Street Rat's Double Champ Swagger
Street kid, they said. I cracked my knuckles for a moment, rolling my shoulders to loosen up. John let out a 'whoa,' like he felt threatened by the sight.
"You're just 19. So, is that why the WFC feels different?"
"Same shit. I prepped thinking it'd change once I hit the rankings. But the longest fight? Forty seconds."
"You didn't expect Callum to crumble that fast."
"The rankers felt what I felt beating Callum, right? Ah, gotta dodge that one guy though."
"Isn't that underrating our fighters a bit?"
"Honestly, has anyone figured out my style? Poke 'em, and they all kiss the mat. In front of me, everyone's the prince puckering up for Snow White."
John smirked, listening seriously at first, then burst out laughing. He got earnest again.
"Those guys are already top dogs back home."
"Shoulders got broader, sure. Cocky kid with no fear? Yeah. But four fights totaling barely over a minute? Whatever they say, I don't give a fuck."
I shrugged with that famous slang line, mimicking some pathetic future politician's pose.
"So you want double champ, right?"
"Slightly different meaning."
"How so?"
"Like I said at the start, I wanna prove it. That I'm Earth's number one with these bare hands. Closest title to that? Light Heavyweight and Heavyweight double champ."
I laid out my stance with raw confidence. Then we shifted to casual chat.
"Kinda wanna avoid Dominic, though?"
"Dominic... yeah, scary dude."
"Not scary. Just too close like a big bro."
"Kuhaha!"
The vibe relaxed, and our talk flowed naturally. After wrapping the shoot, I bowed politely, thanking them for the hard work.
"No need to act all high and mighty."
"WWC stories need a bad boy, cliché as it is."
"Hahaha! That's why Brown likes you."
"Tough selling a villain beatdown in WFC—that's what the fans crave."
"Kuh..."
Camera still rolling, I glanced at the director.
"You putting this in?"
"Gotta show folks it's business. Or you'll catch a bullet."
"Huh?"
Started worrying me a bit. Still a wild era—people can't separate show from reality.
"Photo together? For SNS."
Snapped a pic arm-in-arm with John Logan, said goodbye, and headed out.
Down South, gotta hit mac and cheese, right? Gets thicker the further south, practically solid. Flight time left, so off to Roost House, chicken-and-waffle spot.
Black waitress came over with side recs. First-timer? Must-try mac and cheese. Nodded and ordered. She stared hard—recognized me?
Syrup on chicken atop waffle, mac and cheese too—pic time. Guzzled 900ml cola, then dug in. That unrestrained American sweetness hit nostalgia hard. Too healthy lately. In the US, burgers and cheese pizza are healthy eats.
WFC's niche, so unless it's an airport crowd, nobody clocks me. Korean wave booms later for that. Right now? All Asians look the same.
Blessing in disguise—focused on food and SNS scrolling.
"Whoa, an Asian at this joint?"
"Twenty years coming here, first time."
"Yeah? But I've never seen an Asian that big."
Mid-meal bliss, then two voices locked on me as they entered.
"Hey, Asian! Speak English?"
"Yeah."
"O! Bro, you Korean?"
One pudgy white mid-40s guy, farmer vibes. Other, fit black dude—total opposites.
Wiped my mouth, met their eager eyes. Like they wanted me Korean.
"Korean, yeah."
"O!!! Jackpot! Mind company!?"
No ask, no order—they plopped down buzzing. Older white guy fumbled his smartphone, showed me his phone awkwardly.
"Know WFC?!"
"Yup~"
"Knew it. Hero back home, right? Translate this?"
Two grown men sparkling-eyed, thrusting phones at me. SNS—my Korean posts with pics. Can't recognize me with the pics right there? Face blindness?
Sounded racist, but they swore pure fans.
"My kid watches WFC. Thought what the hell, some Asian pops up."
"Wife and I hit Brazil for Roger's main card few days back—first time seeing Korean Monster."
Young black dude actually saw me live in Brazil. Racist...? Felt like hidden cam. They'd never seen an Asian my size.
Watched Yao Ming? Nah.
"Third time you're telling him that. You and your wife Roger fans."
"Same school as us. First Korean buddy hearing it~"
Young black laughed hearty. Odd duo: fat white uncle, young black stud.
"Anyway, entrance was nuts. Heavy classical hits, then this giant steps out."
Black guy spilled on-site tales; white dude hooked.
I ate waffle-chicken quiet, listening.
"Fight was chills. Smashing dude, roaring he's an unstoppable monster—crowd electrified. Still get goosebumps. Shoulda been there."
"Yeah, yeah. Insane guy. All his fights under two minutes total—watched all day."
"Size unreal. Not light heavy body. Height? Easy two meters."
Talking my build past tense right in front of me? Lost for words. Octagon makes me loom bigger? Clothes hide some height illusion, sure.
Quiet munching, waitress back for their orders—copied mine. Thought she'd bounce, but photo request. Fisted up, compass tattoo popping on left hand.
Now they see my head-sized fist.
"........."
Silent, staring my mac and cheese focus. Eyes drifted to white guy's phone. Three seconds later, slow scan: hand to face.
Sweat? Skin glistened, locked on compass tat again. ID'ing by ink, not face.
"...Ko, Korean Monster?"
"Need a sig?"
"Fucking hell."
Hands to cheeks, jaw dropped like foaming—hilarious.
"I'm a real fan..."
"Yeah?"
Huge hangup not spotting me up close. They sat meek now, girly pics.
Testosterone overload to estrogen vibes—priceless.
"Job?"
"Gym owner. He's... member."
LA fitness-beach-run image fits. White guy hesitated saying his gig. Tilted head at him.
"...Po, cop."
"Whoa, for real? Eye for detail, huh."
Healthy donut bod—cop.
"Asians commit crime? Perfect."
Joke flushed him red, head down. Grinned, said kidding. He legit sorry. Fame faces blur easy.
Checked time, said bye, stood. Paid their bill too, hit airport for San Francisco.
My case sparked unspotlighted fighters on SNS. Colin's new—hates shoots, awkward as hell. Hates asking me, so tips only.
Colin's 12-0, boxing tradition: pick softies for wins. Main card path.
Training Young-hoon, Bruce Newman called. Interview ok? Early burn on Comon bonus I gifted. Honored it, accepted.
Money piled—no more part-time. Mornings done, played with sibs.
Pre-regress, Small Uncle liked me. Now overkill. Big Uncle, Grandpa beaming pride.
"This is Becker blood."
"Becker seed."
"Damn right. We'd crush fighting too~"
Drunk boasts; Grandma, Big Aunt snickered.
"I know your reflexes—don't buy it, Leon. Big Uncle always dead last running. Yours from your mom."
"M-Mom... Daniel was good..."
"Daniel flew solo, took after me."
"........."
Tipsy Grandpa clammed—black history alert. Sharp as active duty.
Later, Bruce's podcast guest, then Young-hoon and Korea-bound.
SNS exploded: rankers craving me. Why I built ticket power. All want me. Light heavy full wrestlers—striker me looks tasty. Swallow the clueless fools whole.