socalfunplaces Page 184
Page 184
She had made all the preparations, but she didn't even get to see Viktor before leaving his apartment at the same time the next day.
But how could the truth be so simple?
Within three days, tabloid reporters had spread Golotta's good deed throughout Chicago with photos—Golotta exchanging his wife for money.
He appears to be socially dead.
—But only within the boxing world.
The honest people of Chicago all thought Golotta had made a killing. The interest on the $100,000 loan over three years was less than $30,000, which was like picking up money off the ground. They all envied Golotta's wife for being so valuable, and everyone knew that loan sharking was widespread in Chicago.
Apart from Golota himself.
·······
Late spring in Chicago is still bitterly cold, but inside Skywind Sports Training & Ironheart Boxing Gym in Hyde Park, the heat is enough to scorch the air.
The salty smell of sweat, the sour smell of leather, the pungent smell of disinfectant, and the rough scent of male hormones mingled together to create a unique aroma that belonged only to the prelude to battle.
Viktor stood in the center of the boxing ring, his movements swift and precise, his footsteps like shadows flowing along the ground.
The heavy sandbag groaned in pain under the barrage of his punches, and the chains creaked.
His punches were not brute force strikes, but cannonballs that concentrated the power of his entire body, each strike accompanied by a whistling sound as it cut through the wind.
Sweat splattered from his angular face and shaved head, sparkling like diamonds in the dim light.
"Speed! Victor, speed!"
Old Jack's voice was hoarse but extremely penetrating: "Bob's starting speed is 0.1 seconds faster than yours, so you'll have to expend ten times more energy to dodge! Don't give him that chance!"
Beside the boxing ring, Frankie was intently watching an old-fashioned video camera.
On the screen, Riddick Bowe—the behemoth from Brownsville, Brooklyn—is knocking his opponents down time and time again with his devastating right-hand punch.
The image was blurry and noisy, but Bao's terrifying power and disproportionate agility were still clearly visible.
“Look here, Viktor,”
Frankie paused the video and pointed at the screen. "After he throws a powerful right punch, his left hand always goes down a tiny bit, just a tiny bit! It's a habit, or it could be a trap, but we have to try."
Ray's physique is similar to Victor's, making him the perfect candidate to imitate Bow's style—though his strength is far inferior to that monster's.
"Damn, this guy's fists are like they're loaded with explosives,"
Ray, panting, said, "I was mimicking his fighting style, and I felt like my arm was about to fly off. Victor, you have to keep moving at all times; you can't let him pin you down in a corner."
Viktor stopped hitting the sandbag, his chest heaving violently, and the white breath he exhaled instantly dissipated.
He walked to the edge of the stage, picked up a water bottle and poured it over his head. The icy water gave him a jolt, but his eyes became even sharper, like those of a hawk.
"I know."
His voice was deep, with an almost cold calm, “His right-hand punch, his left hook, his aggressive footwork... I’ve watched the video countless times. But the opponent in the video is not me.”
This is not arrogance, but a deep-seated confidence.
Viktor's training regimen is hellish.
The day begins with a 10-kilometer interval run before dawn, followed by technical refinement and tactical analysis in the morning, high-intensity sparring and physical training in the afternoon, and exhausting core strength and resilience exercises in the evening.
His life became a monotonous cycle centered on his steely heart and with his apartment as his temporary residence.
The whole world seemed to shrink to this tiny space filled with sweat and shouts.
He even deliberately avoided information from the outside world.
The newspapers were reporting on his feud with Bao.
He knew about it, but he left the details to Jimmy and his team.
He just needed to maintain that provoked state, but he didn't need those trash words to actually disturb his mind.
However, this isolation was not without its challenges.
A few days ago, Ivana arrived in Chicago with a team of architects and lawyers to conduct preliminary research for the Plaza Hotel project they were about to invest in and renovate.
She was like a warm ray of light, suddenly shining into this hard world filled with male hormones and the smell of sweat, bringing hope to Viktor;
She is more like a sharp sword, with the edge of Wall Street, cutting a gap in the vast network of Chicago's local capital!
After being apart for more than ten days, the brief moments of tenderness felt especially precious.
In the apartment, there are moments of tenderness where one can temporarily forget the boxing ring.
But that only lasted five days.
Victor didn't even spend a full day with her inspecting the site.
Every day at six o'clock in the morning, he still appears at the boxing gym without fail.
Ivana understood him; she had always been so clear about her own position—she simply needed a business!
Victor kissed her forehead, giving the 36-year-old A8 a taste of speed and passion to gain her support.
When he turned back to the boxing gym, his eyes were colder than the Chicago wind.
Ivana's arrival and departure did not weaken his resolve; on the contrary, they made him even clearer that his plan was about to succeed.
While Victor was training hard in Chicago, the New York media was abuzz with his war of words with Riddick Bowe.
The feud was initially started by Bo's agent, Locke Newman, who knew the value of hype.
In an interview with a reporter from the sports section of the New York Post, Newman dismissively stated:
"Victor? A handsome Chinese-American boy from the Midwest?"
How many decent opponents has he fought? Tyson? Radok? Those are just boxers who specifically choose opponents to rack up their records.
Riddick is the future champion; Victor is just another stepping stone on his path to coronation. The fight won't last more than six rounds.
This article is like a match thrown into a haystack.
Upon seeing this, Frankie immediately sought Victor's opinion.
Viktor had just finished a grueling set of abdominal muscle training. Panting, he only said, "Do whatever you want, but don't lose your edge."
Frankie then retaliated in kind, using the Chicago Tribune as a counterattack:
"A stepping stone? Riddick Bowe should be worried about getting his foot smashed by Victor's punches. Victor's technique is enough to give Bowe a vivid boxing lesson, right here at Trump's Plaza Hotel, in front of the whole world!"
Bao was clearly enraged.
In the next interview, Bowe himself took the stage, his thick Brooklyn accent almost audible through the newspaper:
"Technique? That's laughable! Frankie? Old Jack? Who are they? Never even heard of them! Victor, stop hiding behind your coach and babbling! Once you get my 'Bubble Bomb,' you'll know what real boxing is! Are you ready for your pretty big ass to get smashed flat?"
Viktor was really angry this time.
He directly had Frankie contact a reporter from USA Today, who then dictated his response:
"The Butcher of Brownsville? Sounds like a third-rate horror movie character. Riddick, your punches might scare little kids, but to me, you're as slow as a drunken bear. Has your chin ever been tested by a real punch? I'd be happy to check it out for you on March 17th."
The metaphor of a "drunken bear" completely ignited Bao's anger.
In the following weeks, the two sides continued their exchange through major newspapers and sports magazines, with increasingly heated rhetoric and more personal attacks.
The reporters were ecstatic. This already highly anticipated clash between the old and new forces had become even more captivating due to the heated verbal battle.
Not to mention: Victor's appearance fee was $1200 million and Riddick Bowe's was $800 million, and the winner of both sides would take 40% of the box office revenue—it was a huge gamble!
The headlines are getting more and more sensational:
"Hall called Bob the 'Brooklyn Bear'!"
"Bow swore: He'd 'rearrange' Hall's face!"
"The epic war of words before the battle of the century!"
"Technology vs. Power: Who Will Be the King of the Future?"
These newspapers were occasionally brought to "Heart of Steel".
Ethan would read it to Victor, who was receiving a relaxing massage.
When he hears something particularly vulgar or ridiculous, Viktor's lips curl into a cold smile, but the fire in his eyes burns even brighter.
These trash words didn't make him lose his temper; instead, they fueled his fighting spirit.
He imagined every word in the newspaper as a punch thrown by Bao, and in his mind he dodged and parried it again and again, preparing to retaliate with an even fiercer counterattack.
Old Jack was somewhat worried about this, fearing that Victor would be swayed by his emotions.
But after observing for a few days, he discovered that Viktor had miraculously transformed this anger into even greater focus and power on the training field.
Anger did not control him; instead, it was mastered by him and became the whetstone for sharpening his blade.
Old Jack whispered to Frankie, "Keep your anger in check, but control it. Victor did the right thing; Bowie is already provoked, and he might be more eager to win the game."
The storm has already taken shape on paper, waiting only for the right moment for the two protagonists to face each other and detonate all the accumulated gunpowder at once.
On March 15, 1987, Victor's team arrived in New York.
This East Coast behemoth has a completely different pulse from Chicago—faster, louder, and more nakedly driven by desire.
The Trump Plaza Hotel, with its opulent gold and an aura of wealth and power, seemed like a world apart from the dilapidated neighborhoods of Brownsville, yet together they were the seeds of the impending great battle.
A large number of reporters and boxing fans gathered at the hotel entrance.
The flashes of light were like a barrage of lightning, almost blinding. Questions came flying in like bullets:
"Victor! What's your response to Bao's latest remarks?"
Do you really think your technology can counteract his power?
"Nervous, Mr. Victor Lee?"
Wearing sunglasses and expressionless, Victor struggled through the crowd, flanked by Old Jack and Frankie on either side, and with the help of Ethan and two other security personnel.
He didn't answer any of the questions, only occasionally nodding slightly.
His silence, on the contrary, created a tremendous pressure, like the low pressure before a storm.
In contrast, Riddick Bowe, who arrived earlier, was much more high-profile.
Surrounded by a large entourage and reporters, he loudly proclaimed harsh words, drawing cheers from his supporters.
Even from a short distance away, Viktor could feel the commotion and primal power emanating from the other side.