uly 10, 1985 – Atlantic City smelled like salt, sweat, and gunpowder about to pop.
The Convention Center had been turned into a weigh-in stage. Camera flashes popped non-stop, every lens zeroed on the digital scale in the middle.
When Victor walked in, the whole room got hotter.
Shirt off, muscles ripped, that crimson tiger tattoo on his front and back looked ready to leap.
389 pounds of pure menace moving with suffocating pressure. 6'1", 55-inch shoulders, 80-inch reach – he looked like a barbarian yanked straight out of the history books. Everyone in the place sucked in a breath.
"Victor, chill," Old Jack whispered, rough palm on Victor's tight back. "Don't let the bastards win."
Victor's jaw was steel.
Last night's surprise drug test – obviously Fujimoto's crew pulling strings – had kept him up.
Add the two deliberate provocations at the restaurant and the contract signing.
It was supposed to be simple: sign, fight, split the gate. Victor was even ready for the WBO warning not to maim the guy.
But this dude was begging for it.
Victor felt the blood boiling in his veins, every muscle twitching with bottled rage.
"There's the Japanese pig!"
Frankie growled under his breath: "Man, I miss Japanese girls – cheap and easy."
Fujimoto Kyotaro strutted in with his entourage.
Hair dyed fire-engine red, 6'0" – tall for most, but a kid next to Victor.
230 pounds was lightweight against him; 73-inch reach was a joke.
"Lee-san," Fujimoto said loud in broken English, fake smile dripping. "Sleep good? Heard WBC's real interested in your piss test."
Victor's WBO. Fujimoto's WBC.
Victor fired back in thick Chicago English:
"If you think dirty tricks replace fists, bring it. If you think you own the ring, I'll show a second-class citizen from your own country—"
His knuckles cracked like popcorn. "—that I could bang your mom in your house and just get deported!"
Lies are funny. Truth cuts deep – Fujimoto didn't grow to 6'0" for nothing.
Fujimoto lunged, but security clamped him.
Victor saw the opening and went for it.
Old Jack and Frankie grabbed an arm each; dojo boys formed a wall behind.
"Fuck your mama's drug test!"
Victor roared, voice rattling the rafters. "All your cheap-ass games—"
Fujimoto threw his hands up, mock shock: "Ooooh, so angry! Side effects?"
His Japanese crew cackled.
Trump's security swarmed – six more goons piled on Fujimoto.
Chaos. Flashbulbs turned the room white.
"ENOUGH!"
The supervisor slammed the table. "Weigh-in continues!"
Victor stepped on the scale: 389 lbs – five pounds heavier than training. Pure rage weight.
He towered over Fujimoto, who flexed theatrically for his fans.
"Tomorrow," Victor hissed during the stare-down, voice low enough for only Fujimoto, "I'm driving your ugly face into your skull."
Fujimoto's smile twitched. "Can't wait, Lee-san. Hope your fists talk as big as your—"
Victor leaned in, foreheads almost touching.
Refs and security yanked them apart. Weigh-in ended in a shitshow.
---
July 11, 1985 – Atlantic City Convention Center – PACKED.
Tyson vs. Aldridge was the main event, but everyone knew Victor Lee vs. Fujimoto Kyotaro was the real powder keg.
In the locker room, Victor wrapped his hands in silence – every loop tight, like squeezing rage into his knuckles.
Ishan fiddled with an expensive Sony camcorder, pointed at the TV showing Tyson's pre-fight interview.
"Film everything," Victor said without looking up. "Every move, every detail. He'll be my biggest enemy."
"Overkill – dude's 5'10"!" Ishan laughed. "Below average height."
"Shut up with the chatter! He'll be the peak of boxing!"
Victor turned to Frankie: "Coach, break down Tyson's style. Tell me how to beat him best."
"Worry about the guy in front of you!"
Old Jack kneaded his shoulders: "Listen, kid. I know you wanna take Fujimoto's head off. But boxing's art, not street brawling. Control the anger – don't let it control you."
Victor's black eyes burned cold: "Only one ending tonight – he leaves horizontal."
---
The crowd ROARED like a tsunami. Showtime.
Victor stood. The tiger tattoo looked alive under the lights, ready to pounce.
Walking the tunnel, cheers nearly blew the roof off.
Dojo boys had "convinced" American fans with $500 in beer – "VIC-TOR! VIC-TOR!"
A pocket of Japanese fans booed like hell.
Fujimoto was already in the ring, blowing kisses to the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer boomed. "Special super-heavyweight attraction – 10 rounds!"
Victor ignored the spiel. Eyes locked on Fujimoto like a sniper.
The red-haired prick sliced his throat with a finger, smirking.
"Rules!"
Ref called them center: "Protect yourself at all times, obey my commands, no hitting behind the head…"
Victor nodded on autopilot. All he saw was Fujimoto's fragile nose – imagining the crunch.
"Touch gloves."
Fujimoto fake-smiled, lips moving.
Victor leaned in at contact, voice a razor: "Your mom must've been real good at servicing GIs to leave a stain like you—"
Fujimoto's eyes BULGED. Fake smile frozen.
Perfect.
Weigh-in trash talk – "Chink," "stateless dog" – had soaked into Victor's blood like poison.
DING!
Bell rang – cage door flew open.
Victor exploded like a tiger released. No feeling out – 80-inch reach, first jab cracked Fujimoto's cheekbone.
THUD echoed through the mic.
Fujimoto staggered, never saw the speed. Right hook slammed his ribs.
Guard blocked the fist – but not the body shot.
BOOM.
Fujimoto folded. Left uppercut grazed his chin – he backpedaled.
Crowd lost it. Flashes like lightning.
"Where's all that tough talk? I see your mom under me!"
Victor roared, trapping him in the corner, bombs raining.
"Second-class citizens in your own damn country!"
"Why don't you bring your sisters? Your government encourages it!"
"Bastard – your body's as soft as your mama!"
Loud enough for front-row Japanese press to go pale.
Fujimoto turtled, every punch rattling his skeleton.
Victor slowed – cat with a mouse. Jabs peppered the face, right hands dug the body.
Fujimoto's guard cracked. Breathing ragged.
"You dumb fuck who pimped his own mom to GIs!"
Another liver shot – Victor screamed it loud enough for the front row.
Corner of his eye: Fujimoto's coaches screaming. Japanese media section – dead silent.
Fujimoto's eyes red with pain and shame. He swung wild – 73-inch reach whiffed over Victor's head.
Victor answered with a brick-breaking right:
"Let your mama come – she squeezes harder than you!"
CRACK!
Nose shattered. Blood sprayed the canvas – dark red under the spots.
Victor smelled iron. Adrenaline surged – tiger tattoo burned hotter.
"Why so quiet?!"
Left hook – mouthpiece flew, bounced off the ropes, landed at the ref's feet.
The Italian ref hesitated – thinking stoppage?
That half-second!
"Talk, you toilet-born bastard!"
Victor gave no air. Left hook to the temple – Fujimoto wobbled, drunk.
Ref stepped in – too slow.
Now.
Victor dipped, right hand cocked like a bow.
Tiger tattoo flexed with the wind-up.
Crowd held its breath. Ref panicked, lunged to hug.
Vaseline made Victor slippery – ref's arms slid off.
BOOM.
1,100 pounds of force unloaded into Fujimoto's ruined face.
Crunch echoed through the PA – teeth-chattering.
Fujimoto's head snapped back at a sick angle, body ragdolled, crashed into the ropes, then timber – out cold on the floor outside the ring.
RIP.
Ref tore a strip of Victor's shorts in the chaos, spun in front: "STOP! STOP!"
One second of silence – then the place ERUPTED.
Screams, cheers, flashbulbs – white ocean.
Victor stood center, chest heaving, sweat pouring off the tiger, glowing under the lights.
Fujimoto lay motionless. Blood pooled from his caved nose and mouth. Tooth fragments everywhere.
Medics rushed in. One eye swollen shut, the other stared blank at the ceiling – pupil blown. Nose gone. Mouth a bloody wreck.
"Motherfucking Jap bastard! Tell your mama get you new teeth!"
Victor screamed at the stretcher, days of rage pouring out.
He knew the cameras caught it – the whole world, especially Japan, would see.
Perfection.
"Fight's over!"
Ref raised Victor's arm: "First round – 2 minutes 20 seconds – KO!"
Victor threw both fists up. Tiger tattoo gleaming. Adrenaline crashed – brain kicked in:
That was Japan's champ? Folded like paper?
Fujimoto's team – ghost-white, some crying.
He was stretchered out – still no movement, just the heart monitor's shrill beep.
Ishan gave a thumbs-up from ringside, camera rolling.
"That's the price."
Victor whispered to the unconscious body, lost in the roar.
Walking out, Mike Tyson waited in the tunnel.
The young beast's eyes sparkled with respect. He bumped Victor's glove.
"Beautiful punch, Big Tiger!"
Tyson grinned. "Congrats on the W!"
Victor bumped back: "Same to you – go get yours!"