The American TV series "Four-Round Boxing Champion Starts with Shameless"

Page 3

His words came to an abrupt halt as he saw the man standing behind the dreadlocked boy—Nick, the big black guy.

Nick's eyes widened, and his lips trembled.

“Victor, don’t make a fuss. You’ve known me for many years. I’ve known you since you moved here when you were twelve.”

The dreadlocks boy—Karl Gallagher, Victor remembered the name—raised an eyebrow: “Fat pig, you’re the one I admire most today. You sent 180-pound Mark flying with one punch!”

Before Victor could ask Carl for some food, Frank appeared at the door:

“Jesus Christ, you look like Godzilla just pulled from the sea, your thing is so tight!”

He swallowed hard. "Viktor, come in quickly!"

Viktor followed Frank's gaze to his lower body, where a clear mark of a stick-like object was visible.

And so, Victor entered the chaotic world of the Gallagher family for the nth time.

A warm breeze wafted in, carrying the smells of fried bacon, beer, and cheap perfume.

The living room was packed with people:

A black woman stands next to a brown-haired man with clear eyes; Fiona's old boyfriend, Sean, while Debbie stirs the water.

"Fiona, could you prepare a meal for my two friends?"

Carl asked loudly, Fiona Gallagher—sighing:

“Victor? He owes me a week’s worth of food! Make him dry the floor first. Carl, get a towel. Nick, don’t play with that in the living room, you’ll make a mess of the house!”

Viktor stood awkwardly on the doormat, water droplets constantly falling from him.

Nick walked over and lowered his voice: "Dude, are you alright? You looked like you were going to kill me today!"

"I'm very good."

Victor took off his shirt, revealing his muscular physique and round belly, then wrung out the water before putting it back on: "I was just so angry at the time that I didn't recognize you. What are you doing here today?"

"You've been fired. Obviously, six against one is self-defense."

Nick said nonchalantly, "I tried to tell the principal the truth, but you know, the words of Black kids in the South don't carry much weight, so I got expelled too."

Frank handed him a faded towel, and Victor thanked him before awkwardly drying his hair.

His stomach growled loudly again, this time loud enough for the whole room to hear.

Fiona raised an eyebrow. "It sounds like someone's hungry. Carl, go to the kitchen and see if there's anything left to eat."

Sean went to the kitchen and quickly began preparing pig feed.

Viktor noticed the scrutinizing gaze he received as he passed by; the look was so sharp it seemed to see right through the unnatural steel beneath his skin.

But what the men on the construction site feared most was one sentence: a gambling father, a sick mother, a younger brother in school, and a broken home. What they feared least was head-on confrontation, so Victor met their gazes without any attempt to hide his intentions.

Sean couldn't stand that overbearing gaze, especially since the other person seemed to want to devour him, so he abruptly changed the subject:

"You're only two months away from graduating, why did you choose to take action at this time?"

Victor didn't say anything, picked up the half-empty bottle of milk, and drank it down in one gulp.

A few minutes later, Victor sat at the Gallagher family's crowded dining table, with food piled up in front of him:

The remaining pizza, half a box of cereal, a few slices of bread, and a bowl of stew that looked suspicious.

The Gallagher children gathered around, looking at the 'stranger' with curiosity.

"So, two months before graduation, you smashed your diploma! Just bear with it!"

Fiona leaned against the kitchen doorframe. "How dare you be so bold this time?"

Victor's mouth was stuffed full of pizza.

The food tasted better than anything he could remember, and his teeth easily crushed the hard edges of the pizza.

"If we don't fight, we'll die."

"Hahaha!"

Debbie laughed: "You're indestructible. Last time during the gang shootout, you took two shots, but they didn't even pierce your internal organs."

Viktor gave a wry smile: "Anyway, I hit someone and then got fired."

"Your uncle took two thousand yuan in rent from him,"

Carl interjected, "Maybe he's planning to spend $1,500 to buy you a car, and then have you go with him to the docks to unload and load goods."

Viktor nearly choked on his food—two thousand dollars?

Nick handed him a glass of water, which Victor drank in one gulp.

He felt the Gallaghers' gazes were all on him, especially Sean's analytical stare.

Viktor suddenly realized that he had eaten too much and too fast—it was impossible for a normal person to eat like that without being stuffed to death.

But the hunger was still intense, and his body seemed to be frantically absorbing every calorie.

Viktor slowed down, trying to act normal, but still devoured all the food in a whirlwind.

Debbie's eyes widened. "With you, we won't have any food waste anymore!"

Fiona frowned: "Debbie, don't be so harsh."

Viktor felt a pang of embarrassment and looked at Fiona, Sean, and the others: "I think being fired is a good thing, at least I can earn money openly now."

Carl laughed heartily: "You no longer need to put your guests at legal risk!"

"Hahahaha!"

"Dear Chicago Typist!"

Chapter 3 Adults always need to support themselves

The dawns in Chicago's South Side always carried the smell of rust and urine that seeped into Victor's nostrils.

He woke up with a suffocating feeling and found his nearly 400-pound body stuck in the corner of a 'bedroom' made from a shipping container.

Sweat dripped down his triple chin like melted butter, leaving dark stains on the already yellowed sheets.

"Fako·····"

Viktor used his short, stubby fingers to pry at the corrugated iron wall, struggling to his feet like a stranded walrus.

The shipping container turned into an oven in the September heat; he could almost hear his own fat melting.

The bathroom—if that corner separated by plastic sheeting and with exposed pipes could be called a bathroom—was more than thirty meters away from his 'bedroom'. Viktor was hungry again, but he was full of strength. His obese body didn't actually look like 'Ryoko' with a large bag, but rather like a 1.83-meter-tall fat man.

But the man in the mirror had a round face and malnourished eyes. His three chests were very prominent, and the outer layer of fat kept the cold away, but it did not dissipate heat well.

The water, sometimes hot and sometimes cold, pounded against his oily skin as Victor mechanically scrubbed his body—his memory told him that a woman used to wash dishes while he was taking a bath.

In his memory, he was a thin eleven-year-old boy when his parents died in a convenience store robbery seven years ago.

After being taken in by his uncle, Old Joe, his weight increased wildly along with the growth hormones that came with age. His body became as strong as steel, his kidneys as strong as steel, and his rapid absorption of nutrients turned Victor into a fat man.

The sound of the container's iron door being kicked open sent a shiver down Viktor's spine.

"Damn it, you used up all the hot water again!"

Old Joe's voice pierced my eardrums like a rusty saw.

Viktor hurriedly turned off the tap and wrapped himself in a towel that was barely big enough to cover his waist.

Uncle Joe stood in the middle of the container, still wearing his security guard uniform.

He was a head shorter than Victor, but his lean body seemed to contain an inexhaustible amount of anger; he was a volatile Chinese man.

His face, now 45, was covered in wrinkles, and he had a scar below his right eye—a mark inflicted by a drug addict with a broken bottle during a night shift.

"Why don't you ask him why he starts washing the dishes as soon as I take a shower?"

Old Joe tossed a greasy paper bag onto the folding table. "Your last free breakfast."

Victor stared at the bag with the 'Burger King' logo on it, knowing it was time to go.

The day before yesterday was his eighteenth birthday, and legally speaking, he is already an adult.

Yesterday, he was expelled from school and became a full-fledged adult.

I chatted with the Gallagher family yesterday and learned that in Chicago's South Side, this means two things: you can legally buy guns, but you lose your right to be a dependent.

Viktor was mentally prepared and had already merged with the memories of the 'Fat Pig' Viktor before his innate wisdom awakened. At this moment, he was neither Viktor Fat Pig nor Lee Seungri, but Viktor Lee.

Old Joe pulled a crumpled envelope from his pocket and then bent down to drag a rusty safe out from under the bed.

Viktor watched him enter the password—Viktor's mother's birthday—and then take out a smaller envelope.

"Two thousand yuan, the school's last act of kindness."

Old Joe slammed the first envelope on the table. "This 1,700 is what your parents left you. Mazu knows why they would put cash in a safe instead of buying a decent gun."

Viktor's fingers trembled uncontrollably as he took the envelope.

Three thousand seven hundred dollars was a lot of money in 84, considering that even magicians only earned a million dollars a year, as the newspapers reported.

"and this."

Old Joe tossed him a black notebook; the gold lettering on the cover, 'Address Book,' had mostly peeled off.

Viktor opened the notebook, which was filled with women's names, phone numbers, and addresses, some marked with strange symbols: $, ?, etc.

The last page had a skull drawn in red pen, with the words "Never call this number unless you want to be covered in whip marks the next day" written next to it.

Then there were more than sixty US dollars at the back of the notebook, all in denominations of one hundred.

Viktor realized something was wrong; this might be a dark chapter in his history: "This is...?"

"A list of wealthy women in Chicago who are willing to pay for services from fat men."

Old Joe lit a cigarette, the smoke swirling above his head. "I'm glad you did," he said. "Your only market value before was that you had a Colt python under that fat body, and some women like the type that can overwhelm them."

Viktor felt a wave of dizziness, and the words on the notebook seemed to dance before his eyes.

He had heard of this 'service,' which the boys in the South District privately called 'whale hunters.'

The most successful practitioners live a life of luxury in upscale apartments, while the unsuccessful ones are often found in reports of bodies floating in the Chicago River.

Old Joe continued, "You had a stipend before, so you didn't spend money on food, but after deducting fuel costs and gang fees from your income each time, you only have 6,700 left. This will be your starting capital."