"Larry, back off. I got this,"
Zhao Dong stepped back, putting a hand out to stop Larry Johnson from charging in to help.
"Man, you always try to go solo!"
Larry Johnson shook his head, clearly itching for a fight. "You never let me in on the action. I barely got mine against MJ last time."
Bang!
A Heat bench big man clocked Zhao Dong right in the face.
Aight. Time to clap back.
Zhao Dong didn't even flinch at the other two clowns swinging on him. He locked onto the dude that hit him, grabbed his jersey, and surged forward.
He powered up with that insane 100-rated core strength, blasting into the guy like a freight train with his head and midsection. Stronger than his upper body, way more brutal.
Boom!
The dude let out a nasty groan as blood exploded across his face.
Bzzz!
It was like a giant bell rang inside his skull. Dude looked like his brain just turned into mashed potatoes. Stars swirled around his head as he fell back—
—but Zhao Dong wasn't done.
Bang! Bang!
Two more vicious headbutts.
By the third one, dude's face was soaked in blood, head lolled to one side, totally KO'd. The only thing keeping him on his feet was Zhao Dong still holding his jersey.
The other two Heat benchwarmers froze, jaws dropped.
Same with the media, the refs, the commentators—everybody in Madison Square Garden was straight-up stunned.
Yeah, fights happened in the league sometimes. But nobody had ever seen a dude use headbutts to nearly kill somebody on live TV. That was savage.
Smack!
Zhao Dong let the unconscious guy go, letting him flop to the ground, then turned his icy stare toward the other two.
They freaked out like they were being hunted, stumbling backward in pure fear.
"Zhao Dong! Yo, calm down, calm down!"
The refs rushed in, one of them waving his arms, trying to block him off.
Crash!
Back at home, David Stern dropped his wine glass.
MSG's ratings had been fire all night, already pulling in 30 million at the tip-off. He was feeling great—had even poured himself a drink.
Now? That mood got wrecked real quick.
"Pat Riley, what the hell are you doing?!"
Stern snapped. No doubt the Heat instigated that whole thing. The Knicks had the upper hand—they weren't gonna pull shady moves like that.
Back on the court, the dude Zhao Dong smashed got stretchered off.
Zhao Dong walked off too, heading to the bench to get checked out by the team doc.
Lindsay crouched beside him, looking worried.
"Babe, can we not use your head next time? Throw hands, use your elbows or knees—just don't use your skull! What if you get hurt?"
"It's all good, Eve. Your man's built different."
Zhao Dong flashed a grin.
Lindsay rolled her eyes. "Built different" was right. After three savage headbutts, he was perfectly fine. Not even a scratch.
Meanwhile, the ref crew came to a decision.
Heat got smacked with four flagrant 2s—three for jumping Zhao Dong, and one more for clocking Fordson.
On the Knicks' side, Fordson also got hit with a flagrant 2 and got tossed.
Zhao Dong? No penalty. Refs ruled he didn't commit a foul.
Pat Riley was shook. Bro just traded four of his bench guys for one Fordson. He had nobody left.
"You serious right now? My guy nearly died out there! And y'all just let him walk? Just 'cause he's some big shot?"
Riley screamed at the refs.
"He didn't do anything," one ref shot back coldly.
"He—"
Riley choked on his rage.
Headbutts don't count as assault?! Man was about to lose his mind.
"Coach, you better cool off before I toss you too," the ref warned.
"Go ahead and try me," Riley snapped.
Say less. The ref threw up the T, then pointed straight to the exit.
"…"
Riley stood there, frozen.
"Ha ha…"
Knicks fans erupted in laughter.
Clap clap clap…
Zhao Dong walked by clapping slowly, hyping up the crowd. The Garden went nuts with applause.
"Mr. Riley," Zhao Dong said, voice cold, "what's the point of all these dirty tricks? Even if y'all won today, I wouldn't let it slide."
He leaned in close, whispering into Riley's ear:
"If you try and take me out like this… I'll handle Mourning. I'll handle that kid too. I'll make sure you're finished. Maybe even you personally."
"You—"
Pat Riley's face twisted, eyes flashing with real fear.
He'd never been straight-up threatened by a player like this before. This dude was serious.
"Beat me fair, like the Bulls. That's your only way," Zhao Dong said, ice in his tone as he turned and walked back on the court.
Snort!
Riley was humiliated. Getting pressed by a Chinese dude like that? Nah. He stormed off the bench, furious.
The Heat were down four bench guys and their starting center Luke Longley. Their starters couldn't hang with the Knicks. Just like Game 1, they got crushed from start to finish.
Zhao Dong was heated and went off, dropping 50+ points, carrying the squad to two straight wins and putting them up in the series.
After the game, he gave a courtside interview.
"Yo, Zhao Dong, you were wildin' out there tonight! But I gotta ask—why'd you headbutt him instead of swingin' like usual?"
Team reporter Thomas asked, laughing.
"You should try it sometime, it's got a different kind of vibe," Zhao Dong smirked.
"Haha..." A bunch of reporters cracked up.
"Zhao Dong, if you were leading the Bulls and ran into those Bad Boy Pistons back in the day, how would you handle it?" a Chicago reporter threw out a curveball.
Zhao Dong paused, then said, "I ain't Jordan. But if it were me? I'd go right at 'em. If they wanna see blood, I'll give 'em blood—more than they expect."
The Chicago reporter looked conflicted.
Jordan was a legend, no doubt. Even with the Pistons playing dirty, he kept attacking the paint over and over and still built a dynasty. That Bulls squad had championship swagger—but they never really had that raw edge. Even when they got hacked up and bled, none of them stepped to the Pistons. Kinda left fans feelin' some type of way.
"Yo, Danny! You catch that game?" Zhao Dong called out to Fordson as he got back to the locker room.
"That was fire, boss! Fire!" Fordson shouted, hyped up.
"Zhao Dong, you not worried about gettin' fined or suspended?" Hu Weidong asked, a little concerned.
Zhao Dong just chuckled. "Man, they started it. I just clapped back—self-defense. First off, I gave the league a clean excuse. Second, if they care about ratings, they'll let it ride. I made it easy for them."
Hu Weidong laughed. "You played the Heat, huh? Now they really hate us."
"If they can't beat us, they resort to that dirty stuff. You scared?" Zhao Dong said, shaking his head.
"Zhao Dong, the Jazz just won," assistant coach Thibodeau came in with the update.
"Series tied up? Heh... that punk Karl Malone better be ready. I got a little treat waiting for him next," Zhao Dong said with a sneer.
"Yo, boss, what's the treat?" Everyone perked up.
"You'll see soon enough. Let me keep that one under wraps for now," he grinned.
---
"I'm gonna file a complaint to the league! That was straight-up assault and didn't even get called. What is the league thinking?"
"The NBA has to drop some fines on the Knicks. That was crazy!"
An hour later, Pat Riley was still venting during the Heat's press conference.
"Man, look at him trying to work the league," someone said.
"Nah, he's just tryna protect his players, avoid suspensions," another chimed in.
"Could be... but it ain't gonna change anything."
Outside the press room, Ernie Grunfeld was chatting it up casually with Thibodeau.
That night, the clips of the brawl at Madison Square Garden blew up across the country and even overseas.
"Golden Tyrant headbutts back, Heat's trap fails, iron-blooded Heat coach ejected, and the gritty Knicks are one step away from the Eastern Conference Finals!"
The New York Times dropped a full breakdown of the chaos the next morning.
"The league should penalize the Heat for their shady tactics. This ain't their first time trying this mess—sending in benchwarmers just to take down Zhao Dong. And they almost pulled it off..."
Knicks superfan Spike Lee clapped back at Miami in the media, going in on their dirty schemes.
---
"Sorry, Mr. Dawson, I'm gonna explore some other options."
"This is a shock, Charles. You're really not interested anymore? Houston's perfect for you. We're gonna make serious moves in the offseason."
"Nah, I'm good. I just want to see what else is out there."
"Well... good luck then."
Barkley hung up and collapsed onto the couch, clearly frustrated.
"Charles, maybe you should take a break. Go on vacation," his wife Maureen said.
"They're chasing rings, and I'm gonna go on vacation?"
Barkley shook his head. "Nah, I ain't got too many seasons left in me. I'll rest when I retire."
"So what do you want, then? A ring? You know that takes luck, right? It's not like you ain't put in work."
"Yeah, luck. Look at the Knicks. They scored Zhao Dong for free. The Bulls didn't even want him. Jordan ain't even had that kind of luck. Dude was fishing in New York last year, ran into Zhao Dong, and almost got stomped out. Had to apologize and everything," Barkley said.
"Then why not hit up the Knicks? Don't they need players?"
"They need scorers. Besides Zhao Dong, Alan Houston, Larry Johnson, and John Starks are averaging 15 a night. That Chinese kid Hu is putting up 10. The rest? Barely hitting single digits," Barkley replied.
"You know a lot about the Knicks, huh? Look at you, scouting already," Maureen teased.
"Haha..." Barkley laughed awkwardly.
"Call Zhao Dong. Y'all made up, right? Didn't you get his number when y'all got drinks last year?" Maureen asked.
"Yeah, I got it. But man, that dude's cocky. Last time we were drinkin', he clowned me for kissing up to other stars. If I call him, he's gonna roast me," Barkley said, looking a little embarrassed.
"Still... you gotta try. You never know," Maureen nudged.
"I'll think about it."
"His wife's from high society, right? Isn't she some European noble or somethin'? There's no way he'd have a legal team that stacked without some crazy connections," Maureen added.
"Man, I bet Karl Malone's sweatin' right now," Barkley said with a grin. "If a whole squad of high-powered lawyers come at him, he's toast."
"I honestly don't think it's that bad to be cool with them," Maureen sighed. "At least they ain't racist."
Barkley froze up for a second, sighing in his heart.
Racism? It's everywhere. White folks throw shade at Black folks, Black folks throw it back at white folks… then both team up to hate on Asians.
He married Maureen, a white woman, and some of his boys' wives—Black women—straight-up disrespected her face-to-face. That kinda stuff cut deep for her.
Later that afternoon, the league dropped some serious heat over last night's on-court chaos.
Danny Fortson got slapped with another game suspension and a $100K fine for the Knicks.
As for the Heat, all four of their bench dudes got suspended one game each and hit with $100K fines too.
Coach Pat Riley? He got tossed an extra game and fined $200K.
Yeah, Stern was clearly fed up with Miami and Riley's antics.
"The Heat are done," one commentator said. "The league's gonna keep a microscope on them. They ain't built like the Knicks. This time, they lost the squad and the respect. With New York riding this high, they might just sweep Miami in the next two games."
At 3PM that same day, Zhao Dong's legal crew officially filed a massive complaint at Long Island District Court. The target? Manley, Karl Malone's agent—accused of racial discrimination, defamation, and more. Eight major charges. Over 200 pages deep.
Speaking as their stand-in rep, the legal team's spokesperson told the media:
"Besides our main complaint, we've got evidence that both Manley and Karl Malone evaded taxes. We've already reported this to Salt Lake City's Local Tax Bureau.
We also have material that suggests Mr. Malone engaged in inappropriate contact with minors. If necessary, we'll hand that to the proper authorities."
"We got proof…"
"I ain't never touched no underage girl! This is straight-up slander!" Malone was losing it, screaming into the phone. "You're the one that messed up the taxes too! I didn't even know about it! Call Adi now! Do it now!"
Back in Salt Lake, Karl Malone was melting down on the phone with his agent.
"Nah man, the Jazz season's over, Karl's done, and Manley's cooked. Even if Zhao Dong's people don't have solid proof, it's over once a bunch of elite lawyers get on you."
At Nike HQ, Phil Knight cut off the TV, leaned back in his leather chair, and started thinking hard.
Didn't matter if you were a Hall-of-Famer or a global pop icon like MJ. If a media firestorm like this hit you, even false claims could push you over the edge—mentally, emotionally, everything.
Phil could see it clear as day: Zhao Dong's squad wasn't playing around. They were flexing, sending a message to Nike and Adidas both—don't mess with us.
"What if they go after Jordan next? Or even us?" he muttered.
It was possible. Hell, it might already be happening behind the scenes. With the kind of strings Zhao Dong's crew could pull, things could get real ugly real fast.
Big brands like Nike and Adidas? Ain't nobody squeaky clean when you get that big.
When this kind of heat comes down, there's really only one move: throw money at it.
Ding ding…
His phone rang.
"Phil Knight speaking."
"Phil, it's Herbert Hainer. Manley just sent word—if we don't help him deal with Zhao Dong's legal crew, he's gonna go nuclear and leak everything he's got before 6PM."
Phil frowned, his mind racing. "If we cave now, we're basically admitting defeat. Zhao Dong Sports is gonna be a real threat. And with how the Silver Demon shoes are performing, we're already losing serious market share."
"You got any better ideas?" Hainer said. "If not, maybe it's time to talk to Zhao Dong's people. Otherwise, this thing's gonna blow up and hurt us worse."
Phil went quiet.
Nike and Adidas had already been beefin' over how to deal with Zhao Dong Sports. Nike knew Adidas wouldn't throw hands to the bitter end. Adidas didn't need the North American market like Nike did—they were big in Europe.
So Adidas was about to back off. That left Nike all alone in this.
"Fine," Phil finally said, frustrated.
Without Adidas backing them, Nike had no real shot at burying Zhao Dong.
If this dragged out in court for years, Nike's stock price might never bounce back.
By 5PM, back in Salt Lake City, Karl Malone walked into the arena lookin' like he hadn't slept in days.
"Damn…" Jerry Sloan saw him and let out a long breath.
Stockton felt the same. If Malone was this wrecked, how the hell were they supposed to win? The Jazz were cooked.
"Coach Sloan, the cops are here. They say they're takin' Malone in," a panicked staffer said, running into the gym.
"What?!" Sloan stood up, fuming. "Do they even have evidence?"
"Sorry, we're just takin' him in for questioning," one of the two cops said, both of them lookin' like lifelong Jazz fans. "We don't have a choice."
"I didn't do anything! This is BS! Slander!" Malone barked at them.
"Mailman, the public's goin' crazy. Some local politicians already made public statements. Even the mayor's ordering an investigation," one cop explained.
"Don't sweat it—it's just for questioning. You'll still make the game tonight," the other said, trying to calm him down.
Just then, another staffer came in, right behind him was a dude in a slick gray suit.
He looked Malone dead in the eye. "Mr. Malone, I'm with the Salt Lake City Tax Bureau."
"I didn't dodge no taxes! This is all Zhao Dong's doing! He's framing me!" Malone exploded. "Manley was handling all my money. It was him! Go get that snake, not me!"
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