thefictionvixens Page 47
Page 47
The change occurred on a Tuesday in the fourth week.
Viktor conducted his punching power test as usual, and the numbers on the machine's display screen silenced everyone present:
"What the hell."
Lei whistled, "I need to spin around and gather my strength to blast 470 pounds off that dead thing!"
"So you're not ready to go professional yet! Amateur is more suitable for you!"
Old Jack stroked his chin: "Try it again."
Second time: 849 pounds.
Third time: 862 pounds.
Several other gym members who were exercising in the morning gathered around, and some took out their cameras to take pictures and record the scene.
Victor stood in front of the machine, looking at his rough fists—the same fists that couldn't even hit 500 pounds three months ago.
Even now, his body is still enormous, but when he tenses his muscles, you can feel the interwoven muscle fibers beneath the fat layer, like steel bars.
"From today onwards, you will decide your own strength training, but it must not interfere with your agility and evasion training."
Old Jack patted him on the back with enough force to make an ordinary person stagger. "We need to improve your combat skills. You already have enough 'engine'; now you need to learn how to drive this tank."
Viktor nodded, a strange warmth rising in his chest—a feeling of confidence in his body.
He looked at himself in the mirror—still the same fat man, but his eyes were completely different.
The person in the mirror is no longer the loser who was bullied at school, kidnapped by gangsters, and forced to escape with hypoglycemia; no longer the fat man who couldn't even keep a woman or a child.
The person in the mirror is stuffing muscle into fat, turning himself into a wild beast.
"Let's have another round of practice."
Victor turned to Ray, raising his bandaged fist. "This time I'll break your hand!"
Ray laughed, but Victor noticed that he adjusted his mouthguard and his eyes became serious.
Old Jack leaned against the sandbag in the corner, lit a cigar that shouldn't be in the gym, and in the swirling smoke, his eyes gleamed with a light that Victor couldn't decipher.
Chapter 38 The Queen's Members of Parliament
As Viktor walked out of the hospital, the long-awaited November sunlight poured down like molten gold, making him squint.
He subconsciously touched the neatly folded medical report in his pocket, the paper making a slight rubbing sound under his large knuckles.
"Everything is normal, Mr. Victor. Your blood pressure, blood sugar, and cardiovascular system are all very healthy, especially for someone engaged in a profession that involves such strenuous activity."
The doctor, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, adjusted his frames, a hint of surprise in his voice, "However..."
Victor tensed up immediately; he knew that "however" was never followed by good news.
Your weight has not changed; it is now 361 pounds.
The doctor flipped through the test results, "Although your bone density and muscle mass are far beyond the average person, this weight still puts a strain on your joints..."
Viktor didn't really hear what was said after that.
The number kept echoing in his mind, like the relentless countdown from the audience in a boxing ring.
After three months of dieting and scientific exercise, my weight hasn't changed at all. Instead, the simple fat has turned into a more complex, mushy fat that's even harder to lose.
He looked down at his thick arms, veins coiling like vines around his muscles, and beneath his skin a bone structure nearly twice as thick as an average person's—the examination showed that his skeleton was 50% thicker than that of a man of the same height, which was why he could survive this violent sport despite his large weight.
But what's the use?
Viktor thought bitterly.
Just now at the nurses' station, those young and pretty nurses didn't even glance at him, let alone secretly slip him their phone numbers like they would to other patients.
Standing at 185cm tall—having grown only one centimeter in three months—and weighing over 360 pounds, he walked the street like a moving mountain of flesh. People either avoided him or looked at him like he was a gorilla in a zoo.
"Hey, big guy!"
A Ford pickup truck, its hands unknown, pulled up in front of him. Michael leaned out and asked, "Want a car?"
Victor shook his head and decided to walk home.
Perhaps burning a few calories would make him feel better, although old Jack—his coach—always said that this physique was more impactful in the boxing ring.
"Audiences love watching giant monsters clash, Victor,"
Old Jack patted his broad shoulder and said, "Every punch you throw is like a locomotive ramming; no one can withstand that kind of force."
But Viktor knew that outside the boxing ring, the world was not kind to a 'beast' like him. Not being able to scratch his back was a minor matter, but high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and high blood sugar would kill him.
When Viktor returned to his lodgings, he was drenched in sweat.
He pushed open the heavy fire door of the apartment building and saw Michael.
"You're back!"
Michael strode over; he was a full hand shorter than Victor and had to tilt his head up to speak. "Ethan said Carl is waiting for you!"
Viktor frowned. In the past month, because of Fiona and Ian, Viktor hadn't had much contact with them.
She only had a brief conversation with Lip, but Lip has been under a lot of pressure lately—Fiona has relinquished her obligations to them, which have now fallen on Lip.
Carl didn't really care about Fiona and Ian's situation; he even thought it was a good thing. But now he was also very troubled because his partner Nick had killed someone and was in prison, and Carl wanted to get out of the gang.
He wiped his sweaty face with the towel hanging around his neck. "What's wrong with him?"
Michael shrugged: "He wouldn't tell me, he insisted on waiting for you to come back."
Carl has a stubborn streak, and that streak might be the key to his departure from the South District.
When I opened the door, I saw Carl sitting awkwardly on the edge of the sofa, holding a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold.
"Victor!"
Carl immediately stood up, his eyes shining with hope. He was dressed in a neatly pressed white shirt and dark trousers, looking as if he had just attended some formal occasion.
"You look like you just came from your father-in-law's house."
Victor gestured for him to relax, then went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of ice water, and drank more than half of it. "What's the rush?"
Carl took a deep breath: "I want to apply to West Point."
Viktor raised an eyebrow: "That's good. You're physically fit and quick-witted, so you should be fine."
"That's the problem."
Carl gave a wry smile and took a stack of documents out of his briefcase. "I passed the physical fitness test, the academic assessment, and the psychological evaluation, but I got stuck on... this."
He pulled out a form and pointed to one of the columns: "A letter of recommendation from a current member of parliament is required."
Viktor took the document, his large fingers carefully turning the fragile pages.
He noticed that Carl's report card was almost entirely A's, and he also ranked at the top in physical fitness tests.
“You are excellent, Carl. Any congressman should be happy to recommend a young man like you.”
Carl shook his head, a shadow crossing his eyes: "My parents have a history of imprisonment, are drug addicts, and have a history of mental illness. I myself have also been to prison. It will be very difficult for me to get this."
Viktor felt a wave of weakness wash over him.
“I’m sorry, Carl. I don’t know many people in the sports world, so I can’t meet with the congressman right now.”
Just then, Michael, who had been leaning against the door frame, suddenly spoke up: "I heard that Veronica once served Mr. Ubelman, who was not yet a senator."
The living room suddenly fell silent.
Victor turned his head and saw the ambiguous smile on Michael's face—which usually meant he knew something he shouldn't know.
So why didn't Michael stop himself from messing around with Veronica?
"Veronica?"
Carl repeated in disbelief, "How can a bar girl like her know a senator?"
Michael nodded. "As far as I know, she has a 'special relationship' with Congressman Upelman. Maybe she can put in a good word for you."
"Such an important relationship."
Carl looked skeptical: "You think...she would be willing to help me?"
"How will you know if you don't try? She and your family have known each other for a long time."
Michael shrugged. "The worst that can happen is that I get rejected."
"Okay, I'll give it a try."
Carl hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded.
After seeing Karl off, Victor poured himself a glass of whiskey.
The burning sensation in his throat from the alcohol made him feel a little more at ease.
Michael, Ethan, and Jimmy—three other regulars at the apartment—also grabbed drinks and sat around in the living room.
Do you really think Veronica can be of any help?
Michael smiled mysteriously: "I've heard that Congressman Ubelman has some kind of peculiar fetish. And Veronica just happens to be good at satisfying that need."
Jimmy—the eldest of the four—suddenly burst into laughter: "Ha! Her only asset is her body; her so-called 'persuasion' of the congressman is just 'sleeping with' him!"
Victor frowned; Jimmy's words felt like a thorn in his heart.
But what unsettled him even more was that this vulgar statement actually sounded quite reasonable.
He recalled Congressman Ubelman's face, which was always on television—greasy hair, a fake smile, and eyes that lingered on female reporters.
How can I establish a connection with such an important person?
That evening, Victor went to Michael and Ethan's room.
"If Veronica's method is really like that..."
Viktor spoke slowly, a dangerous idea forming in his mind: "Then we have an opportunity to take advantage of Ubelman."
Ethan adjusted his glasses: "You mean..."
"Are you trying to set a honey trap?"
Michael chimed in, a sly glint in his eyes, "Caught in the act. That's juicy gossip that can ruin a politician."