socalfunplaces Page 93
Page 93
"That's just the first point!"
Victor sneered. He knew the rules of this game all too well—boxing was never just a sport, it was a business:
"Foucault, there's another point. The US government blames the Japanese for their poor living standards. Those Japanese who are waving their money around buying real estate all over the US are making the lower classes very dissatisfied... So they're going with the flow!"
Only by winning the game and making a fortune for the casino can he have a chance to play the next game.
Who is Tyson's opponent?
"George Alderson, a tall guy at 1.95 meters, is definitely no match for Tyson. His waist is too thin, so his six-pack abs are useless!"
Foucault was quite dismissive, but then sighed, "Kalton is quite capable; he actually got Old Trump to promote him!"
Viktor glanced at Foucault and silently smoked.
"Let's go and familiarize ourselves with the venue first."
Foucault glanced at his Rolex gold watch. "They arranged for us to stay in a suite on the top floor of the hotel, saying it was a 'special privilege'."
The lobby of the Plaza Hotel is magnificent, with crystal chandeliers hanging from the 20-meter-high dome, making the marble floor shine like a mirror.
The casino area was filled with the electronic sounds of slot machines, and the air was thick with the scents of perfume, cigars, and alcohol.
Victor noticed that at least six security guards in black were patrolling in the shadows, their eyes scanning every corner like searchlights.
"The competition is at the conference center, but the signing is arranged at the hotel. The signing is on the 1st, the weigh-in is on the 10th, and the competition is on the 11th."
Foucault lowered his voice, "Old Trump wants to create some buzz, you understand?"
Victor nodded: "At least I won't cry!"
He understood perfectly well that tomorrow's signing ceremony was just a performance to rake in wealthy spectators, and that he and Fujimoto were merely puppets.
Viktor had no prejudice against Japanese people; like Lee Seung-ri, he believed that all Japanese people deserved to die.
The following morning, Victor did stretching exercises in front of the suite's floor-to-ceiling window.
From the 43rd floor, the Atlantic Ocean looks like a flowing sapphire.
He flexed his knuckles, imagining the sensation of them hitting Kyotaro Fujimoto's chin.
Last night he studied his opponent's stats: 1.83 meters tall, 230 pounds, 27 wins and no losses, 24 by knockout.
Japanese media called him "Red Demon" because of his fiery red hair and brutal fighting style, and the term is more easily translated as "Red-haired Demon".
"The signing will take place at nine o'clock, followed by a press conference at ten o'clock."
As Foucault fastened his tie, he walked into the living room. "Old Teddy sent a car to pick me up."
The signing room is located in the "Golden Hall" on the third floor of the hotel.
As Viktor entered the room, he immediately felt the focus of more than a dozen gazes.
Several people were already seated on one side of the long table. The red-haired man in the middle was chatting and laughing with his companion in Japanese. When he saw him come in, he deliberately raised his voice and said something, which made the people around him burst into laughter.
"That's Fujimoto."
Foucault whispered in his ear, "His agent, Yamamoto, is Japan's biggest boxing promoter and has worked with Trump."
Viktor walked expressionlessly to his assigned seat.
Today, Kyotaro Fujimoto wore a scarlet suit, which made his red hair look like a burning flame.
He tilted his head and looked Viktor up and down, then suddenly said in broken English, "Chinese guy, are you ready to go to the hospital?"
The air in the room froze instantly.
Foucault pressed down on Viktor's arm, but Viktor simply sat down calmly and began to peruse the contract—the Japanese man's English was so awkward that Viktor couldn't understand it.
Before the signing ceremony began, Trump suddenly appeared.
The 39-year-old real estate tycoon wore his signature dark blue suit and his blond hair was neatly combed.
"Gentlemen!"
He opened his arms as if embracing the entire room, exclaiming, "This will be the most exciting Asian showdown in Atlantic City history!"
Viktor noticed that as he spoke, his eyes remained fixed on the Japanese television camera behind Fujimoto.
The signing process went smoothly until the exchange of documents, when Fujimoto suddenly said "Zira" in Japanese and then spat at Viktor's feet.
Time seemed to stand still—Viktor understood the pronunciation of 'zhi' and 'na'.
Viktor saw the dark stain left on the carpet by the saliva, heard Foucault gasp, and felt the throbbing veins in his temples.
Fujimoto wore a provocative smile, and one of the men next to him repeated in English, "Trash."
The next second, Victor slapped the man next to Fujimoto across the face, while simultaneously throwing a left straight punch at Fujimoto's nose.
Amidst the resounding slap, he heard a woman scream and the sound of a chair overturning. Fujimoto charged forward in a rage, only to be pulled back.
Two Japanese team members rushed at him. Victor knocked down the first one with a left hook and then struck the second one in the abdomen with a right straight punch. The man curled up and knelt on the ground like a shrimp.
The manager's roar made the crystal chandelier sway slightly—he realized he had underestimated something: this Chinese-American Tommy didn't follow the script at all, and he always went for the kill when he hit someone.
Fortunately, the Japanese stalled quickly, otherwise that straight punch could have ended the fight.
Old Trump thought to himself, "Sure enough, people of Chinese descent are the most ruthless!"
When the security guards rushed in to separate the two sides, Viktor's knuckles were bleeding and burning with pain, but he stared intently at Fujimoto, whose left straight punch had missed its mark—the Japanese man was wiping the water off his face, his nosebleed staining his white shirt collar.
"Perfect!"
After taking control of the situation, the manager suddenly burst into laughter, clapping his hands and saying, "We've got tomorrow's headlines!"
He turned to the stunned reporters and exclaimed, "Did you get a picture? This is way more exciting than Tyson's press conference!"
The signing ceremony ended hastily amidst the chaos.
In the elevator back to the suite, Foucault's face was ashen: "Are you fucking crazy? Boxing Weekly will portray you as a thug!"
"You want me to cause some trouble!"
Victor licked his cracked lips: "Did you see the look in that guy's eyes? He's scared."
His swollen knuckles were reflected in the elevator mirror. "I'll make him even more afraid during the match."
That afternoon, the Atlantic City News' sports section headline read "Asian boxers brawl at signing ceremony," accompanied by a picture of Victor throwing a punch.
Foucault rushed into the suite with the newspaper in his hand; he was delighted!
"We're on the front page! They just called to say ticket sales have increased by 30%!"
Viktor, who was applying ice to his right hand, simply shrugged when he heard this.
The television was showing footage of the signing conflict, and Fujimoto said in an interview in Japanese that he would knock him out in the first round.
Viktor turned off the TV and took out the videotape of Fujimoto's title defense last year from his backpack.
"Please contact Frankie for me."
He told Foucault, "I need to analyze Fujimoto's 'Crimson Lotus Strike'."
Frankie is Victor's boxing coach.
That evening they met in the punching bag area of the hotel gym, and Frankie repeatedly played Fujimoto's signature move—the explosive uppercut after suddenly lowering his center of gravity.
"Look here,"
Frankie pointed to the paused screen, "He has a habit of blinking his left eye before throwing a punch."
He drew a circle on the screen with a marker, "You're two centimeters taller than him, and your wingspan is eleven centimeters longer. You have overwhelming strength, so you don't need to fight him. Just use your strength to suppress him!"
Viktor practiced his straight punches hundreds of times in front of the punching bag.
Sweat streamed down his back, forming small puddles on the floor.
He imagined how dazzling Fujimoto's red hair would be under the spotlight, and how his saliva would trace an arc in the air.
"Just pull"—this word was like a thorn stuck in his heart.
Returning to his suite late at night, Victor found Old Trump's secretary waiting for him. He then handed him a handwritten note: "Win this fight, and I'll arrange a boxer for you. —DT"
He crumpled the note into a ball and threw it into the trash can.
"Cooperation is cooperation! What's with the mystery?"
Outside the window, the neon lights of Atlantic City turned the sea purple.
Three days later, he and Fujimoto will stand under the spotlight in the conference center, while every slot machine in the casino will display their odds.
Viktor practiced his punches in front of the mirror, and the person in the mirror had eyes as cold as ice.
"I can finish you off in one round!"
He said softly, his fist whistling through the air, "But I'm going to break your bones! One round won't be enough!"
Chapter 75 Conflict and Methods
In Atlantic City in 1985, the air was thick with the scent of money and desire.
In the golden lobby of the Trump Plaza Hotel, Victor adjusted his suit cuffs, his taut jawline reflected in the mirror-like marble floor.
Three days ago, his conflict with Japanese athlete Kyotaro Fujimoto at the signing ceremony made headlines in the sports section of The New York Times.
"Victor, they've arrived."
Foucault strode over, followed by a group of Asian faces.
Ethan Lee walked at the front with a steady gait, followed by two young men—Michael Lee and Liz Chen—and then twelve martial arts students dressed in matching red SHW uniforms.
Viktor noticed their upright posture as they walked, a mark etched into their very bones by years of martial arts training.
Victor went up and hugged Ethan, smelling a stench: "You haven't fucking showered?"
"How can I wash in the car? I'll be covered in sweat!"
Ethan patted him on the back: "I heard you got into a conflict with the Japanese. Old Zhao and his men picked twenty of them, got dressed, and came over. One hundred dollars each!"
Viktor smirked: "Just warming up the atmosphere for the match."
A martial arts student with a ponytail behind Ethan suddenly burst out laughing, "Victor, we're here to take care of them!"
Viktor recognized him—Zhang Ming, a delivery driver for Snow Honey Wind City Catering Services (SHW) and one of the martial arts school's most outstanding disciples.
His ancestors were among the first group of laborers tricked into coming to the United States. One of them once single-handedly took down five Japanese sailors at the dock—by piercing their stomachs with an iron rod.