With everything locked in, Victor threw himself fully into the fight.
September 9, 1986. Same city—Las Vegas—but a different opponent, and the vibe was even more electric.
Victor versus Tony "TNT" Tucker went down as planned. At the weigh-in, the two were already staring daggers.
Tony "TNT" Tucker:
- Height: 6'5" (about 196 cm)
- Weight: ~220 lbs (100 kg)
- Reach: 86 inches (218 cm)
- Record: 27-0 (15 KOs)
- Achievement: Former IBF World Heavyweight Champion (the first one).
Fighting Style:
Tony Tucker was a freak—super well-rounded with insane physical gifts. He blended slick technician with knockout artist:
- Rock-solid amateur background, fundamentals on point.
- Jab like a cobra—fast, accurate, and always in your face.
- Light on his feet, great head movement.
- That height and reach (even longer than James "Bonecrusher" Smith) let him control distance like a video game boss, keeping guys at bay.
- Faster than Smith, with smooth, flowing combos—not just one-punch bombs.
- Total package: power, speed, skill, size. The nickname "TNT" wasn't hype—he could detonate at any second.
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September 10, 1986
Caesars Palace Arena. The Vegas night got ripped open by blazing spotlights and a roaring crowd. The air stank of sweat, cigars, and pure hunger.
Victor Lee stood in his corner, eyes cold as steel, locked on the man across the ring they called "TNT"—Tony Tucker.
Tucker looked like a walking fortress: 6'5", 86-inch reach, 27-0, and the IBF heavyweight belt to back it up. Most fighters' nightmares had his face.
In the stands, Tucker's crew waved signs and screamed, "Blow him up! TNT!" The noise nearly peeled the paint off the walls.
Victor's people sat dead quiet. They remembered last month's war with James Smith—how Victor broke the "Bonecrusher" with iron will and pinpoint bombs.
But tonight? The energy was next level. Gamblers weren't just betting cash—they were worshipping violence like it was art.
Victor's usual move: $100K on himself, ticket waving in the wind.
The bell cracked like a gunshot. Fight on.
Tony "TNT" Tucker—the guy famous for explosive bombs—didn't charge like everyone expected.
His eyes were calm. Scary calm. Like the ocean before a hurricane.
Instead, he rolled out a master plan: distance control.
His jab snapped out like a viper's tongue—fast, accurate, peppering Victor's face nonstop.
Victor slipped, blocked, but those punches kept coming, whistling past his ears.
Tucker moved like a lightweight despite being a heavyweight. That insane reach built an invisible wall—Victor couldn't get inside.
Every time Victor stepped in, a jab shoved him back.
A right cross grazed Victor's eyebrow, opening a thin cut.
The crowd exploded. Tucker's coach screamed from ringside: "Keep him out! Don't let him in!"
Victor's eyes stayed ice-cold.
He was a cheetah on the savanna—patient, waiting for the slip-up.
Even with jabs raining down, his brain was running at 100 mph, mapping Tucker's rhythm.
"Move! Don't stop! Cut the angle!"
Old Jack roared from the corner, voice nearly drowned in the chaos.
Victor danced, throwing quick combos at Tucker's forearms and shoulders—not to hurt, but to test his guard.
After a few probes, he saw it: Tucker locked down head defense like Fort Knox, but his body opened tiny windows after long flurries.
1:30 left in Round 1.
Victor spotted the gap.
Left foot forward, hips twist—BOOM—a vicious left hook screamed in, smashing clean into Tucker's jawline.
THUD!
The glove-on-glove sound echoed through the arena. Tucker's right hand blocked some of it…
…but his own glove still crashed into his jaw. His body rocked, feet scrambled for a split second.
Victor pounced.
He flipped the switch into his signature "Chicago Typewriter"—fists firing like a machine gun.
Jab to the face, hook to the body—each punch whistling, driving Tucker toward the ropes.
The crowd lost it. You could almost hear the rat-tat-tat of old-school gangland gunfire.
But Tucker wasn't some chump.
After the initial shock, he clinched up—arms tight, head and body sealed like a vault.
Victor's follow-ups hammered forearms and gloves—BANG BANG BANG—but couldn't crack the shell.
Then, in a flash between blocks, Tucker unleashed a TNT bomb—a right hook that could've cracked concrete. It skimmed Victor's temple, lifting his hair.
Half an inch closer and it's lights out.
They reset. First real exchange? Neither landed clean—except Victor's opening hook left a red welt creeping across Tucker's jaw.
Bell. End of Round 1.
Victor sat. Breathing heavy.
Ethan yanked out the mouthpiece, leaned in:
"He guards his head like it's made of glass. Body's the key. His big shots won't kill you. Stay patient—he'll open up."
---
Round 2
Bell barely faded before Tucker turned into a raging bull, cranking the pressure.
With his height and reach, his combos hit like a freight train.
Left hook ripped the air.
Right cross blasted down the middle like a cannon.
Then a sneaky uppercut from below, aimed right at the chin.
Three punches—perfect rhythm, each one screaming KO.
Victor weathered the storm. Gloves up, elbows tight, eating shots on arms and shoulders like a tank.
But he wasn't just surviving—he fired back in the gaps. BAM BAM—glove on muscle, echoing like war drums.
Still, Tucker was too slick. 6'5" and moving like a middleweight.
Then it came: a fake left hook—then BAM—a hidden left uppercut slipped under Victor's guard and buried into his liver.
Pain exploded.
Victor's face went ghost-white. His body folded for a split second, staggering before he locked his knees.
Ribs fine—but the force punched through muscle straight into his liver. Like a red-hot poker jammed inside. Nerves screamed. Stomach flipped. Nearly puked.
Tucker smelled blood. Shark mode.
He swarmed.
Left hook screamed in—Victor leaned back on instinct, fist grazing his cheek like sandpaper.
Right cross followed—he blocked, but the shock shoved him back.
Final uppercut from below—he twisted, glove scraping his chin, teeth rattling.
The arena detonated:
"FINISH HIM! TNT!"
Tucker's fans jumped up, fists pumping, ready for the KO.
But Victor's will? Unbreakable. Like bedrock in a tsunami.
He kept eyes forward, footwork smooth, pain be damned—and in that liver-shot hell, he still set up a counter.
Tucker kept swinging, wild and vicious.
But in a blink—one hundredth of a second—Victor unleashed a missile right hand, dead-on into Tucker's eyebrow.
CRACK!
Tucker stumbled back, legs wobbly. Blood trickled like a red snake down his face.
Shock flashed in his eyes—he never thought Victor could fire back that fast after eating a liver bomb.
Victor's breathing steadied, pain turning into cold rage pumping through his veins.
He pressed forward, peppering Tucker's nose and eyes with surgical combos.
Tucker's face swelled purple—but his punches still cracked like thunder.
A right hook clipped Victor's ear, ringing like a fire alarm.
But Victor smirked.
Tucker was getting frantic. Power still there, but accuracy slipping. That eyebrow cut bled into his eye, vision blurring drop by drop.
"I can eat ten of yours. Can you eat ten of mine?"