August 15, 1985. The Atlantic City Convention Center was lit up like the Fourth of July.
The air was thick with sweat, leather, and pure hype. Nearly ten thousand fans packed the place, their roars crashing like ocean waves.
Victor Lee sat in the locker room, the distant cheers seeping through the walls.
His fists were wrapped tight, his 385-pound frame practically swallowing the bench.
Frankie stood nearby while Old Jack gave the final game plan. Victor soaked it in—these were straight-up kill shots:
"When you clinch, scream in his ear! As loud as you can!"
"Lean on him hard—upper body, full weight. Make him feel it!"
"When you push, shove like you mean it—maybe even throw an elbow!"
"And don't forget—use those chest muscles! You're too heavy for him to handle!"
···
Frankie saw Jack was done and asked, "Victor, what's on your mind?"
"Fuck Helmsley! They're using us as the damn undercard."
Victor's voice rumbled like thunder.
Old Jack paused. "Officials say there's no undercard or main event. You and Tyson both get eighty grand!"
Victor smirked, lifting his meaty face. "Then why's Tyson fighting after us? Why do we go first?"
He stood up, and the room seemed to shrink. "Radok's probably losing his mind right now."
Meanwhile, in the locker room down the hall, Razor Radok was staring into the mirror, prepping.
His 238 pounds of muscle were coiled like steel. He shadowboxed his signature uppercut over and over.
His coach tried to calm him, but Radok's eyes were dangerous.
"Victor Lee? That ridiculous fat boy?"
Radok snorted. "They think I'm not good enough for Tyson, so they make me warm up the crowd for a walking mountain of meat? I'll show everyone I'm the number-one contender!"
But nobody saw what was coming.
···
When the ring announcer called the fighters, the tension could've lit a fuse.
Victor, the challenger, came out first. At 6'1" and 389 pounds, with a 204-inch reach like two sledgehammers, he looked like a tank.
The crowd erupted—cheers mixed with boos. Camera flashes bounced off his oiled-up skin.
"Ladies and gentlemen!"
The announcer's voice boomed: "From Chicago's South Side! 2-0, 100% KO rate—the Fat Tiger, Victor Lee… bringing you a Chicago typewriter visual feast!"
Victor walked stone-faced to the ring, feeling every eye in the place.
This wasn't his first rodeo, but being slotted here? It was a slap in the face. Victor's pride didn't roll with that.
Then the announcer's voice shot up three octaves:
"And now! From Jamaica, 13-0, 11 KOs—the Razor Radok!"
Radok strutted out at 6'3", arms wide like a hawk ready to strike.
The crowd went nuts—way louder than for Victor. His jaw twitched.
Radok charged straight at Victor before the ref could stop him, getting in his face:
"Fat boy, I'll make you squeal like a pig before it dies."
Victor didn't flinch. Their foreheads nearly touched. "Jamaican bastard, I'll mop the floor with your face, then help you find your daddy!"
The ref jumped between them. "Back! Both of you!"
He looked nervous, rattling off rules fast: "No low blows, no hitting behind the head, break on my command…"
DING—
The bell cut through the arena's roar like a knife.
Victor and Radok touched gloves in the center—their knuckles went white from squeezing too hard.
Radok's pupils reflected Victor's blank stare. Victor's tiger eyes burned with a year's worth of Chicago street-cold killer instinct.
"Round One!"
The ref's arm chopped down like a guillotine.
Victor slid back half a step, his 385 pounds swaying side to side with impossible lightness.
His red gloves stayed high by his cheekbones, like steel gates.
The announcer lost it: "Look at that movement! It's like watching a Cortez tank in a blizzard!"
Radok turned into a black lightning bolt.
His crab-step kept him at a 45-degree angle. His left jab snapped like a viper—three probes, all smacking Victor's forearms dead-on.
"Too slow, fat man!"
The Jamaican shook sweat off his dreads, gold tooth flashing under the lights. "You leave your speed in the slop trough?"
The crowd cracked up.
Frankie screamed Chicago slang from the corner, but Victor just blocked the jab storm in silence. The guy was fast—Victor couldn't out-speed him, no matter how hard he trained.
Less than a minute in, Radok switched gears!
He faked a slide back, then—textbook weight shift as Victor stepped in—
SWOOSH!
Left hook ripped the air. Right straight followed.
But the real killer was the uppercut from below—Radok's body uncoiled like a spring loaded to the max!
Victor's eyes widened. He tucked his chin, shoulders up—but too late.
The glove grazed his jaw, spraying blood beads!
"Beautiful three-piece!"
The announcer nearly jumped out of his seat.
But Victor didn't wobble. Instead, he exploded forward like a pissed-off grizzly. A cut opened on his throat—his second chin took the damage.
He used his monster arm strength to clinch, crushing his upper body onto Radok's shoulders and bellowing in his ear: "Go find your daddy! Go find your daddy!"
Radok, no rookie, roared back: "Yellow pig! Yellow pig!"
The ref rushed in. Victor suddenly let go. Radok loaded an uppercut—but Victor shoved with both hands, clean and hard, and sent the 238-pounder crashing to the canvas.
"Fuck! That's a foul!"
The ref didn't blink, ignoring Radok: "Fight or go home—I want to clock out!"
Another exchange, another clinch.
"Break! Break!"
The ref's yell got drowned by the crowd.
The second they separated, Radok swung. Victor swung faster.
Victor seized a half-second gap. Right hook came down like a lumberjack's axe, followed by a left flat hook and a right uppercut—triple threat.
The last punch grazed Radok's cheek. His mouthpiece flew, spit trailing in a silver arc you could see in slow-mo.
Victor thought it was over!
CLANG!
The bell saved Radok.
Victor saw him on one knee, blood dripping from a split brow onto the sponsor logo canvas.
Radok stood up.
Victor couldn't believe it. The guy's teeth had to be made of iron—tougher than Victor's own steel bones!
Before turning, Victor tapped his temple with his glove:
Kill me or I kill you.
But in Radok's corner, his coach gave new orders.
The Jamaican ditched flashy footwork for straight-up pressure.
His jab turned into a sewing-machine needle—seven straight to Victor's forehead, same spot blocked by his arms.
The crowd chanted: "Razor! Razor!"
"You're a damn heavy bag! This is just practice!"
Radok taunted after the eighth jab, gold tooth gleaming. "I'm gonna carve my name—"
Victor had been waiting.
As Radok started the last word, Fat Tiger's right hook roared like a runaway freight train!
The glove missed Radok's ear by inches—the wind pressure ruffled the ref's tie.
"Lord! If that had landed…"
The announcer's voice shook.
Fear flashed in Radok's eyes—too late.
Victor dropped low. A liver shot folded the Jamaican like he'd been tased.
The arena noise turned to white static. Victor's world narrowed to Radok's exposed chin—
He lunged to finish.
But Radok threw up a weird stance Victor had never seen—right fist hanging by his thigh, left fist high like a scorpion tail.
Victor sensed danger but went for the kill anyway.
The second he stepped in range, Radok's "weak" right came up at an impossible angle—
The world went silent.
Victor felt his skull crack like it got hit by a battering ram. Three layers of chin couldn't stop it. His vision exploded red.
He staggered back. Radok's planned left hook was already screaming in—
BOOM!
Victor flew.
Or at least his mind did—floating above the arena, watching his huge body crash down.
Weirdly, no pain. Just eerie calm.
The ref's count sounded underwater:
"…four… five… six…"
In the red fog, Victor saw himself.
"…seven… eight…"
His fingers twitched.
Something hotter than adrenaline ignited in his veins.
At "nine," the bell saved Victor!
DING!
"Stay calm!"
"You did great—he can't throw many of those!"
"Oh my God, your neck's thick as a thigh!"
"Fuck! I got cocky—didn't slip!"
Victor spat blood, teeth clenched: "I'm trading with him. He can't take it like me!"
···
The second-round bell exploded. Victor's gloves tore through the air. Radok's gold boots launched off the canvas. They collided at center ring—the impact made the platform groan.
The ref barely reached the ropes before both ditched jabs and went full caveman—a slugfest!
Victor's hooks carried Siberian winter vibes—every bomb fast and vicious.
When his left hook grazed Radok's temple, sweat sprayed in a fan pattern.
THUD!
Glove on cheekbone echoed through the mic. Radok's jaw flushed unnatural red.
But the Razor's counter was faster, meaner.
His combos were heat-seeking missiles. A right uppercut slipped through Victor's high guard, nailing one of his three chins.
Victor stepped back but forced himself forward—ankles screaming. His right straight smacked Radok's mouthpiece clean out. The white guard arced through the air and landed on the announcer's shaking notepad.
"You hit like a little girl!"
Victor snarled, dragging the English—thought Radok was done.
But goddamn, Radok got up again!
"My grandma hits harder!"
Radok trash-talked through a bloody mouth.
Before he finished, his liver shot chopped into Victor's right abs. Leather on meat sounded like a butcher's cleaver.
Even ten centimeters of bacon couldn't soak that pain. Victor's knees buckled half a second. He clinched and mumbled in Radok's ear, out of the ref's sight: "Go home to your daddy!"
The grapple turned into a sloppy, dangerous dance.
They traded body shots at kissing distance—too close for full power, looking ugly as hell.
HBO's announcer yanked his tie loose, screaming into the mic: "Check the scorecards! Both guys just broke the record for connects this round!"
"This bloody brawl! This ugly technique! kid from Chicago is using genius tactics—clinching, shoving, dirty stuff—to drag them both down to the same level! It's a tactical masterpiece!"
"Ladies and gentlemen! What we're seeing is a strong American (Victor) using brains to beat the hell out of a Brit (Canada's basically British)!"
Ringside medics counted spare mouthpieces. Hollywood VIPs stood, champagne glasses trembling with every bomb.
The broadcast panned the crowd. An old white-haired guy was pounding the seat in front of him—witness to the 1975 Thrilla in Manila. His cloudy eyes burned with the same wild fire:
"Stay on your feet! That's winning!"
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