The press conference was a spectacle. The room they held the event in was easily big enough for a thousand people. The place was packed. They had us situated up on a stage sitting behind a long table. I was on one end and Simmons was on the other. In between us were a couple of my people, the promoter, and a few members of his management team whose names I couldn’t remember. Behind us was a small army of security guards in case things got heated.

I stared out at the crowd. The first few rows were filled with members of the press. They held their phones up in the air like little robots, all so they could capture the perfect quote for the articles they’d no doubt be writing later.

Every other spectator was either a friend or family member of Simmons or a fan of mixed martial arts. Damn near every one of them was waving to get my attention.

“Okay, gentlemen,” said the wormy bald-headed promoter. I didn’t even like the feeling of his name rattling around in my brain. “We’re ready to get started. As you all know on my right is our champion, Mr. Eric Simmons!”

The crowd put up a weak applause. Simmons waved like he’d just been crowned prom queen.

“And on my right is the challenger in this fight… Mr. Luke Greer!”

The crowd blew up with cheers. It wasn’t often a challenger outpaced a champ in popularity but I had gained somewhat of a cult following for my no bullshit approach to things.

I didn’t respond to questions with the same stock answers that most athletes gave. I said what was on my mind.

People were used to hearing guys say things like ‘I gave one hundred and ten percent’ or ‘First I’d like to thank God for the opportunity…”

Blah, blah, blah. That was all bullshit that’s been said millions of times.

I speak the truth.

When someone asks me about my training, I’ll tell them straight up how it’s going. If they ask me about my opponent, I’ll let them know I’m going in there to kill or be killed and I couldn’t give less of a shit about what anybody thinks.

I wanted people to know that this carried more weight than your typical sport. This was about two men getting in a cage to fight until only one was left standing. You’re not supposed to like your opponent. You’re supposed to destroy them. Knock out or submission. You leave a winner, or you leave broken.

“At this point, we’ll go ahead and take some questions. Afterwards, there’ll be plenty of time to get photographs of the guys…”

The dickhead promoter was running his mouth again.

There was a small commotion amongst the press guys and then one was able to speak up above his peers.

“First question is for Simmons. Hey Champ, how do you feel about your opponent’s ability to generate interest in this fight? You’ve been in a lot of title bouts and this one is by far going to bring you your biggest pay day. And most people say that’s due to the drawing power of Luke Greer.”

Simmons fumbled with his microphone stand like it was his first time doing one of these things. When he finally did speak, he was about as eloquent and charismatic as a bullfrog.

“Well, uh, yeah. Luke Greer is an exciting young fighter and, ya know, but I’m the champion and my experience is what I think is going to win this fight for me. I’m the much more experienced fighter.”

He didn’t even answer the fucking question.

The journalist nodded, expecting more but not getting it. He turned his attention to me.

“Alright. Luke, I want to ask you the same thing. What do you think about your ability to hype up a fight? Why do think people always come out in droves to see you?”

I decided to give him what he was looking for. I pulled the mic to my chin and gave the crowd a sneer. They ate it up.

“I’ll tell you why they come out to see me… It’s because I’m the baddest motherfucker doin’ this.”

Another round of cheers and screams exploded from the crowd.

“Fuck Simmons’ belt,” I yelled into the mic. “I’m the people’s champ!”

I had damn near whipped the place into a frenzy.

“And in less than a month I’m gonna put this dude right on his ass just like the rest of them.”

I jumped up from my seat and flexed for the crowd. They knew my personality and that made my over-the-top pro wrestler shtick that much funnier.

Simmons yelled some gibberish across the table at me so I charged him. Security was on top of their game and they jumped in to separate us. I knew we wouldn’t fight there but the scene would be replayed on all the sports shows and it’d be good for driving up interest. Instead of throwing a punch, I threw up the double middle fingers and that seemed to delight the throngs of people even more.

Simmons had a look on his face like he’d been locked in room with a crazy person. And who knows? Maybe he had been.

The rest of the event played out in similar fashion. I’d say something funny or insulting and he’d stutter for a second then come back with some generic response. An hour and a half later and it was done.

Simmons was hustled away to lick his wounds while I stayed and chatted with the fans. I wanted nothing more than to get back to that hotel room to see my girl but I knew I would have my time.

I signed every last t-shirt and magazine cover in that place. Every fan who wanted a piece of me got it in one way or another. Whether it was a picture or an autograph, or even a phone call to someone’s brother or kid, I did it. These were the people who ultimately paid my fees so it was good business to hang out and make them happy.

It didn’t even bother me that Simmons didn’t stick around to do his part. I’d sell the fight and make it the biggest sports event of the year. It wasn’t an issue. I’d be bigger than him soon. I’d be bigger than all of them.