Prologue:
1. Folks, stash your brains in your pocket and buckle up—we're hitting the road!
2. Your author's got a rock-solid update schedule. I've already cranked out Dark Iron-Blood Chronicles of American TV (RIP that account) and Astartes' Light Orb. Same vibe, same flavor—hope y'all dig it. If you do, toss me a rec or a flower; I'd be stoked. Drop those book reviews too—lay it on me, good or bad.
3. Story's about our guy stumbling into the pro boxing world by pure dumb luck. Expect slices of life straight out of Shameless and 2 Broke Girls. One girl at a time—no harem nonsense.
4. Quick-and-dirty rundown on American pro boxing:
(1) The 17 main weight classes
- Minimumweight: 105 lbs max (~47.6 kg)
- Light Minimumweight: 108 lbs (~49 kg)
- Strawweight (WBC calls it that): 105 lbs
- Junior Flyweight: 108 lbs
- Flyweight: 112 lbs (~50.8 kg)
- Super Flyweight: 115 lbs (~52.2 kg)
- Bantamweight: 118 lbs (~53.5 kg)
- Super Bantamweight: 122 lbs (~55.3 kg)
- Featherweight: 126 lbs (~57.2 kg)
- Super Featherweight: 130 lbs (~59 kg)
- Lightweight: 135 lbs (~61.2 kg)
- Super Lightweight: 140 lbs (~63.5 kg)
- Welterweight: 147 lbs (~66.7 kg)
- Super Welterweight: 154 lbs (~69.9 kg)
- Middleweight: 160 lbs (~72.6 kg)
- Super Middleweight: 168 lbs (~76.2 kg)
- Light Heavyweight: 175 lbs (~79.4 kg)
- Cruiserweight: 200 lbs (~90.7 kg) (WBC used to cap it at 224, now 200)
- Heavyweight: No limit (usually 200+ lbs)
(2) The Big Four sanctioning bodies (they rank fighters and crown champs):
- WBC (World Boxing Council): Oldest, famous for the green belt.
- WBA (World Boxing Association): OG org, but all the "super champion" nonsense drives people nuts.
- IBF (International Boxing Federation): Sticklers for the rules—mandatory defenses or bust.
- WBO (World Boxing Organization): Started in '88, now fully legit as the fourth major.
---
Main story starts here:
Victor Lee was in a world of hurt.
We're talking bone-deep, soul-crushing pain—like someone took a sledgehammer to every inch of him, then sanded the nerve endings for fun.
Every patch of skin screamed. Every muscle twitched like it was trying to bail.
Worse? His body felt wrong—like he'd been crammed into a soggy sandbag instead of the lean, wiry frame he knew from swinging a sledge on construction sites.
And the noise.
Mocking laughter, the wet thwack of fists and sneakers on flesh, his own ragged breathing like a busted accordion. It all swirled into a dizzying storm.
Somewhere farther off: dripping faucets, clanging metal, a door creaking, something heavy scraping across tile.
He'd chugged a whole bottle of cheap baijiu last night to knock out the ache from three straight 16-hour shifts. Fifteen bucks down the drain—should've at least bought him a decent night's sleep.
The thought flickered through his foggy brain.
Last thing he remembered: crashing in the dorm bunk, polishing off the last bottle hidden under his buddy's mattress.
But now…
He woke up to agony and a soundtrack of violence.
Not regular sounds—these were boot tips cracking ribs, open palms slapping cheeks, each hit a fresh wave of fire.
Every breath tasted like pennies.
"F—!"
He tried to curse, but his lips were two swollen sausages, so it came out a garbled grunt.
Eyes cracked open: a circle of white kids—red hair, blond, green streaks—laying into him like it was open season.
Sunlight slanted through the high bathroom window, painting dirty tiles in patchy gold.
He was curled in the corner, back against cold wall, six punks in baggy clothes taking turns.
"Yellow pig!"
A lanky dude with green hair and a nose ring kicked while spitting venom, skull tee flashing under the light.
"Fat slob!"
Freckle-faced redhead yanked Victor's hair, slamming his skull into the wall. "Look at all that blubber—makes me wanna puke!"
The real mind-blower? Victor understood every word. Weird accent, sure, but straight-up English. And in his head, it auto-translated like he'd been binge-watching subtitled movies his whole life.
"Can you even see your junk under there?"
A blonde with a lip ring cackled, black-painted nail jabbing his gut. "Oh wait—your belly's in the way!"
Something snapped.
Six years of swinging a hammer on job sites kicked in. Muscle memory didn't care whose body this was.
Victor snatched the redhead's arm—the one yanking his hair—flipped him like a rag doll, and ripped half his scalp clean off with a fistful of hair.
Kid screamed like a stuck pig. Blood poured down his ghost-white face, pooling on the floor.
One punch—straight to the nose. Crunch. Cartilage collapsed. Blood and snot sprayed three yards, splattering the mirror over the sinks.
"Holy shit!"
Green-hair stumbled back, cockiness gone.
Victor's arms whipped left and right, shoving two more punks off like they were toddlers.
This new body was a tank—clumsy, yeah, but packed with raw power. Every swing whistled through the air.
A skinny sneak from the side caught an elbow to the chest, flew backward into a stall—crash—toilet brush and bucket clattering everywhere.
Victor locked hands around a big Black kid's neck—the tallest one—and tanked punches from the others like they were love taps.
Boom-boom-boom! Three shots to the face. Dude's eyes rolled back; he dropped like a sack of bricks. Victor felt cheekbones crumple under his knuckles.
The rest bolted.
Green-hair tripped at the door, knee smacking tile, but scrambled out on all fours.
Lip-ring girl? Long gone. Shame—pretty face, one punch away from a five-buck street value.
Victor wheezed, sweat and blood dripping off his swollen face.
He stared at his shaking hands—bigger than his old ones, knuckles like walnuts, covered in fresh bruises and old scars.
Spit a bloody loogie on the unconscious redhead, staggered up, and froze.
This wasn't his body.
Mirror check: neckless blob staring back, face a purple roadmap of bruises.
Pancake face, bear-trap neck, barn-door back, tree-trunk arms, gut like a keg, legs like an elephant's.
Torn navy hoodie read Brooklyn Tech. Jeans about to surrender.
"No freakin' way—this is me? Five-seven, 158 pounds?"
He touched his face; mirror-guy copied.
Black hair with dumb bleached streaks, tiny knife scar over the left ear.
Headache hit like a freight train.
Memory fragments flashed: Asian kid shoved in class, lunch tray knocked over, locker stuffed with notes—"Chnk," "Fatty," "Go back home"—sharp laughter echoing.
"F—…"
Came out in perfect Chicago English, thick South Side drawl.
Then—shouts outside, walkie-talkie static, boots thundering closer.
From the last stall: two dudes—a short white guy with dreads and a tall Black kid—hucked a heavy duffel out the window. Thud. Metal clanked inside.
Black kid stayed, face cold as ice.
Dreads flipped out the window, paused, hissed back:
"Snitch, pig, and you're dead."
Voice low, snake-slither creepy.
Victor's blood boiled—more bullies?—but one step and the world spun.
Black spots ate his vision. Ears rang like a fire alarm.
Cold-face split, doubled, blurred to gray.
Brain-zap. Lights out.
He hit the floor with a wet splat—no thud. Too much padding.
Last flicker: Carl Gallagher—that white kid's name—then cold tile, bleach, blood, piss stink.
Security kicked the door in: one Black kid standing, everyone else bloody on the ground.
"Hands up!"
---
Sirens ripped through Oak Ridge High's afternoon quiet.
Officer Rodriguez screeched the cruiser into the east lot, tires squealing.
She stepped out, badge flashing sun. "Damn it," she muttered, adjusting her holster. "Another bullying case? This one's loud."
Deputy Keith unfolded from the passenger side, tugging his navy collar. Tall, dark, already sweating.
"Word is three ambulances for injured kids."
They pushed through gawking students. Yellow tape, medics hustling.
Rodriguez clocked it fast: scattered backpacks, crushed glasses, blood smears on concrete, a chunk of scalp with blond hair stuck in the drain.
"Jesus," Keith breathed. "This ain't a playground scuffle."
Next twenty minutes: statements.
Story straightened out.
Six kids routinely terrorized Victor Lee, a American student. Board member's son, Mark Williams, led the beatdown. Nobody expected the "weak fat kid" to snap—and snap hard. Three attackers on stretchers; Mark out cold, possible concussion.
"Self-defense, clear as day," Keith said, snapping his notebook shut. "Six on one, victim fights back. Black kid's a witness."
Rodriguez opened her mouth—footsteps.
Principal Howard jogged up, trailed by a suit in a fury.
"Officers," Howard panted, wiping sweat. "This is Mr. Williams, board member. His son Mark is a victim—"
"Victim?" Rodriguez arched a brow. "Every witness says Mark started it."
Williams turned beet red. "Ridiculous! My boy's the football captain, straight-A! That monkey provoked him!"
Keith cleared his throat. "Sir, multiple—"
"Delinquents!" Williams barked. "Howard, this stays in-house. Kids being kids—no need for the station."
Howard nodded fast. "Exactly. Minors, you know—our discipline committee handles it."
Lower: "We're donating fifty grand in gym gear to the department. Chief already signed off—says fit cops serve better."
Rodriguez felt heat crawl up her neck.
Keith hesitated—only female senior officer, always walking the tightrope.
"Sir," she told Keith, voice level, "we've got assault, possible brain injury. Protocol says—"
"Officer," Howard cut in, fake smile plastered, "Mr. Williams sits on the state education board. Golfs with the chief. Let's resolve this… misunderstanding. Best outcome for everyone."
Air froze.
All eyes on Rodriguez: Howard's smarm, Williams' glare, Keith's conflict, unconscious Asian kid on a stretcher.
"Last time y'all called it 'boys will be boys,'" she said, ice cold. "Time before, 'cultural misunderstanding.' Now someone's half-dead."
Williams dialed, muttered "one hundred grand," hung up.
Five minutes later, Keith got the call.
"Pack it in."
They rolled out.
trivia:
One: The People's War God
Butterbean (Real name: Eric Scott Esch) – the undisputed king of the everyman heavyweight, part boxer, part MMA fighter, part pro-wrestling sideshow, and 100% American folk legend.
Known for his insane bulk, one-punch nuke power, and that signature cowboy hat perched on a shaved head the size of a pumpkin. Here's the full rundown:
1. Basics
- Real name: Eric Scott Esch
- Ring name: Butterbean, "The King of the 4-Rounders"
- Born: August 3, 1966 (Georgia, USA)
- Size: 5'11½" (6-foot on a good day), peak fight weight 330–400 lbs
- Trademark: Fat but freaky athletic, punches that cave skulls, and a belly you could bounce a sledgehammer off. Pure entertainment.
2. Career Highlights
Boxing record: 77-10-4, 58 KOs
Started in the Toughman Circuit, got scouted, then turned pro.
Owned the 4-round game—most guys didn't make it past the first commercial break.
Fought Larry Holmes (yeah, that Larry Holmes), sparred with Tyson's crew, and starched plenty of ranked heavyweights.
MMA run:
2003 debut, went 5-5. Fought legends like Ken Shamrock.
Stand-up destroyer, zero ground game, but one clean overhand could turn your lights out before you even thought about a takedown.
Pro wrestling:
WWE cameo era (1999-2002). Squashed jobbers, stared down Batista, got chokeslammed by Big Show for the pops. Pure circus, pure ratings.
3. Pop-Culture Icon
- Cameos in Jackass, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (2003), random B-movies.
- Internet legend: KO reels and that creepy "smile after eating a punch" clip turned him into a meme before memes were a thing.
4. Drama & Fun Facts
- Weight beef: Dude swore the blubber was "natural armor." Took shots that would drop rhinos and just grinned.
- Post-retirement: Dropped a ton of weight for health, now does motivational talks about beating obesity.
5. Classic Quote
"I might look like a tub of butter, but my fists hit like canned beans, baby."