harleyscars Page 112
Page 112
Old Jack leaned closer to the screen, his cloudy eyes suddenly lighting up: "Damn it, you're right!"
Frankie looked at him and was very pleased with Victor: "You've improved, but it's not enough. He's trying to seduce you. The next step is his left hook."
Days flew by amidst sweat and strategy.
The weighing ceremony on September 4th was as bright as day, with flashing cameras.
Mercedes' appearance caused a stir in the venue—he was even taller than he appeared in the video, and his dark skin gleamed under the lights.
However, to everyone's surprise, the giant black man, whom the media called "the beast," simply walked quietly onto the scale, without even looking Victor in the eye.
When the host habitually incited a confrontation between the two sides, Mercedes simply went through the motions mechanically and then quietly retreated behind his agent.
Victor raised an eyebrow.
In the world of boxing, psychological warfare at the weigh-in ceremony is almost a tacit rule.
He deliberately took two steps closer, but Mercedes instinctively took half a step back—Victor stopped testing the waters.
"Damn it!"
On the way back to the locker room, Victor couldn't help but mutter, "He's as docile as a lamb."
Michael chuckled, a cigarette dangling from his lips, "Tyson not only broke his ribs, but he also shattered his soul. I heard that when Trump asked him to perform, he resisted, he didn't even want to. This time, he's only performing because of the appearance fee, but that fee is 50% lower than yours, only $50,000!"
Viktor paused for a moment while tying his shoelaces.
He recalled the first time he stepped into the professional boxing ring—which was actually in July. At that time, he was full of confidence and believed that he could make a name for himself.
The fact that Viktor was able to hold his own against Radok for nine rounds was also due to his confidence in himself.
Old Jack provided an explanation:
"What's so strange about that? Haven't you always been like this? You've always been so confident in yourselves, daring to fight us with just a rifle! And you even managed to win! When you had nothing, you beat up all of us Americans, Soviets, and Indians. I'd believe you if you said you could land on the moon."
Viktor laughed heartily, only thinking to himself that this was a veteran suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.
The TV in the locker room was playing sports news, and Nike's stock price was scrolling upwards at the bottom of the screen.
"Old Jack, what do you think of Nick?"
Victor's words made old Jack look up:
"This guy is 1.92 meters tall, weighs 260 pounds, has explosive power and good endurance, but I don't think he'll last long."
"why?"
"Because he lacked fighting spirit, he didn't know what to fight for. Even Franklin, Nick, told me that when he was with Carl, he didn't lack money, and he wasn't interested in money!"
"Okay! I'll ask him, ask him what he wants to do."
Victor looked at Michael, who shrugged:
"He has an intellectual disability, that's not a lie. Now I finally understand why that assessment company agreed to issue the report so easily, because everything is true."
"Forget it, let's ask him what he wants to do, and then turn it to our own business."
Victor looked up and suddenly said to Michael, "Tell Blair not to sell off yet."
"Are you sure? We've already made a 1.5% profit."
Viktor looked out the window, where neon lights flickered in the night: "Sometimes, confidence is more important than fists. And confidence needs to be backed by capital."
He finished wrapping his boxing bandages, his knuckles protruding slightly beneath the gauze, like a cheetah poised to pounce. He was determined to win, win after win!
Chapter 91 I'll Avoid Your Edge?
On September 5, 1985, at the Trump Plaza Hotel in Atlantic City, the heat was thick and heavy, carrying with it the stench of money, cheap and expensive cologne, and insatiable desires, pressing down on everyone who squeezed into this glittering cage.
The spotlight, like a red-hot needle, pierced through the swirling cigar smoke and finally nailed itself to the violent stage of the boxing ring.
The air reverberated with the low hum of the crowd, a collective craving for bloodshed and instant gratification.
The backstage corridor was cold and damp, where the smells of sweat, leather, and fear lingered.
Victor leaned against the cold, gray wall, listening to the deafening roar of the main arena outside—a roar dedicated to Mike Tyson, to that beast about to be unleashed.
His fight was unprecedentedly placed after Tyson's, with Tyson, who dominated the boxing ring, becoming nothing more than an appetizer.
The official statement is "Equal appearance fees, equal number of rounds, two stars shining."
But everyone knew perfectly well that this was a bizarre idea that Donald Trump—the real estate tycoon sitting in the front row tonight with hair like a suit of golden armor—had long been prepared for.
He wants to use contrast, reversal, anger, and debate to push the fight between Viktor and Tyson to its limit, and then reap the rewards!
Tyson's anger had already been clearly conveyed through his agent's veiled insults and his hand that nearly crushed a reporter's shoulder in the parking lot this morning.
"Victor is only fit to shine my shoes! A warm-up act? That's charity!"
Tyson's roar still seemed to echo in the air.
Viktor closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and the icy air stung his lungs.
He understood that this was just a show, a small warm-up before the showdown that Trump wanted to see, it was business.
Moreover, Tyson and he already knew this.
But Tyson's words were like poisoned ice shards, piercing the most untouchable corner of his heart—who could face a peak Tyson without trying?
Especially since I also have a cheat code—I used to have one!
"Your turn, Victor!"
The staff pushed open the door, and a huge wave of noise from outside rushed in.
The spotlight instantly engulfed him, leaving only dazzling white and blurry, distorted black faces below the stage in his field of vision.
Viktor raised his hands and punched the air in response to their trust—Viktor had bought another $500,000 for himself!
The referee mechanically reiterated the rules, his voice torn apart by noise.
Across from him stood Hector Mercedes, a towering figure, nearly two meters tall with an awe-inspiringly long wingspan. His eyes, hidden deep in the shadows of his brow bone, revealed no emotion.
Viktor moved, his footwork agile, tentatively thrusting out his lead fist like a viper's forked tongue.
Mercedes then raised its support frame, as precise as a textbook.
The fist slammed down, producing a dull thud, but the black tower remained completely still.
Instead, its exceptionally long reach was like a whip, striking again and again, deftly bypassing Viktor's defenses and precisely piercing his diaphragm.
Viktor let out a muffled groan; the blow to that spot brought not only pain, but also a brief moment of suffocation and muscle spasms.
In an instant, Victor knew that yesterday's setback and the hesitation that had been reported earlier were all a trap set by Mercades!
A few scattered boos rose from the stands, but they quickly turned into an embarrassing chorus.
They pay to see a knockout, to see bloodshed, not to see a nimble monkey futilely attacking a silent wall.
My gaze unconsciously drifted toward the most expensive row of seats on the side of the stage.
Trump was grinning, turning his head to say something to Tyson, who was as big as an ox, while casually pointing at the stage.
Tyson burst into a rough laugh, his thick shoulders shaking, shook his head dismissively, picked up his glass and took a big gulp, as if watching a poorly made circus.
The image was like a red-hot branding iron, searing into Viktor's retina.
Mercedes seemed to draw false courage from this atmosphere, and his combination punches after a body strike became even more audacious.
Viktor suddenly dived down, the movement small, but his head moved so fast that it left only a blur.
Mercedes's powerful punch grazed his hair.
In the instant he sprang up, Victor twisted all his strength into an explosive vortex, and his right fist, like a heavy hammer swung from the depths of hell, slammed solidly into Mercedes' right side kidney without any fancy moves!
The sound wasn't loud, but it was so dull it made your teeth ache.
“Ouch——!!!”
Mercedes froze instantly, his eyes bulging out of their sockets, and his open mouth let out a shrill, distorted scream that was completely inhuman.
His massive body seemed to have all its bones removed, or like a live shrimp thrown into boiling oil. It suddenly curled up, fell straight to one side, and slammed its face into the rubber of the boxing ring. It convulsed violently, and tears and saliva flowed uncontrollably.
In the front row, Trump's smile froze instantly. Startled by the scream, he instinctively covered his ears, shrank back, and frowned, revealing an expression of near disgust.
The referee lunged forward, standing between the two and began counting down.
Sweat, blood, and glaring lights mingled together in Mercedes' unfocused pupils.
His body was convulsing uncontrollably, like a stranded fish, each spasm accompanied by excruciating, tearing pain in his ribs—it was too much.
But he braced himself against the table with his boxing gloves, swaying, and actually stood up—even Victor couldn't believe it.
He spat out his braces, which, mixed with thick blood foam, splattered onto the canvas.
He adopted a shaky defensive stance, his vision blurred and his hands limp.
But Viktor didn't give him a chance.
Not even a tiny bit.
The countdown ended like the sounding of a hunting horn.
Like a shark that has caught the scent of blood, Victor charged forward without hesitation.
His fists were no longer technical jabs, but transformed into a primal, violent storm of metal, crashing down on the body that was merely curling up on instinct.
The commentator yelled wildly, "Here it comes! The Chicago Typewriter's fist storm!"
Most of the punches were blocked by the raised arm of Mercedes' remaining consciousness, making dull thuds.
Some grazed the corners of his forehead. But hidden within this raging storm was a long-planned right hook, a punch that gathered all his strength.
It tore through the messy defenses, its trajectory clear and ruthless, time seemed to stretch out in that moment—then, it slashed fiercely at Mercedes's left brow bone, which was completely exposed and could no longer be protected!
A crisp, wet, popping sound, unlike any of the previous striking sounds.
That wasn't the dull thud of bones breaking, but the chilling sound of flesh being forcibly torn apart by immense force.
A deep, bone-revealing gash burst open instantly, and blood gushed out not just flowing out, but almost spurting out, immediately covering half of Mercedes' face.
The battle is over.
The referee panicked and rushed over, grabbing Victor tightly with his whole body as he tried to charge forward, while shouting hoarsely for the medical staff at the corner of the table.
The flashbulbs went off wildly, capturing the brutal final moments in the boxing ring.