uly 18, 1985 – Trump Plaza Hotel Convention Center in Atlantic City was packed tighter than a subway at rush hour.
Weigh-in stage lit up like noon, flashbulbs popping non-stop. Reporters and fight junkies crammed shoulder-to-shoulder, the air thick with sweat, leather, and straight-up hype.
Everyone was here for tomorrow's Tyson-Sims main event.
But the co-feature – Victor vs. Eddie "Nightmare" Richardson – was already stealing headlines.
"Victor 'Fat Tiger' Lee – the Chicago Typewriter!"
The announcer boomed.
Victor stepped up in nothing but black trunks, every muscle carved like marble.
385 pounds spread across his frame like it was engineered.
He hit the scale stone-faced: 385 lbs.
"Six-foot-one! 385 pounds!" the announcer roared. "This is raw, city-destroying power! Muscle armor that makes you flinch just looking at it!"
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Sure, Victor gave up height, but his freakish density screamed one thing: these fists will end you.
"Next – also from Chicago, the 'Giant Killer' – Eddie 'Nightmare' Richardson!"
Cue the screeching entrance music. Eddie strutted out like he owned the place.
6'5", 240 pounds on a long, strong frame. He tried to shoulder-check Victor – and bounced off like he hit a wall. Boos rained down.
"Hey, shorty," Eddie sneered, looking down. "Tomorrow I'm squashing you like a roach – then sending you back to whatever hole you crawled out of."
Victor's eyes narrowed. No response.
He'd seen this trash-talk playbook a hundred times. But Eddie wasn't done.
"Heard you made fifty grand last fight?" Eddie yelled loud enough for every mic. "Biggest payday of your life, huh, hillbilly?"
Victor's temple throbbed. He stayed cool: "Tomorrow I'm giving you injuries fifty grand can't fix."
Standard face-off for photos.
Eddie leaned in – forehead to forehead, noses damn near touching.
"You're spending the rest of summer in the hospital," he hissed, spit flecking Victor's face.
Victor smelled booze and bad breath.
Promoter Fokker stood off to the side, grinning like a used-car salesman: "Look at 'em – can't wait to tear into each other!"
Click. Cameras fired.
That's when Eddie threw a sneaky short right – cracked Victor clean on the forehead.
Muscle memory kicked in – Victor leaned back just enough. The punch grazed, but blood trickled instantly.
The place exploded.
Fokker's smile vanished. He jumped between them – just in time to block Victor's reflex groin kick.
"CALM DOWN! BOTH OF YOU!"
He shouted it, but his eyes sparkled – free PPV hype.
Victor wiped the blood with the back of his hand. Eyes like ice.
Eddie threw both arms up like he'd already won: "SEE THAT? THAT'S WHAT'S HAPPENING TOMORROW – FIRST-ROUND KO!"
---
Back in the hotel room, Michael dabbed antiseptic on the cut, cursing: "That asshole cheated! We should protest!"
"Protest?" Victor stared in the mirror. The gash was a thin red warning. "If protests worked, what do we need fists for?"
He turned to Fokker, eyes dangerous: "Tomorrow when I break him on that canvas, nobody calls it luck."
That night's press scrum was all about the weigh-in brawl.
"Victor, Eddie says he's KO'ing you in one – thoughts?"
Victor gave the camera a cold smile: "Eddie likes to gamble. Tomorrow he learns what happens when you bet on the wrong horse."
"That cut on your head – will it affect the fight?"
Victor touched it lightly: "Just a reminder – stay focused."
---
July 19 – Trump Plaza – SOLD OUT.
It was just the co-main, but last night's chaos made it the fight to watch.
Victor entered under a black robe – the crowd roared half cheers, half boos.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer thundered. "Fifteen-round heavyweight war! (Note: After 1987, heavyweight title fights dropped to 12 rounds – before that, 10 to 15 was common.) In the black trunks – from Chicago's South Side – 1-0, brutal KO – Victor 'Fat Tiger' Lee! Explosive like an East Asian tiger! Relentless like a Chicago Typewriter!"
Victor dropped the robe. Granite muscle. Crimson tiger tattoo ready to pounce.
He bounced light, eyes locked on Eddie across the ring.
"In the red trunks – from Chicago, Illinois – 6-0, all KOs – the 'Giant Killer' Eddie 'Nightmare' Richardson! Jab like a howitzer – angles like a mortar!"
Eddie hopped the ropes like a rock star, arms wide, then slapped his own ass toward Victor – who took it personal, like Eddie was mocking his old hustles.
Ref called them center for final instructions.
Spotlights stretched their shadows long. Sweat already pooled in Victor's gloves.
Crowd noise crashed like waves. The air reeked of sweat, leather, and adrenaline – rage boiling in Victor's head. Let's go.
"Listen up, boys," the veteran ref said – his own arms barely fitting his shirt, eyes that had seen a thousand ring wars. "I want a clean fight. Victor – you hear me?"
Victor nodded, never breaking stare with Eddie's smug grin.
He clocked the scar on Eddie's nose – souvenir from last year.
"And you, Eddie?"
Eddie just snorted, cracked his neck like this was a warm-up.
Victor noticed the sponsor logo on Eddie's gloves – some fancy gym. Eddie flexed it proud.
Still no sponsor for me, Victor thought. That changes tomorrow.
"Touch gloves. Back to your corners."
They tapped. Eddie leaned in: "Ready for the hospital, shorty?"
Mint gum breath. Murder in his eyes.
Victor didn't answer. Just gave him a look – not mad, not scared. Cold, surgical focus. Like he'd already dissected him.
Eddie actually stepped back half a pace. Smile faltered.
In the corner, Frankie whispered: "He drops his left rib after the third punch – every time."
Victor nodded, popped in his mouthpiece.
He heard fans chanting his name – others mocking the "fat" 385-pounder.
DING.
Bell rang – Victor exploded from the corner. No feeling out. Again.
Frankie and Old Jack drilled it: When you see a tall, wide-shouldered, eight-pack pretty boy – just swing.
Eddie's gym-sculpted muscles gleamed under the lights. But Victor knew: real power ain't for show.
Eddie wasn't ready. Blue eyes flashed panic. He threw a jab – Victor blocked with his left forearm like swatting a fly.
"WHOA!"
Commentator yelled: "Victor comes out SWINGING – same aggression as last fight!"
Victor's fists rained – every punch backed by 385 pounds, but it was the precision and timing that killed.
Combo after combo – surgical.
Left hook to the body – thud into Eddie's ribs.
Right hand to the gut – Eddie's abs flexed, but he still grunted.
Uppercut – Eddie leaned back, barely dodged. Message sent.
Eddie retreated. 6'5" now a liability – he had to bend to guard his torso.
Victor saw it: Eddie's breath already ragged. Sweat beading under those perfect brows.
"UNBELIEVABLE!"
Commentator screamed: "Victor's dictating pace! It's the Chicago Typewriter on full auto! Eddie can't get off!"
Victor stayed on him – constant pressure.
1:50 into the round – Eddie finally countered.
He used that 80-inch reach – long right hand grazed Victor's cheek.
Sting. Warm blood trickled down.
But pain? It woke him up. Made him meaner.
Victor didn't speed up – he slowed. Let his breathing get heavy. Sold the fatigue.
"Victor's tiring!" the announcer said. "Eddie's finding range!"
Exactly what Victor wanted.
Eddie bought it. Stepped in cocky, ready to unload his Insta-famous combo.
Victor shot inside like a missile.
Two liver shots – perfect.
Eddie folded, face twisting, lips going white.