aircannonsinc Page 104
Page 104
"What is this?"
"A type of sauce."
Does it suit American tastes?
"He most likely doesn't need to cater to American tastes, but rather to be one of the most authentic Chinese styles."
"What about his sales figures?"
"Believe me, there are plenty of people who don't want to eat white food but are willing to pay for it."
"Make a slight modification to the recipe."
"Understood!"
"Blair, just go for it."
What's the best name for him/her?
“The Godmother Chili Black Bean Sauce!”
Chapter 84 The Advantage Lies with Me: 385 Pounds vs. 238 Pounds
On the morning of August 13, 1985, Tom Wilson, a senior reporter for Boxing Illustrated, rubbed his sore eyes and swallowed a bunch of medications for lowering blood pressure, blood sugar, blood lipids, cardiovascular disease, and angina from a pile of colorful bottles before sending his last article, a prediction about the fight between "Razor" Ruddock and Victor Lee, to the editorial department.
He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and through the swirling smoke, the title he had just completed appeared on his massive computer screen:
Technology vs. Brute Force: A Massacre Without Suspense.
"God, I really hope this fat guy can last three rounds."
Tom muttered to himself as he looked at the empty office, "Otherwise, readers will complain that the ticket price isn't worth it."
Such scenes were simultaneously playing out in the editorial offices of major sports media outlets in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles.
Almost all boxing commentators are expressing the same point in different ways—Victor Lee facing Ruddock is like a clumsy rhinoceros fighting a nimble cheetah, and the outcome is self-evident.
The cover of Sports Illustrated prominently features Ruddock's signature uppercut gesture, accompanied by a striking headline:
"The Razor is ready to reap: his fists will rip Viktor's massive body open like a razor!"
The analysis article inside the pages provides a detailed comparison of various data points between the two individuals:
Donovan "Razor" Ruddock, 23 years old, from Ontario, Canada, is 1.91 meters tall, weighs 238 pounds, and has a reach of 2.08 meters. His professional record is 13 wins and 0 losses, 11 of which were by knockout.
Technical characteristics: Agile movement, fluid combinations of punches; his signature "Raddock Uppercut" has sent five opponents to the hospital. Mental fortitude rating: A+.
"Victor Lee, 19 years old, from the South Side of Chicago, is 1 meters tall, weighs 385 pounds, and has a reach of 85 meters. His professional record is 2 wins and 04 losses, with two knockouts."
Technical characteristics: Incredible power but rough technique, lack of systematic training, and slow movement. Mental resilience rating: C (based on only two short matches).
The New York Times sports columnist, Fisher, even wrote without reservation:
"If this is a real contest and not an exhibition match, I suggest the event organizers prepare an ambulance in advance—for that poor fat Easterner."
In Las Vegas casinos, the odds overwhelmingly favor Ruddock.
凯撒宫赌场开出的盘口是1赔1.05对8.5，这意味着押注100美元在拉多克身上，只能赢回5美元；
The same $100 bet on Victor would yield a return of $850 if a miracle occurred.
"This is practically free money!"
Veteran gambler Jack Morris sipped his whiskey at the casino bar and said to his companion, "I checked that fat guy's slate. His last opponent was a rookie, and the one before that was a rookie who got crushed by Mike Tyson. Now he's going to face Ruddock? Are you kidding me!"
However, on August 13, when public opinion was almost unanimously in favor of Ruddock, things took a dramatic turn when he arrived at the Trump Plaza Hotel in Atlantic City on his private jet.
Wearing a well-tailored dark blue suit and sunglasses, Radok walked out of the airport VIP channel surrounded by bodyguards and his agent.
Reporters who had been waiting for a long time swarmed forward, and flashes of light went off one after another.
"Mr. Razor, what are your predictions for the upcoming match?"
An ESPN reporter handed the microphone to Ruddock.
Radok stopped and slowly took off his sunglasses, revealing a pair of sharp, eagle-like eyes.
A disdainful smile curled at the corner of his lips: "Predict? Do you need to predict an adult's lesson in educating a child?"
Radok glanced around at the reporters and raised his voice, "I heard that fat Asian guy is called the 'Giant Killer' by you? Ha! I'll teach him a lesson in three rounds—no, two rounds—what real professional boxing is all about. The only thing he needs to prepare is a comfortable stretcher."
These words immediately spread throughout the United States through major media outlets.
When reporters tried to reach Victor Lee for a response, they found that the mysterious Eastern boxer was unusually silent, neither holding a press conference nor giving any interviews.
It wasn't until the morning of August 14th that Victor, accompanied by his coach Frankie, appeared at the media center of the Trump Plaza Hotel.
To everyone's surprise, Victor wasn't wearing training clothes, but a neatly pressed gray suit, making him look more like a Wall Street banker than a boxer.
"Mr. Li, what is your response to Mr. Radok calling you a 'little kid'?"
The Atlantic City News reporter was the first to ask a question.
Viktor smiled slightly, slowly took out a piece of paper from his suit pocket, and unfolded it in front of the camera.
It was a Trump casino betting slip, clearly showing: Victor Lee, betting $500,000 on himself to win.
The media room erupted in chaos. Flashbulbs went off like crazy as reporters jostled and pushed their way to the front.
Five hundred thousand dollars!
This is the largest bet a boxer has placed on himself in recent years—if he wins, Trump will have to pay out $425 million!
"This...this is insane!"
A CNBC financial reporter exclaimed, "Based on the current odds, if Mr. Li wins, he will win more than four million dollars!"
Viktor calmly put the betting slip back into his pocket, and facing the boisterous media room, he said only one sentence:
"Franklin does not lie."
These words were like a bomb, instantly detonating throughout the entire boxing world.
Upon learning of this, Radok was furious and immediately held an emergency press conference, calling Viktor's behavior an "insult to the sport of boxing" and a "desperate publicity stunt."
But Radok refused to bet on himself!
"Does that yellow-skinned fat pig think he can scare me with money?"
Radok roared at the camera, completely ignoring his agent's winks, "Tomorrow I'll send him and his money to the hospital!"
Victor immediately responded by phone, bringing the atmosphere to a climax: "If you dare, buy yourself!"
In a fit of rage, Radok bought $50,000 for himself!
Trump laughed heartily, quite pleased with Victor—the house always wins, as they take a cut.
"See? That's what a smart person is like!"
The tension reached its peak during the weighing ceremony on the afternoon of August 14.
The grand ballroom at the Trump Plaza Hotel was temporarily converted into a weighing site, with hundreds of media reporters and special guests crowding the entire space.
ESPN is broadcasting it live across the United States.
Radok was the first to appear, wearing only a pair of black boxing shorts, his well-defined muscles sculpted like a sculpture under the spotlight.
When he stepped onto the scale, the electronic display clearly showed: 238 pounds – perfectly meeting the weight class standard.
Radok showed off his steely abs to the camera, then made a throat-slitting gesture, which elicited cheers.
Viktor thought Radok's intelligence was just so-so, because his routines were all unoriginal.
When it was Viktor's turn, the atmosphere became noticeably strange.
As the man with the exaggerated physique slowly walked towards the weighing platform, a few suppressed laughs came from the audience.
Viktor was also wearing only boxing shorts today, but his door-like physique contrasted sharply with Radok's—a round belly, three large, exaggerated pectoral muscles, arms as thick as tree trunks, and a round face that always looked menacing.
385 pounds!
When the staff announced the number, a gasp of surprise rippled through the room.
This is a full 147 pounds heavier than Radok, almost the weight of an adult male.
Just as Victor was about to step off the scale, Radok suddenly rushed forward, and the two were almost face to face.
"Fat pig, tomorrow is your death day!"
Radok lowered his voice, but the microphone still picked up his words: “I’ll make sure your stupid yellow face remembers this day forever.”
Viktor's expression remained unchanged, but attentive viewers would notice that his eyes instantly turned cold.
He spoke slowly, his voice not loud but exceptionally clear: "I've heard that Canadians are very polite, but it seems you're an exception."
Radok suddenly burst into laughter and turned to the media: "Listen to this! This stupid Chinese kid is teaching me manners!"
He turned back and suddenly pointed an extremely insulting gesture at Viktor's eyes, "Can your little eyes even see my fist? Or can you only see lunchboxes normally?"
There was an uproar at the scene.
Several Asian journalists immediately stood up to protest this blatantly racist remark.
Victor tried to rush forward—already ready to slap him—but Frankie stopped him with a hand gesture:
He's trying to provoke you!
Security guards came in and separated the two sides. Victor was slowly dragged closer to Radok and said in a voice only the two of them could hear:
"Tomorrow, I'll send you to sleep with your uppercut. Remember this moment, because it will be a turning point in your career—a downward turn."
Victor shoved Radok away abruptly, nearly sparking a full-blown brawl.
Security personnel quickly intervened and separated the two.
The weigh-in ceremony ended in chaos, but everyone knew that the real powder keg would be ignited in tomorrow's match.
That evening, Victor was doing slow stretching exercises alone in a corner of the hotel gym.
Frankie walked in, carrying a thick stack of sports newspapers.
“All the media are laughing at us,”
Frankie threw the newspaper on the chair. "Even tabloids like the National Enquirer say your bet on yourself was the stupidest gamble of the year."
Victor didn't stop, his breathing steady and deep: "Let them laugh, Frankie. Do you know why Foucault chose Radok?"