic City.”
“A journalist, Lowell, you’re overthinking it.”
"She's a married woman, a college graduate. Compared to women who can be satisfied with just powder and alcohol, their knives are much sharper."
"I like women who have been chosen by excellent men. This is enough to prove their excellence, and it can make up for my lack of understanding of women."
"Hey...you're in danger too."
"We're standing together, there won't be any problems. Let's get down to business!"
"Could I have a chance to fight one of my other professional boxers, Creamy Bean?"
"Who will pay my appearance fee? If I can keep going after five games, my appearance fee will be at least 200,000."
"I found a boss."
"The Pritzker family's Hyatt Hotels Corporation!"
Chapter 80 The Chicago Typewriter Offensive
On July 18, 1985, the conference center of the Trump Plaza Hotel in Atlantic City was packed with people.
The weigh-in ceremony was packed with reporters and boxing enthusiasts, with flashbulbs constantly illuminating the stage as if it were daytime.
The air was thick with the scent of sweat, leather, and stimulants, and everyone was waiting for tomorrow's main event between Tyson and Sims.
But before this match, the most anticipated undercard game—Victor vs. Eddie Richardson—also made for good headlines.
"Victor Gian Chicago Typewriter!"
The host announced loudly.
Viktor walked onto the stage wearing only black athletic shorts, revealing his sculpted muscles.
His 385-pound weight was distributed almost perfectly on his body, with every muscle arranged as if it had been precisely calculated.
He stood on the weigh-in with a blank expression, and the number stopped at 385 pounds.
"1.85 meters tall! 385 pounds!"