socalfunplaces Page 31
Page 31
Reggie rushed out the door 1.7 seconds faster than Victor had anticipated.
The ensuing beating was an art form—every punch Reggie landed in a spot that wouldn't kill, but would definitely leave evidence:
Left cheek, bridge of nose, ribs.
Fifteen seconds later, the siren blared precisely on time—Frank had already called the police.
When the police found the packet of heroin in Reggie's bedside table, the expression on Reggie's face almost made Victor burst out laughing.
Reggie had just bought that package, less than eight hours after receiving it, and before he could even hide it properly, that bastard Frank ruined his plans.
"You can't do this! I have a qualifying round next week!"
Reggie was still yelling as he was pinned to the ground, until the handcuffs clicked shut on his wrists. "It's a misunderstanding! I didn't know what this was! I thought it was just salt!"
Detective Watson timely nudged Reggie in the stomach with his baton, forcing him to swallow the rest of the charges.
Frank was both shocked and terrified. He knew he had stumbled into a high-level game and was being used as a pawn, but he instantly knew what to do and actually fainted.
Watson, seeing how well they were handling the situation, instantly knew what to do and pulled out his walkie-talkie: "A black man committed violence, a white man is injured and unconscious..."
Victor finished his coffee and left a generous tip on the bill.
The play is over; it's time to check the results.
When the news reached Foucault's boxing gym, Viktor was doing bench presses in the strength zone of the Real Men's Gym.
Old Jack answered a phone call, glanced at Victor, and left.
As soon as he entered, old Jack heard the sound of breaking glass coming from Coach Foucault's office, followed by three minutes of silence.
When Old Jack pushed open the gym door, all the boxers in training involuntarily stopped what they were doing.
"Reggie has been arrested."
Old Jack's voice sounded like he was reading an obituary: "Drug charges plus aggravated assault."
The training hall erupted in chaos.
Some cursed the injustice of the judicial system, some felt sorry for Reggie, and many more began to worry about the future of the boxing gym.
"You all, keep training, you fucking bastards!"
Foucault suddenly appeared by the second-floor railing, his eyes bloodshot, holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey. "Foucault's Boxing Gym won't close down just because some idiot goes to jail!"
But everyone knows what this means.
Reggie has been Foucault Gym’s main fighter for the past three years and has already made a name for himself in the cruiserweight division. Now, with the selection tournament approaching, the gym only has one option left.
At 10 p.m. that night, many people heard the sound of arguing in the office penetrate the poorly soundproofed walls.
Do you fucking think I'm blind?
Foucault's roar made the punching bags downstairs shake slightly. "Frank Gallagher? That drunkard who can't even fasten his own pants would suddenly go after Reggie? When did Detective Watson start raiding boxers' apartments?"
Old Jack's voice was much lower, but every word was like a hammer slamming into a chopping board: "The important thing is that Reggie did indeed have drugs. He has already given up on his supplier. The evidence is complete, and he did indeed beat someone into the hospital, and it was a white man. He's finished."
"It's Victor."
Foucault's voice suddenly became weary, "That little bastard has been plotting this since day one; he's always wanted to challenge Reggie's position."
"So what?"
Old Jack's rhetorical question froze the air. "Right now, he's the only boxer we can get into the pros. He has value, he has ability, he has talent! The people at the Chicago Boxing Club were asking about him last week, if we don't act quickly—"
The sound of a bottle smashing against the wall interrupted the conversation.
Victor went down below, counted to seventeen, and then heard Foucault choke up as he said, "I trained Reggie for four years... four years, Jack..."
"Your relationship with him..."
"What kind of feelings are these? I spent almost $40,000!!! Who am I supposed to ask for that money back? Does Reggie have money after he gets out of jail?"
Viktor quietly walked downstairs, across the empty training ground, and back to his home.
Moonlight streamed through the skylight onto the arena, casting a long shadow over him.
He put on his boxing gloves and threw a series of punches into the air, each one incredibly precise and powerful.
······
As the first rays of sunlight streamed into the boxing gym, Foucault appeared at the edge of the ring, watching Viktor begin his fourth ten-round fight.
This means that Foucault has made his choice.
Victor Lee stood in the center of the boxing ring, his massive 361-pound body resembling a moving mountain of flesh under the spotlight, sweat glistening on his thick layer of fat.
The 260-pound opponent, nicknamed "The Hammer" Thomson, was circling the edge of the ring. His hooks had recently sent two opponents to the hospital.
As soon as the first round bell rang, Thomson charged forward like a cheetah, landing a powerful left hook on Victor's cheek.
The audience gasped, only to see Viktor's fat jiggling like waves, his triple chin wobbling, and him grinning with braces.
"My turn, baby."
Victor's voice sounded like sandpaper.
He suddenly launched a 'meatball charge' with an agility disproportionate to his size, reaching Thomson in front of him and unleashing three sets of left and right hooks, each punch landing squarely on Thomson's defenses.
There are no fancy techniques, just four or five hundred pounds of force that becomes indestructible with its impact.
Thomson's body swayed from side to side as Victor attacked, creating openings.
When Victor's second right hook struck his liver, Thomson's face turned deathly pale instantly. The referee later saw in the medical report that he had a 3-centimeter fracture in his ribs.
When Victor threw his third uppercut from below, all the kinetic energy from his 361-pound weight was poured into this strike, but it was hidden in the unremarkable way he used the sledgehammer.
Thomson's jaw cracked with a sickening sound as his 190-pound upper body leaned back at a 45-degree angle, his head slamming into the ring mat before landing and creating a human-shaped dent.
When the medical staff counted to five, they found that Thomson's pupils had lost their light reflex.
The commentator on the sidelines grabbed the microphone and screamed, "My God! This isn't a boxing match! This is a heavy truck running over a car!"
Viktor was wiping his sweat with the referee's tie; there wasn't even a red mark left on his fleshy armor.
Viktor then raised his hands in celebration of the victory!
It was indeed a victory – a ten-man round-robin tournament that requires nine matches, and Viktor himself has four wins so far, while the other two boxers with three wins each lost their fourth match.
They lacked the protective flesh against impacts, and they didn't have Viktor's ability to quickly absorb damage to restore their strength and heal their injuries, so the combined effect made them even weaker.
The person we just saw was already a top seed among amateur boxers.
When they arrived at the locker room, Viktor saw old Jack leading Foucault in.
Foucault had puffy eyes and smelled of a hangover, but he was holding a thick stack of training plans that Viktor had never seen before.
“Victor, if you’re willing, starting today, Foucault Boxing Gym will dedicate its full resources to training you.”
Foucault's voice sounded like it had crawled out of a grave: "I've consulted with old Jack. If possible, you can add two hours of physical training every day and spar with your sparring partner on weekends. Old Jack will rearrange your diet and schedule."
He stared into Victor's eyes. "I want you to win so much that everyone forgets the name Reggie Thomas."
Viktor took the plan but did not sign the contract. Instead, he said to Foucault, "I need time to think about it."
Old Jack witnessed all of this.
After Foucault stumbled back to his office because of Viktor's answer, the old man came to Viktor, who was tying his wrists.
"why?"
Old Jack's voice was so soft that only the two of them could hear it, "You clearly came here for the training at the Foucault Boxing Gym, so why are you backing out now that it's time?"
"Because you like winners."
Viktor continued wrapping the wristband, without looking up: "And I like it too, but I like winning more."
"Because I've met more people."
Old Jack pulled a yellowed photograph from his pocket; it showed him as a young man with a black boxer. "Off-field tactics won't get you far!"
Viktor's hand paused for 0.3 seconds, then continued to wrap around: "You've misunderstood me."
"Maybe."
Old Jack stuffed the photo back into his pocket. "But remember, kid, Foucault is helpless now. Once you lose your value, things will get really bad!"
He made a motion of wiping his neck.
Viktor finally raised his head, revealing the most genuine smile he had shown since entering the gym: "Before that, I will become the greatest boxer he has ever trained."
He had already figured it out: the steel body would further enhance Victor's power, so what was there to fear?
Can't a world-renowned boxing champion do the same?
"I need a lawyer to take a look at this contract!"
Chapter 27 Ugly and crude tactics!
In Chicago's South Side, the September winds swept through the streets like knives, gradually taking away a little warmth.
Viktor pulled his pilot jacket tighter around himself and pushed open the glass door of the Foucault Boxing Gym.
The bell on the door rang crisply, and a mingled sound of boxing gloves hitting a punching bag and the smell of sweat wafted out.
"Is the contract signed?"
Foucault peeked out of his office, an unlit cigar dangling from his lips. The former middleweight champion, who ran the gym after retiring, still had eyes as sharp as an eagle's.
His eyes held a hint of skepticism towards Viktor—he had always intuitively believed that the imprisonment of Reggie, the previous star of Foucault's boxing gym, was inextricably linked to this man.
In particular, the child support payments and bank bills that Reggie needs to pay have completely drained his money, and now Reggie can't even afford bail.
Victor nodded and pulled a stack of documents from his jacket pocket: "The lawyer has reviewed them, no problem."
His knuckles still bore bruises from yesterday's game.
Old Jack strolled over from the punching bag area, squinted at Victor, and said, "Kid, are you sure you want to give up those underground matches? Foucault wouldn't allow his boxers to mess around outside."
"I didn't say I was going to give up."
Victor placed the contract on the table, tapping his knuckles on the paper. "The South District Thugs have five games left. Once they're done, training camp will begin."
Foucault snorted, unfolded the contract, and carefully examined the signature: "Six months. I want to see if you can last twelve rounds! Six months later, I want you to knock those rich kids' jaws off at the Golden Gloves Chicago trials."
He tapped the calendar on the wall with his cigar, and March 1985 was circled in red.