Trash-Talking the Brazilian Inferno
They called me a street fighter. But I trained in San Francisco, and a month before my fight, I headed to Brazil with Colin, Whittaker, and Tahar. Whittaker hates flying, but Brazil was unavoidable. He had a connection there, so we used that gym. Instead of the hotel Brown booked, we stayed at our own place for acclimation training. To adjust to the sticky, sweltering air, we ran off-road with local fighters and did whatever it took.
This fight against Callum was crucial for me. Winning it would prove I was the top dog.
The promotion schedule ramped up this time. The big addition was the press conference between me and Callum. Sure, we were still undercard, but my antics had made us a hot topic.
Time came, so I threw on a clean boyfriend look. Right on schedule, I headed to the hotel hall for the presser. As soon as I walked in, flashes popped everywhere. A few boos rained down—"Booo!"—so I spread my arms wide and nodded along. Callum being Brazilian was the big deal here, obviously.
Luckily, the press room had AC blasting. Still, the residual heat lingered, and everyone was rocking just tank tops. Brown stood center stage, while Callum glared daggers from the opposite side.
Press conferences like this were hype machines. Fighters who didn't do SNS back then trained like maniacs just for moments like this.
"Yawn."
"Mr. Beom-ho Lee, one question."
"We're jumping right in?"
I chugged water from the bottle beside me and yawned again.
"You look pretty beat."
"Jet lag. Big difference from Korea."
"How's the weight cut?"
"I'm not some trash who can't handle that. Oh, not talking about Callum."
Callum stared me down hard after that. I smirked.
"Huh?"
"..."
"I at least had the balls to charge at trash talk. You scared or what?"
"I'm not some kid who shits and pisses himself like you."
"Yeah? Bet you'll soil the Octagon. Pay your cleaning deposit upfront."
I leaned back, propped my feet on the table, and locked eyes with him. Brown gave an awkward laugh and warned us to cool it.
"Phew, any injuries in training?"
I grabbed the mic, eyed Callum, and leaned in.
"Even if there were, I don't whine. Oh, not talking about Callum."
Callum twitched with rage the second I finished. I grinned again.
Now questions for Callum.
"What's your opponent's weakness?"
"Striking's decent, I'll give him that. But once the fight starts, he'll be staring at the mat in despair."
"Anything to say to him?"
"Planning to snap those skinny legs, so sorry in advance."
I chuckled and shrugged.
Then it swung back to me.
"You're on a three-win streak, Callum just took a recent KO loss... Why do you think this matchup happened?"
"Never heard of the guy, but I watched the fight. He limped around after a few low kicks—looked kinda slow."
"..."
"Dropping his guard like that pussy begging to get hit elsewhere, and that safe word face every low kick landed? Gave me chills."
Savage critique of his last loss, and Callum was shaking. Laughter erupted everywhere.
"But what can ya do? Idiot ranked higher than me. He put his spot on the line, I happily accepted."
Trash talk escalating. Callum snatched the mic.
"Your world's been fun till now. Octagon's a different one."
"Listen to you. Uneducated for sure. Knew you were lacking, now I just pity you."
"You little shit! Done talking!?"
"Whoa, Callum's IQ I clocked in my head is dropping live."
Presser ended with Callum fuming.
Poster shoots and signings flew by—weigh-ins loomed. I cut water weight while scrolling SNS. My interview clip spread like wildfire, all day of me roasting Callum. Brown's barely-contained grin was gold.
↓ Dude looked legit pained.
↓ lmfao safe word kept popping in my head.
↓ Like saying a Korean speaks good Korean lol.
Brazilian reactions were fresh too. Started cursing the cocky no-name me, now flaming Callum for folding without clapping back. I just toyed with their hometown boy verbally.
"Never imagined you'd run your mouth like that."
"Me neither."
"But... do you have to lean so thug?"
"Look at Colin. True thug, but he washed his image clean."
"Fuck off."
Colin, helping with my water cut, stormed out.
"Touchy..."
I soaked in the tub and eyed Whittaker.
"And right now, attention's key."
"Why?"
"Need ticket power to force champs into fights."
Bad boy image? Ditch it after champ status. To dethrone light heavy champ Dmitry, overwhelming draw power first.
Next day, weigh-in. Water cut's always just 4kg—no biggie. Showed off dry muscle and thick frame.
Not main event, so no faceoff. Still grateful for the presser slot. Recovery time, then more press.
"See that fucker barely hit 94kg? Almost blew it cuz of that pussy."
"Shut it. Tomorrow you'll regret your parents ever putting you in this."
"Finally some real bait. Smart enough to learn, huh?"
"I'll smash you to the mat tomorrow."
"Only thing your buddy taught you is doggy style—mentally too."
Callum shook as I stood.
"Want tips on fighting like a man—back straight?"
I shook my hips vulgarly. Eyes rolled back, he lunged—Brown yanked him off desperately. I collapsed laughing, pointing like a maniac.
"Kuhahaha! Kekeke!"
Callum's meltdown ended the presser quick.
Back at the hotel, Whittaker rubbed his forehead.
"You see that fucker laughing? First time I've seen him crack up."
"Starting to wonder if it's all hype."
"Sociopath psycho confirmed. Hid it till now! Thought he was classy till that hip shake."
Tahar backed me up.
"It's hype. Brazil's on fire now."
Like Tahar said, attention exploded. Pictured Brown squealing in joy at the hotel. Text came: "Perfect." He was set to award "Talk of the Night" bonus. My presser was a mega-hit.
"How's the body?"
"Peak."
"Perfect then."
Whittaker checked late—my show shocked him. Pre-regen, I was tame in interviews. Spitting true self? Felt damn good. Bad boy suits me...
We scattered to rooms for tomorrow.
Slept deep, light spar with Tahar in locker room next day. Callum's jiu-jitsu base with strikes—Tahar mimicked perfectly.
Callum Drake, rising fast in Brazil. No underestimating. He'd rehydrate 9kg—heavier by 5kg. Top ranks are killers; he dropped from last fight.
My turn. Ref escorted me. Emptied everything in the bathroom, donned the Taegukgi, light-hearted into the arena.
Entry tune: classic from that recent noir flick. Posed elevator-style for cameras. Testosterone booster for sure.
Issue: no AC. Humid heat—sweat just breathing.
Jiu-jitsu base Callum warmed up first, waiting.
Eyed the WFC Octagon, ref checked gloves.
"Take off the gloves, Leon."
Random—I turned to the Latino ref, Brazilian-looking. Serious face, nodding. I tilted my head.
He flinched, averted eyes late.
"What?"
"N-nothing."
"Couldn't hear."
Why scare like that? Made him awkward. Like I morphed into a civilian-beater image. Mom might chew me out later.
"Glove check..."
"Ah~"
Off they came—he touched my hand, stunned. Pre-regen, my thick bones wowed everyone. Same here. They called my hands 6XL leather wreckers.
Whittaker re-gloved, careful not to break routine. Little things like that peaked my condition.