Legends Flock to the Monster
Was this surprising? Of course not.
I tried heading to the locker room, but staff redirected me to the photo zone. There were way more celebrities gathered there than I'd expected. My eyes went wide when I spotted Kanye West himself, who'd come to see me in person.
"Huh!? Hey, nice to meet you! I've been a fan for ages!"
"Damn... you're huge."
Kanye was marveling at my height and build. Sure, he had his share of controversies and drama, but like for so many others, his music had earned him legend status in my book too.
"I hear you use my songs as your walkout music a lot. But not tonight, huh?"
"If you'd given me a heads-up, I'd have blasted it right away."
Out of all the celebs, Kanye seemed the most genuinely stoked—Vivi was a close second. It felt like my own fan meet-and-greet. He even asked permission before suggesting a photo, and we threw our arms around each other for the shot. I must've been drawing serious attention. Who'd have thought Kanye would show up just to see me?
And way off in the distance, there was Mike Tyson too.
"Holy moly~"
Mike spotted Whittaker first and gave him a respectful nod. Only then did he approach me with a grin. With our 20cm height difference, I looked even more massive in the photos.
"Little guy thinks he can beat me in 10 seconds?"
"Oh, should I bump it to 30?"
"Gehahaha!"
Mike burst out laughing, not even entertaining the idea of me losing. A handful of invited reporters snapped away at me and the celebs nonstop. After posing with the crowd that came to see me, grabbing some New York-style pizza, I finally made it to the locker room.
Changed clothes, got cleared by the ringside doctor during warm-ups, suited up in my formal wear, and headed to the press conference. Colton couldn't make it—his nose was completely shattered.
I took my seat, and Brown kicked things off.
"During the fight, after Colton went down, you did that shuffle dance. As a fellow fighter, wasn't that disrespectful?"
The opening question from the white guy came with some bite. Bad vibe right off the bat. So I answered with a dismissive edge.
"I didn't want to leave any variables. His wrestling got him to #2 for a reason."
"So you'll keep provoking downed opponents in the future too?"
Was he hoping for an apology? He kept pushing even after I answered, so I hit back harder.
"If you're an MMA expert, you're not telling me to wrestle, right? Or should I just stand there next time?"
"....."
"Great sportsmanship. But I feel obligated to deliver for the fans who came to see my fight. Am I wrong?"
The guy was speechless. Another reporter shot his hand up quick.
"Did the fight go exactly as you planned?"
"Everything except the knee strike missed the mark. If Colton had striking skills, Dominic would've been tough, but I could've finished Dmitry."
Another hand popped up fast.
"You think Dominic's stronger than the current champ, Dmitry?"
"Matchups matter. Dominic gives me more trouble."
Of course Dmitry would be overwhelmingly harder. But I had to poke at him. Maybe it was the post-fight tension easing, but fatigue always hit me like a truck after these.
"With this win, do you consider yourself the division's best striker?"
"I always see myself as the WFC's best, not just the division. But that's not for me to decide."
"Do you think trash talk actually impacts fights?"
"Yeah. Colton's striking defense was nonexistent before, but tonight I felt his desperation to beat me."
"If Colton wants a rematch, are you open to it?"
"I'm not Dmitry. I never dodge challengers who earn it."
They must've sensed my exhaustion creeping in. I stifled a yawn while fielding questions one by one. Main event meant doing my duty.
Presser wrapped, so I rounded up the crew for the reserved restaurant party. I eyed Tahar gnawing on a T-bone steak bone while downing drinks.
"When's Young-hoon's fight?"
"They said they'd book it ASAP, but no clue."
"What about Colin?"
Colin shrugged—no fight lined up for him either. I was off till Dmitry accepted. He wouldn't want me getting rusty first. Sooner the better, but that depended on hype levels. No fights for any of us, so party time it was.
Back in San Francisco, dropped the team off, then jetted to Korea with Young-hoon. Thought about crashing at my place for a nap before moving, but with no fights or schedules like John Logan's or Bruce Noaman's podcasts, they were probably giving me downtime. Plane took off, and Young-hoon plopped on the sofa scrolling his phone. No need to ask what—thanks to his growth, he was bumping up to welterweight for less cut stress, so he was studying welterweight fights.
Left him to it and checked SNS. The Colton fight had blown up huge. My title shot even hit Korean news, pulling eyes worldwide. And Colton... I'd scratched that itch because fans wanted it, but he'd straight-up rejected my hand. Every time I thought about it, my conscience landed a guillotine choke on my heart.
"Hmmm..."
"What's up?"
"Feeling bad for Colton?"
"Outta nowhere?"
Why "outta nowhere"? I eyed Young-hoon, and he sheepishly buried his face in his phone.
"Time'll fix it. Visiting after I snag the belt won't be too late."
Meanwhile, my rising fame had young boxers name-dropping me nonstop.
I'd clearly hit their rage button. They were digging into which org I'd built my amateur boxing resume from. Or maybe eyeing my follower count—MMA fighters envied it big time.
Handed Young-hoon the GoPro, and he naturally started filming. Confirmed the light, sliced my steak slow and elegant, chewed with poise. Dabbed my mouth lightly, slouched back casual, and dropped the mic.
"We don't count IMMAF records either. And I wouldn't need to go that far to handle you clowns."
"Just spar at your local MMA gym. You'll feel the gap to me in the world-stage WFC."
"It's been ages, and no one's posted sparring footage? Probably limping two weeks after I woke 'em up with low kicks, mouths shut."
"All talk, no spar vids? Obvious as hell~"
My SNS had Colin sparring footage—perfect infighter vs. outboxer showcase.
Beckoned the camera with a finger wag; Young-hoon zoomed in. Swung a fist like a noob winding up.
"I admit, you guys got hand fencing down."
"Boxing rules? Might lose to you once or twice. But MMA rules? I could tournament through heavyweight boxing's top 10 nonstop and choke 'em all out."
"Harder than wrestling an hour against you punching bags. Quit barking like mutts—DM me, I'll send the address. Stream it and scrap."
Not that I'd show if they did. I was just the fence-post mutt they yapped at by sport. Young-hoon killed the recording like a pro. I fixed my thug slouch and eyed him.
"Hotel vacay with Mom?"
"Heading out soon."
"No clue when fights drop, so rest up good."
"Got it."
He went back to prim fork-and-knife on his steak. Scratching boxers ramped my buzz higher. Not just them—their fans piled on hating me. Dmitry's SNS flooded with "kill him" comments too. Hate was hype; my stock kept climbing.
Long flight later, touched down in Korea. Uncle Jake drove; headed to drop Young-hoon first. En route, some boxer posted sparring with an MMA guy—but the opponent pulled punches, half-assed takedowns. Boxer unloaded heavy power shots. Comments already roasting it, so I screenshotted, slapped on a bright smirk with hand over mouth, tagged him.
Deep in SNS, nearly missed Brown's call before landing. "Redo the contract when you win the belt." Guess he loved my antics.
Home sweet empty home. Changed, crashed on the sofa. Door opened—Mom back from groceries.
"Mom, check this out?"
"What."
"This rapper Kanye West has a wild story."
Never fallen for it before, she tilted her head and approached. Gestured her to sit; she did. Faked handing the phone, yanked her arm instead.
"Ack!"
Hugged from behind, peppered her cheek nonstop. To dodge hits, cinched tight—full grip, cheek-munch incoming.
"Kyaaack!"
She thrashed; let go now and I'd eat elbows. Locked arms, waist, even hooked a thigh-leglock.
"Mmph!"
"Let go! No!?"
"Mwahmwahmwahmwah!"
"Kyaaack!"
Had Dad pulled this too? She elbowed my solar plexus pro-style, tried a headbutt—I slipped it easy. Give in now? Just pain later. Squeezed harder, jammed my chin into her neck to block. Locked her cheek in my mouth full mount.
"...Let go."
"Mmf."
"Won't hit. Promise. Let go."
Veteran for sure—perfect sub, her fight deflated. Accepted no escape, negotiation mode. Released; she elbow-smashed my chest, bolted up.
"Gack... Son kisses, and you hit?"
"Tats? Not my son."
Knew she held grudges, but tattoo jab again left me speechless. Still, my affection hit right—she hummed starting galbi jjim.