Inferior Copies and the Private Jet Empire
He's just a downgraded version of me.
While I was sticking to my morning routine in Korea, I got a call from John Logan.
"Hey, I want you as a guest on my podcast. I'll pay you 15 times what I offered before."
He wanted me bad. Money didn't sway me anymore, but it was clear how desperate he was.
"Too bad, I'm in Korea."
-"Oh shit. You're already in Korea? So when are you coming back to the US?"
"One of my team members has a fight, so probably next month?"
-"Cool, I'll hit you up then. Can you clear your schedule?"
"Sure thing."
He was itching to do the interview right now. His disappointment was obvious. Made sense—my performance against Malloy was pure madness. Clips of me were all over US sports media. Young-hoon and I would be heading stateside more often. At this rate, buying a private jet didn't sound half bad.
While Young-hoon trained, I sat on the mat checking my stocks. A private jet... I'd thought about it before. First class was fine, but rolling up in my own jet? That'd scream I wasn't some money-hungry fighter.
"Dumping Apple would free up cash, but..."
Using pocket change for a jet was pushing it. Even liquidating major holdings wouldn't cover it. But if Bitcoin hit 1.3 million by year's end, it'd be easy. Once the idea hit, it stuck. A spoiled rich-kid fighter image? Not bad. It fit the arrogant vibe my future self, Lucas, projected.
So I called Jake Uncle first.
Mornings were for workouts, afternoons for playing with the kids. Beom-jun's limbs were stretching out long and lanky. Like Dad did with me, I locked him in jiu-jitsu holds for fun.
"Gahhh!"
"How do you escape?"
Having a little brother felt like getting a fresh sandbag. No wonder Dad called it that. I couldn't roughhouse Harin like this.
Tormenting a screaming Beom-jun was a new thrill.
"Mooom!"
He kept calling for Mom, but she just smirked.
"Looks like your mom's on my side."
"Moooooom!"
Compared to what Dad did to me, this was child's play. Hayun watched us with quiet fascination.
A month later, Young-hoon's fight approached, so we flew to LA together. His English had improved, but he still couldn't book a flight without me.
We landed in San Francisco, and I dumped Young-hoon at the house. Then I spent two days getting my right arm sleeved with tattoos alongside Grandpa. Couldn't train with fresh ink, so I lined up the John Logan interview and jetted off with Jake Uncle to sign for the private plane.
The broker wasn't from our family connections—Brown set it up. A guy who showed off models one by one.
"Show me the Gulfstream G650."
"Sharp eye for someone so young. But it's hot—register now, delivery in four years."
"...Pardon?"
Had I known it'd take that long, I'd have ordered ages ago.
"We got a low-hour used one, though. Wanna see?"
"Yeah, please."
"Used," my ass—the price hadn't budged.
"Isn't this used?"
"Someone reserved it, then bailed during the crash. Only 30 test flights, basically new."
"Then why's it still here?"
"We held it in company inventory. Low visibility, plus remodel costs beat buying new and customizing. Not like a car where 'used' slashes the price."
No haggling in this market. I mulled it over—remembering it was a private jet I was buying.
"We'll inspect thoroughly. Worried? We can do extra test flights."
"Perfect. Can I see the interior?"
"Of course."
The photos screamed old-school luxury. Custom everything—explains the remodel premium. Jet-like speed drew young buyers, but this screamed boomer tastes.
Separate bedrooms, even name-brand beds.
"Tch... it's nice?"
"Might not suit a young guy, but... huh?"
"I like it."
"If it fits your taste, she's found her owner."
"Can we see it?"
"Right this way~"
Jake Uncle and I drove to the hangar. The details screamed money—no surface untouched by leather. Previous owner had weird tastes.
"Whoa, it's busy."
I ignored Jake Uncle. Busy colors, sure—but peak clean luxury.
"Interior's perfect. We can use it as-is."
"You... got boomer tastes?"
"Check these table chairs!"
Palace-throne vibes. I grinned.
"Damn, the more I see, the better. Like a European king's seat."
"......"
"Add some lights for SNS, and we're golden."
Others might hate it. To normies, it screamed gaudy gangster. But it was my taste. No interior changes—just repaint the exterior. Signed the prelim contract; Jake Uncle wired the deposit. Add-ons, inspections meant a month till final.
While Young-hoon trained like a maniac, I hung at the mansion with the kids. Then Jake Uncle and I headed to LA.
John Logan greeted me warmly at the studio.
"Hey, Comon~"
"Good to see you."
"Hot as hell—why bundled up?"
"Tattoo aftercare."
"More ink?"
"Sleeved the right arm. That's it."
"Smart. Too much looks trashy."
Logan smiled, nodding, and handed me water. I took it two-handed, cracked it, and drank.
"Catch you casual, folks'd freak."
"Why?"
"You turn into a polite young man."
"Hahaha. In the cage, I'm someone else. Not edgelord cringe—even with adrenaline pumping, it feels like another me."
"Huh. Players say that."
I shrugged, mouth full of water, nodding.
"So, you flew in for a private jet—and actually bought it?"
"Our family's not that loaded."
"Then how?"
"I trade stocks. Guess I'm good at it. Bought it with those gains."
"Stocks...? No way. What's your seed money?"
He clocked I didn't wanna dive deeper. Time for the real talk.
"That finish on the KO'd guy stuck with me. Expand on your thoughts?"
"In the Octagon, control's all ref's."
"True."
"Stopping ground-and-pound? Ref's job."
"Mm~ We talked boxing before."
My answer irked him.
"Wanna see toughness? Watch WFC."
Screen popped up: "Boxers scratching? Even better." As WFC's face, I was baiting aggro.
"Ah~"
WFC was still underdog. Boxing's scale dwarfed us. Then Corner Travers showed in April—gave our guys swagger.
"Respect, sportsmanship? We got it. Pros respect pros. Just different style. We're killing cattle in the Colosseum; boxing's bullfighting."
"So boxing's nobler?"
Finally smiling. Bet Brown scripted this.
"Noble? Same slaughterhouse, different blade. Both savage."
"...Yeah."
"Check records. They farm career stepping-stones, beat 'em half-dead for points. Ref stands fighters up brain-mushed."
I sipped water, continued.
"Call our fights barbaric? Fine, I won't convince 'em. But boxing simps saying it? Laughable."
"....."
"Respect? Brain to mush rules—who's preaching? Pounding a KO'd guy vs. mashing scrambled brains—what's the diff? 'Standing means fine'? Brainless take."
Logan nodded seriously. Wanted me to push harder. But broadcast limits. Not Brown's direct order. I'd aggro on SNS later.
"Hate pounding? Watch safe-picking wins."
That satisfied him. We shifted to chill talk.
"Any fighters our young genius digs?"
"Tons. Travers, Dominic, Rasul Mokayev."
"Travers? That featherweight?"
"Breaks rhythm instinctively, hook kicks chaos, featherweight power in rear-hand counters—technical as hell. Those light steps scream Songolmae; wrestlers only shot to catch him."
"Whoa, that high?"
"Yeah. Guy cracking Fabrício Aldo's five defenses? Travers."
Knowing the future made prophesying fun. Name-dropping stars built hype.
We wrapped with casual chat.