MM Racing Page 113
Page 113
The audience fell into a deathly silence; all the viewers were stunned into silence by the sudden brutality.
But the silence lasted only a second before being replaced by a more frenzied, hysterical cheer filled with horror and disbelief—the most primal form of violence always ignites the flames deep within people's hearts most directly.
Viktor's chest heaved violently like a broken bellows, sweat soaked his hair, streaming down his face and into his eyes, which were burning red with rage and murderous intent, bringing a sharp sting.
But he was completely unaware.
The referee raised his blood-stained boxing gloves high and declared him the winner.
Viktor's arm was raised, but he felt no weight at all, only a blazing light rising from the abyss.
But then his gaze was fixed on Mercades, who was being helped up—the guy was covering his face and couldn't even straighten his back, but Victor could see clearly that there was only a crack in his brow bone, and more of the tears were physiological tears and resentment from the intense pain.
This guy wasn't seriously injured at all; he was just in so much pain that he lost his mind and his bones went limp.
A strong sense of contempt surged through Viktor's heart.
Just then, some clueless reporter, perhaps from Tyson's camp, or perhaps simply looking for a big story, actually shoved a microphone through the rope and shouted in a shrill voice:
"Victor! What was your response to Tyson saying you weren't good enough for the main event? Does this victory mean...?"
Before he could finish asking the question, Viktor suddenly leaned forward and almost snatched the microphone away!
The cold, plastic feel is heavy in my hand.
The entire room seemed to be silenced by that pull, and countless cameras were pointed at him.
Viktor raised his sweaty face, his gaze like two cold scrapers, shooting straight at Tyson, whose face had darkened below the stage. A cold, hard curve appeared on his lips, devoid of any smile.
I heard...
His voice, hoarse from exertion, carried throughout the arena through the loudspeakers, yet was terrifyingly clear: "Some people think that I, Victor Lee, am a thug from Chicago..."
He paused deliberately, savoring the deathly stillness and the tense atmosphere.
"...Only fit to play supporting roles for certain people?"
Each word was like a cold bullet, piercing through the noise and nailing itself to the magnificent stadium wall.
A sharp crack suddenly came from Tyson's direction.
In his thick, calloused hand, the glass shattered, the amber liquid mixed with streaks of bright red dripping onto his expensive trousers and velvet chair.
His face was as black as the sky before a storm, every muscle was taut, and he stared intently at the stage as if he wanted to devour someone.
"Victor! Do you dare fight me?"
"I avoid your sharp edge?"
Viktor scoffed, casually tossing the microphone to the ground with a jarring thud: "Go ahead and fight!"
Tyson stepped forward: "Right here! Right here!"
Victor raised his head: "That's the one after that!"
Viktor didn't look at anyone else, pushed aside the staff who surrounded him, ripped off the straps of his boxing gloves, and let them fall heavily to the ground.
He rolled off the boxing ring, his body drenched in sweat, blood, and lingering murderous intent, and parted the stunned crowd, heading straight for the exit.
The spotlight chased him for a few steps in vain before finally going out in frustration.
He completely abandoned the chaos that erupted behind him, Tyson's furious gaze that seemed to burn everything in its path, and Trump's astonished yet thoughtful expression, along with the noisy cage, into the darkness.
Footsteps echoed in the empty corridor, one after another, clear and firm.
······
"Victor! You're serious! You're really too fierce!"
"Mike, I want to fight you in a boxing match. I'm not kidding, I'll give it my all!"
"Fuck! You almost made me think you really had a grudge against me!"
"Mike, we both need exposure, we need to generate even more buzz, and Trump is a professional at that, so leave it to him!"
"October 10th?"
"September 10th!"
"I'll be at a press conference later, and then I'll give you a piece of my mind!"
"Me too!"
"I find it funny to think that many years from now, they will find this passage in my diary."
"Mike, stop writing in your diary."
"why?"
"Respectable people don't keep diaries."
Chapter 92 Greed, Pride, and Genius
On September 6, 1985, the air in the ballroom of the Trump Plaza Hotel in Atlantic City was thick with the scent of sweat and desire.
The light from the crystal chandelier was so intense that it made the scarlet carpet look like it had been splattered with fresh blood.
The reporters' flashes went off wildly, each one precisely capturing the ferocious expressions of the two men in the center of the boxing ring.
The smells of banknotes, cigars, and cheap perfumes mingled together, and when blown by the cold air from the central air conditioning, fermented into a dizzying stench of money.
Victor Lee, a moving mountain of flesh, was wrapped in a tight silk shirt, his 385-pound weight causing the small wooden platform beneath his feet to groan slightly.
He spoke into the microphone, spitting as he hurled the most vulgar insults at Tyson's mother and all his female relatives—yes, Tyson had never even seen his father.
Each syllable was accompanied by a dull, resonant sound in the chest, like an enraged grizzly bear.
A few steps away, Mike Tyson, the younger, more muscular bulldog, his gold chain jingling wildly, yelled back, his voice shrill, and repeatedly made to pounce, only to be held back by his quick-thinking henchmen.
Both of them acted very hard, so hard that it seemed real!
"Tear him apart! Tear that fat pig apart!"
From below the stage, someone shouted at the top of their lungs.
In an instant, the frenzied wave blew the roof off.
A wealthy woman in a formal dress, her armpits damp with sweat; a young man with bloodshot eyes and nails digging into his palms; and many more gamblers with flushed faces and heavy breathing, waving bottles or freshly filled betting slips and howling like wild beasts.
The smell of money is no longer a metaphor here; it is real and pervasive, overpowering everything else.
Away from the spotlight, Donald Trump leaned against a pillar away from the hustle and bustle, arms crossed, an unlit cigar dangling from his lips, his blond hair excessively bright under the lights.
He surveyed the arena, which was now boiling with excitement because of him, his eyes filled with undisguised, gleaming pleasure.
This commotion, this madness, and the money that is about to flood into his pockets are all his creations.
But deep within his eyes, a faint glimmer of light greedily craved more, more absolute control, and even more astonishing profits.
The signing ceremony ended successfully despite the near-riotous atmosphere.
Gamblers rushed to the betting booths, and the numbers jumped wildly again—Victor won, 1:2.1; Tyson won, 1.7. It was a 10-round fight, the only professional boxing match in the United States on October 25th!
The high returns on bets naturally attract people!
The curtain falls, and the two killing machines are cast into their respective hells.
In Viktor's training camp, the air was thick with the salty stench of sweat and the sour smell of fermenting leather.
Heavy breathing, the dull thud of flesh hitting sandbags, and the grating sound of chains rubbing together are the constant background music here.
Victor Lee, this heavy tank that quickly rose to four hundred pounds, rolled over the training equipment again and again under the hawk-like gaze of Coach Frankie and Old Jack.
After reaching 400 pounds, Victor's strength became terrifying; each punch felt like it could smash through a concrete wall, with a punching force exceeding 1200 pounds.
Gain weight, four hundred pounds, building an insurmountable barrier with fat and muscle.
On October 9th, he used an unreasonable heavy punch to break through Donnie's guard, and two heavy punches knocked Donnie Harpern down in the corner of the ring like a broken sack, achieving a quick victory and continuing his undefeated and savage legend.
At the other training base, the pace is faster and the intensity is sharper.
Tyson was like a black cannonball, tirelessly bombarding the moving target, dodging, rushing, hooking, and swinging punches, his movements streamlined to the extreme, all for the sake of the fastest destruction.
His roar filled the entire space, and his primal killing intent almost overflowed the walls.
On the same day, he unleashed a barrage of blows, rendering Donnie Long completely unable to resist, resulting in a TKO.
A perfect warm-up.
The media has gone completely mad.
"Beast vs. Hurricane," "Tiger vs. Beast," "Fight of the Century!"... Trump truly deserves his reputation as one of the originators of marketing accounts, using his name as the creator of this spectacle, frequently appearing alongside the boxer on the front pages of all newspapers and on television news.
The betting volume soared exponentially, and the blood of gamblers across the city and the United States seemed to rush to the heart of the Trump Plaza Hotel, with every beat accompanied by the crisp sound of gold coins.
Trump sat behind his massive desk, looking at the astronomical figures scrolling across the screen, and smiled, but the smile quickly faded.
He spun around in his large leather chair, gazing out the window at the neon kingdom he ruled. Not enough.
This kind of predictable commission-based system is a game for mediocre people. He wants more.
Only a precisely orchestrated harvest could be worthy of his 'genius'.
He first approached Ivana.
In his private room, carpeted with expensive cashmere, he brandished a cigar and sketched out his 'perfect plan':
By having Victor get injured "unexpectedly" at the last minute, the odds would instantly shift, allowing them to place large bets on Tyson and make a fortune...
Ivana's delicately manicured fingers paused on the wine glass. She looked up as if she were looking at a madwoman.
“Donald, you’re playing with fire. This isn’t business, it’s fraud, and the dumbest kind of fraud.”
Her voice was as cold as ice, "Once exposed, you'll lose your entire fortune and reputation! Don't even think about it."
Trump's facial muscles stiffened for a moment, then were replaced by anger.
"You don't understand at all! You Czech-born bastard! Risk? Without risk, how can there be an empire!"
He waved his hand roughly, as if swatting away an annoying fly.
Ivana responded with the coldest words: "If you dare to go looking for it! Given the nature of those boxers, they will definitely expose this, and then..."
Trump remained unmoved and instead brought in Mike Tyson's agent.
Jacobs and Keton reacted more directly.