Weigh-In Trash Talk and Walkout Glory
Is this really something to be surprised about? Of course it was.
After the press conference wrapped up, we kept the momentum going with some light promotions while continuing training. My wrestling partner was mimicking Colton's movements as closely as possible. He didn't have to go this far, but he insisted it was payback for letting him ride on my private jet. I ran my planned techniques against Colton by Tahar, getting his feedback. Even if I knew a move worked, if my wrestler partner reacted poorly, it got scrapped immediately. When practicing strikes, I had to be extra careful not to hurt the partner. As effective striking evolved in MMA, wrestlers lacking solid strike defense started vanishing from the heavyweight ranks. The heavier you are, the more stamina it takes to shoot doubles, and even up close, my 1-meter reach and mass deliver damage you can't ignore. That's why, in the future, strikers who master wrestling defense will dominate the top tiers.
Colton loved grabbing a single leg and shoving with his head to disrupt balance. So our usual drills focused on making the wrestling partner resist as much as possible.
Time flew by, and we hit water cut, shedding fluids before the weigh-in. It was just a weigh-in, but a crowd gathered to watch. Sure, poking at the boxing orgs played a part, but the hot reactions from my press conference comments last time drew them in too. Calling wrestling gay had rubbed a lot of people the wrong way.
I stepped on the scale and checked the number. I'd cut a comfortable 1 pound (0.453kg) over. But with the tattoo oil, it read 93.7kg. Note to self: skip the oil next time. Still, since I'd sculpted this dry frame, I hit a light pose to show it off for the crowd.
"Come on~! Come on!"
"Drag him~!"
Draining every drop of water made my frame pop even more. My thicker-than-average bone structure looked like the body of someone starving for victory in photos.
Colton cleared the weigh-in, and we headed to Brown for the face-off. With him at the center and a swarm of people watching, we squared up. I wasn't planning to talk shit—just pose for pics—but the cameras crowded in close. Why were they so desperate to paint me as the asshole? So many people were praying I'd lose. Fine, since I'd embraced the heel role, I'd run with it all the way.
"Cumshot. Why you gripping that limp fist? Why not just lie down, spread your legs, and make it easy to pin?"
I heard grinding teeth in real time. It was just a casual jab, but it hit him like a zero-back. He was shaking, too pissed to even retort.
He exhaled, regaining composure, then glared at me with bulging eyes. "...We'll see if you can still run your mouth tomorrow. You said you'd bite your tongue? Hope you keep that promise."
"Declaring you'll film porn to the end? You know why you're unpopular, right?"
"....."
"Throw that useless fist right now. Maybe people will call you a man."
Brown was eyeing us nervously, trying to intervene. I flashed Colton an innocent smile as he struggled with his expressions.
"Hit me~ Though I doubt that turtle-slow punch lands."
"....."
"Watch close tomorrow. Our styles are worlds apart."
Then we flexed for the crowd one more time before scattering for recovery.
Later came the final pre-fight presser. Weather was chilly, but I dressed hip. I strutted into the venue, busting a goofy dance en route to my seat amid flashing cameras. I spat my chewed gum onto a tissue, pocketed it, then lounged back, pulling off my headset casually.
"Late as hell. Isn't this the land of Eastern etiquette? Can't find a shred of manners in you."
I glanced around like swatting a mosquito, then locked eyes on Colton and grabbed the mic in mock surprise.
"Thought I saw a mosquito. Cumshot, that what you were talking about?"
"Fuck off. Kid who flips out over mom talk."
"Yeah? Try it yourself. I'll show you what a bratty punk does. Wanna eat shit and get the fight canceled?"
"....."
He clammed up, sensing my unhinged vibe with zero pro filter. Brown probably hated the remarks, but he knew it was all show. As I stared him down, Colton bit his lip, peeking at Brown. The room's atmosphere shifted; everyone was watching us tense.
Then a reporter raised a hand to Colton. "How do you plan to fight the Korean Monster?"
"Look at that skinny frame. Wonder if it'll hold up to my takedowns."
I wondered too—could I KO a wrestling master at his peak? Even after burning stamina on defense, would I have knockout power left?
"Guy's walking weight is 117kg, right? Y'all saw yesterday. Starved skeleton at every weigh-in—looks ready to drop dead."
Where'd 117kg come from? He was grasping at straws, hurling nonsense.
"Size edge only goes so far. Cut 25kg to make weight—if I'd cut that much, I'd be welterweight."
Pre-diet, my walking weight was 108-110kg. But yeah, still growing, so at 94kg, I looked like a sardine. No one in light heavyweight was as lean as me.
A reporter raised a hand to me. "Is your walking weight really 117kg?"
"Just ignore it like a mosquito buzzing around. Obsess over every detail, and you won't sleep."
"Hahaha."
"Cut weight to get stronger? Where's that dumbass logic from? The closer to walking weight, the stronger you are."
Colton glared, curious what I'd say next. I turned to him and continued.
"Why am I playing in light heavy with this frame?"
I waved two fingers in his face. "Double Champ. I'm challenging for WFC's first light heavy and heavyweight double titles."
"Don't talk champ with that shitty grappling."
"Cumshot. Don't call yourself wrestling-based anywhere. People'll think I'm shitting on all wrestling. I said it 'cause you're ass-hunting. How about switching to bestiality bug?"
"Why not change from Leon to Pimba? Fits your cute image perfect."
Our trash talk thickened. Reporters' questions were just fuel to poke him. Colton stopped holding back, spewing curses.
"Shut up, you male-prostitute. Why not sell your body on SNS for cash?"
"Bet I'd out-pop you and make bank."
"Fucking shameless punk!"
"Film some proper gay porn. Oh, maybe same ass-hunt every time kills your popularity?"
"Fuck you!"
It turned into pure trash-talk central. Fighters and listeners alike were tiring out. Brown read the room, intervened smoothly, and ended the presser.
For pre-fight sparring, I ingrained the Colton gameplan. Main event meant plenty of time as the last fight.
Colin watched me drill and said to Whittaker, "He always plans like that. I don't."
"Gerard Tyson said it: Everyone has a fancy plan. Too much thinking just slows action."
I paused sparring, smiled at Whittaker. "Yeah~ Gerard 10-second cut."
"....."
Rare serious Whittaker cracked me up.
"You punk. That arrogance is your flaw. It'll turn to stone and break your nose someday."
Got arrogant once, nose caved into my knee. Just recalling chills me. Even without crises, that vivid pain hits entering the octagon. I knew I wouldn't slack in that life-or-death coliseum.
But words wouldn't convince him.
"Can't have flaws with goals ahead."
I shrugged as the inspector ref entered the locker room. Hit the bathroom, then stood by the door with my lightened body. Perfect routine, unchanged.
Slipped on basketball shoes, oversized fit, beanie, headset. Gold chain necklace last—ref asked if ready. Then my walkout blared: DMX's X Gon' Give It to Ya.
Door opened; I eyed the waiting cameras. Tugged the gold chain with index and thumb, grooved my head. Main hall doors flew open, music hitting harder.
"Come on! Come on!"
"Die!!"
"Wooo!!"
"Drop dead!!"
I passed haters and fans, nearing the octagon. Faced the main camera, pointed down with my finger. Camera dropped, thinking limited-edition Nikes. Song hit the hook; I nailed a perfect shuffle to the beat.
"Wooo!!"
Playful flair drew cheers. Tahar grabbed my arm, so I played dragged along. Back when I was the guy everyone knew danced well.
At the ref, stripped gold chain, beanie, clothes, shoes. Calmly vaselined up, bounced my body.
Whittaker beside me spoke. "Condition?"
"Peak."
"Yeah, this is your best shape."
"Yep."
Ref checked gloves; I entered the octagon. Thought title shot would take longer—beat 5th, 3rd, then 1st. But Colton at 2nd wanted me, fast-track ticket.
Bounced, testing muscle snap like elastic. Then his walkout hit; Colton emerged from afar. Pure white guy in New York, but boos drowned his plain entrance. Dull compared to mine. Face-off words flashing back? His expression soured.
"See. Our entrances are different from the start."