Water Cut Hell and Press Conference Chaos
He was just a downgraded version of me. Thinking back to before my regression, the main event promotions weren't all that varied. Of course, my fight this time wasn't a numbered event either.
As weigh-in day approached, I entered the most grueling phase: the water cut. Lying on an electric blanket inside a thick sleeping bag was pure torture. Eat-bangs weren't a thing yet, so I scrolled through food pics from bloggers. I was starting to question what the hell I was putting myself through this for. Thirst filled my head completely. If someone stuck an ice-covered hand out, I'd probably lick it. A single glass of ice-cold water was all I craved.
My way of coping was watching food videos or pics to overwhelm the hunger. Seeing uni jjajang with liver made my mouth water.
"Aigoo, I'm dying..."
"You won't die from just 4kg."
"Do you know how brutal it is to cut down to light heavyweight and then do a water cut with this body?"
"Then don't do it."
"....."
"If you're gonna do it, suck it up."
"Yes, sir."
Whittaker had a way of shutting me down cold. But that smile of his—he'd already figured me out completely.
We kept forcing the dehydration. The next day, I breezed through weigh-ins. Guzzling water because you're thirsty can lead to hyponatremia or worse, so I sipped ion drinks, took a bit to recover, and headed to the face-off shoot.
Poster time, faces inches apart. Malloy and I leaned in close, with Brown in the middle. Out of nowhere, Malloy had a Rising Sun flag wrapped around his head.
"This you claiming to be the monkey you were talking about?"
"I'll repeat your country's history for you."
Tuning out crap like that was a skill in itself.
"Defending the Pearl Harbor bastards, huh? Oh, right, you're Irish-American?"
"....."
"Neo-Nazis too, looks like. What do you think of Aryan Brotherhood?"
Grouping him with criminals finally got through that rat-dick brain of his. Malloy ripped off the flag, face serious now, stepping toward me. He was maybe 10cm shorter. We glared like we wanted to kill each other, dropping into stance.
"What? Still think the guy in front of you looks like a joke?"
He twitched his shoulder to load a punch, but I backed off quick. That striker base—his reactions were sharp. I grinned watching him.
Short break, then press conference. A reporter raised a hand, asking my game plan for tomorrow.
"Tomorrow's fight's gonna be brutal."
"Why? 'Cause your face gets smashed?"
He interrupted every time I spoke. Wonder who taught him manners.
"Huh? You ever smashed a face with those water punches? Mine mangles on a graze."
"Bet I could smash your mom in bed too. Wanna start calling me daddy?"
"....."
Malloy, pulling out the mom card without shame. Everyone eyed me, waiting for me to flip and cancel the thing. That'd get me in hot water with Brown too. Trash-talking this loser gained nothing, but I had to play along.
"You know I'm 19, right?"
"....."
"Thirteen years older than me, and this is what you do? You look straight-up savage."
People snickered at that.
"Doubt a 6-year-old 13 years younger than me could pull what you just did."
"Hahahaha!"
"No shame hitting you at all?"
"Shut up!"
"This'll live on video forever, and you're this cocky? 32, chasing someone else's mom—what kinda life is that? I'd be too embarrassed to show my face."
Luckily, it sank into that thick skull. He knew it was shameful deep down. My jab shut down the presser.
Reporters turned to Malloy, asking how it felt insulting a 19-year-old's parents. He just glared, no answer.
"What prep did you do for Malloy?"
"Like I said before, no prep at a—"
"Listening to that monkey? You people even human, or just curious?"
He cut me off again, tireless. I ignored him, leaning back, staring at the ceiling blankly. Maybe because of that, reporters tuned him out too. The room went ice cold.
"....."
Glancing around, I caught Malloy scowling at me.
"What? You cut me off—keep going."
I waved him on. His face reddened. Ignoring him pissed him off good. He couldn't take it, shot up, kicked the table, and stormed out.
BAM!
"That retard's pissed."
"Hahaha."
Unscheduled Malloy meltdown. Brown grabbed the mic, face stern, to clean up.
"Even if Malloy wins, we'll strip his title shot."
Brown putting a leash on him this time. Doubt he'd listen unless money was involved.
"My guess? He'll say, 'You sat quiet when he threw the mic, why me?'"
"Hahahaha!"
Fights draw eyes. This showy beef hooked people. But dissing Brown's press and storming out? Different story. Wonder if Malloy got that.
Presser wrapped. Slicing steak, I fired up SNS and posted the table-kick clip.
He kicked the table on a whim, and even after I shouted him out, no reaction video. Felt like dealing with a legit sulking kid.
Next day, Colin showed for sparring. Looked like he just wanted prime seats for my fight. Main card meant last up, plenty of prep time.
Inspector ref came, time to gear up. Bathroom break, then rolled out with Team Monster. Cameras on me jumped to five. Guess the mom-insult made 'em think I'd come in hot.
Kanye West's Black Skinhead bumped as I cracked the locker room door. Bounced to the beat with the team, grabbed the Taegukgi from Young-hoon.
Main doors swung open—cheers hit like punches.
"Common! Common!"
"Waaaaa!!!"
No one wild for my antics this time, but damn near every fan here was mine. Bounced to the rhythm, flexed my natural traps rolling my shoulders. Camera close-up: dead stare, licked the sharp mouthguard teeth. Eyes rolled back zombie-style till it pulled away, then turned.
"Common! Common!"
"Show 'em!"
"Kill him!!!"
Fans straight-up yelling to kill Malloy. Glove-bumped their fists on the way—faces lit up feeling the massive solidity. They'd think, That'd straight-up end you.
At the ref, same familiar inspector. Nodded checking my gloves, grinning ear-to-ear.
"No funny business, right?"
"Planning on brutal."
"Kuhuhu... Best career choice ever."
"What's your name?"
"Me? Just a Common fan."
Treated me like real fandom, but kept pro boundaries tight. Ref slathered Vaseline thick—worried I'd get my face shredded maybe. Mom wouldn't hunt interviews anyway. She only checked results. Might sneak-peek the fight.
Mom raised me never to rage for real at anyone. Still, that savage mouth dragging her in burned me up. The more I thought, the more I wanted to dismantle Malloy's jaw. Time to show why they called me the Human Press.
Two months of hell to step here—no fucking it up over mood. Body tensed hard; shook it out, calmed. Rage fuels power, but overdose poisons. Stuck to routine: shook muscles, rolled shoulders, deep breaths to clear my head.
"Huuuuh... Haaaaah..."
Eyes open: Malloy. Modern Colosseum. Stage where we hunt lives... So one of us ends broken or dead.
"Pff."
Ring rules let endless brutality—lawless zone.
Body heated, hot breath steamed out. Ref's call: we faced off.