Warning: (L) Language

 This is a double-dipper story.
 Let's do the Cook story first.

 It must've been around 1986.
 There was a hueueueuge country bar in the same parking lot called "Tulsa City Limits."
 This place held thousands of people, and this night, instead of country music,
 they had a professional boxing match or a boxing exhibition or something, I forget.

 I don't know why, maybe they can't sell hard liquor at boxing matches in K-Drag,
 so after the fight, a bunch of people came over to my bar for a real drink.
 One of those people was Dale Apollo Cook.

  Sidebar:
 If you don't know who he is, he's the real deal.
 He was the kickboxing champion of the world for a decade or more.
 There's a chance he retired undefeated.  You know him, right?
 He lives in K-Drag, has a gym a couple of miles from BartCop Manor.

 He was on the radio this morning, and that evil Michael Del Giorno was praising him
 for beating up some marine in some title match when Cook had both of his arms broken
 and a broken hand, but still he wailed on this marine and won the match.

 So there's Dale Apollo Cook, sitting in my bar - with a babe.
 I'm not talking about a babe babe, but a baby - his.
 Being the owner, and the name on the liquor license...

  Sidebar:
 Actually, the bar was owned by the Red Zeppelin Corporation.
 I was the Chairman and President and chief tax resistor.

 In K-Drag, it's a major Class-A  felony of a lifetime to have an underage person in a bar.
 So Dale is sitting there, drinking a Coke, bouncing his baby on his knee and I said to him.

 "Hi, Dale, big fan, but your baby is illegal and I could be arrested if a cop comes in."

 Dale wasn't happy about this, but he wasn't a jerk or anything.
 He said, "I'm just having a Coke, can't I just sit here and just drink a Coke?"

 I said I wished that he could, and if it was up to me he certainly could,
 but I didn't want to get arrested and/or lose my license and my business
 for this MAJOR felony of allowing a minor in a bar, so I insisted.

 He got a little more peeved, and said, "You know if you throw me out,
 I'll take all of these people with me - these people are all with me,"
 which I knew to be true because we never had a Sunday crowd at the Hard Rock Island.

 I told him I had no choice, and he "offered" a compromise.
 He said, "When I finish this Coke, I'll leave."

 That was good enough for me.
 Like, what, ...I'm going to toss him out of my bar?
 I figured if a cop came and and threw a fit, I'd explain in court that I asked Cook to leave,
 and then put on "Exhibit A," which would be a 30-second tape of him beating up some karate/boxing champ
 in one of his movies and let the jury decide how much force I was supposed to use.

 Soon, he finished his drink and left, and the entourage slowly dwindled to nothing
 and I was back to an empty bar - all because I was an idiot law observer.

 But that's not the good story.

 The night before, (and I kick myself that I can't remember his name)
 a REAL boxer was in town for the fight and stopped in the Hard Rock Island.
 By REAL boxer, I mean it was someone who lost a title fight to Muhammed Ali.

  Sidebar:
 It was someone like Trevor Burbick, or Lyle somebody, I forget.
 It wasn't Liston or Foreman or Frazier, but a REAL boxer, nonetheless.
 It was somebody I knew on sight, and it was really him, whoever it was.

 Also, we had a packed house because it was a Saturday.
 So I went over to him, and said, "Hey, Champ!"  (It never hurts to show respect)
 "This is my place, and I'd like to buy you a drink."

 He replied, "I'm in training, so I can't drink, but why don't you give my drink
 to that lady in the pink sweater.  Maybe you could introduce us."

 I turned to see who he meant, and it was a coke whore, who was semi-attractive
 if you're into really hard-looking women with too much makeup and enormous breasts.
 So, I'm stuck.

 I mix the drink, and I tapped the coke whore on the shoulder.
 She turns around and sees that it's me (everybody knows the owner) and I give her the drink
 and tell her it was sent over from that world-famous boxer standing by the jukebox.

 She had that confused look on her face, so I repeated,
 "He's a world-famous boxer, he once fought Muhammed Ali," then it registered with her.
 She looked at me and then looked at him and then looked at me and said,

 "Tell him I don't fuck niggers."

 <choke>

 I, ... I, ... I, ...

 <cough>

 I was sooooo out of words at that point.

 I had never been in this position before.
 The boxer (damn my bad memory) was standing about 15-20 feet away, and the club
 was noisy so I'm certain he didn't hear what she said, and I'm not that good at thinking
 on my feet when my life is NOT in danger.

 Before I have a chance to react, she stands, up, pushes past me and starts walking towards him.
 All I could think of was that Joe, my faithful doorman, friend and bouncer, was about to be dragged
 into a real mess with a man who could tear him in half as easy as Joe could tear me in half.

 Options were running thru my small brain, and time was running out.  I couldn't even get to Joe
 to warn him before the coke whore got to the professional heavyweight boxer, so I just froze.

 So the coke whore got to the boxer and they started talking.
 I didn't see any hostilities, and by then, Joe had placed himself in a position
 with good strategery so he could make some kind of move if he had to.

 Minutes tick by...

 Then it dawned on me:
 I'll be damned.

 Cocaine trumps racism.

 She apparently had a great dislike for black people, but she loooooved that cocaine.
 I think the "world-famous" comment was ringing in her head, and she figured he might have
 some Peruvian marching powder for her, so she dropped her precious racism to try to get inside.

 Bottom line?

 Nothing happened.

 I guess he told her he didn't have anything, and I'm guessing she said,
 "Thanks for the drink," and she went back to her table.

 I started breathing again.
 Joe wiped some sweat from his brow, and I had a drink.

  Sidebar:
 If I could find a damn list of Ali oppoinents, I could probably tell you who this guy was.
 It wasn't Spinks, wasn't Norton, and I've been scouring boxing pages, hoping someone
 would have a list of Ali opponents, but nooooooooooooooooooo.

 So - that's the double-dipper boxong story from the Hard Rock Island.

 ...and that's a true story, Kay, every word.
 

 There are hundreds of old stories from the bar, but, ...who has the time?

 Possible: It could've been Michael Dokes, who fought Ali once in an exhibition fight,
 but that doesn't sound completely right, either.  But damn, ...who was that boxer?