No Free Rides Here

Tyson sized up Alfred, who stood across from him in the ring. Clad in protective gear, he looked like a force to be reckoned with, the kind of heavyweight you didn't want to underestimate. If you were to measure by a physique alone, Tyson appeared to be the stronger of the two.

"Match starts at eight oh five, three minutes to go," Anthony called out, glancing at the wall clock as the seconds ticked down.

Tyson shrugged casually in response, unfazed by the impending contest.

Seeing Tyson's laid-back attitude, Anthony's lips curled into a smug grin. Alfred wasn't just any fighter; he was the pride of their gym, an accomplished boxer with accolades to match. With a stellar record and fights under his belt, he had already risen rapidly through the rankings, near the pinnacle of the sport. It might not be an exaggeration to say that he possessed raw talent that few could rival.

Watching Tyson, he thought it was amusing how he didn't seem to take Alfred seriously, as if this was merely a chance to throw around some quick cash for fun. Anthony almost felt bad for Alfred; it seemed like Tyson was just handing out money along with a free lesson in humility.

As the seconds scurried past, Anthony's anticipation grew, picturing the cash in his pocket. When the second hand of the clock finally hit twelve, he bellowed, "Fight!"

Tyson's reaction was immediate, almost instinctual, as he darted forward. The movement came so suddenly that Alfred barely registered anything before feeling the piercing sting of Tyson's punch striking his chin.

The force of the blow sent him spiraling backward to the canvas. Though he wore protective headgear, the impact whacked his senses. Alfred fell flat on his back, the world above him spinning like a carnival ride gone awry. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he made a desperate attempt to claw off the headgear just in time to avoid choking on his own embarrassment.

His breakfast—inviting, colorful pancakes from this morning—came rushing back as he began to retch uncontrollably.

"Dude, come on!" Oliver cried out, grimacing as he watched the scene unfold, while Teddy turned away, both men repulsed by the spectacle.

Tyson simply shook his head in mild disdain as he glanced back at Alfred, who was still writhing in a state of shock and effort. "Now that is just nasty," he quipped, maintaining an air of amusement.

Anthony, stunned, stared in disbelief. Ready with a chilled soda, he had been expecting a thrilling three-minute performance. He might've even imagined some sort of competition or showmanship, not this swift annihilation! With Alfred losing his lunch all over the canvas, Anthony's soda flew from his mouth like an errant fountain, nearly spraying Luke, who was nearby.

This was certainly not how he had envisionned the match going. It felt like a bad comedy skit.

"Come on! That's our fighter!" Anthony protested, lunging toward Alfred. "Somebody help him!"

However, when he got closer, the unbearable odor was overpowering. Anthony held his breath and began hauling Alfred away from the chaos, wrinkling his nose. "Luke! Get over here and clean this up!"

Luke rolled his eyes, letting out a frustrated, "No way! That's not happening. You want me to help with that? Not my mess!" He stormed off, leaving Anthony to deal with the aftermath alone.

Anthony grumbled under his breath, realizing he'd have to man up and take care of it himself. "Some friend he is," he muttered, hastily wiping at the spilled contents of Alfred's stomach with a towel.

Once the mess was finally cleared, Tyson couldn't help but tease. "You know the odds still stand—cash on the line, right?"

Anthony was fighting a losing battle against the rising bile in his throat. "You, Tyson, are a coward! Sneak attacks are for amateurs. This is ridiculous!"

The twins of frustration and embarrassment gnawed at him; ten grand was on the line! He glared at Tyson, who was twirling the bet slip in his fingers, seemingly reveling in winning through a cheap shot.

The image of Alfred—his fighter—still dizzy and trying to recover sent Anthony's blood boiling. This wasn't just a loss; it was a personal affront.

"Dude, we all know the rules! A sucker punch is still a punch—but this was low!"

Tyson merely waved his hand dismissively. "Aw, come on. Nobody counts surprises in this game. You just gotta roll with the punches, my friend."

Anthony was seething, reckoning how to reclaim his dignity. "Fine! You want to play dirty? I've got another wager for you!"

With a renewed glimmer of interest, Tyson leaned in, raising an eyebrow. "Lay it on me."

"Five grand!" Anthony said, holding up five fingers, daring Tyson's skepticism.

Tyson looked the other man over, struggling to swallow the idea that Anthony could pull off the wager. "You sure you could do that?"

"Absolutely, let's take this to twenty-five! I'll sign on as your fighter, and I'll make the money back in spades. No question!"

Tyson smirked, this time impressed with Anthony's tenacity. It was a bold move, one that echoed the American spirit of hustling for success, no matter the odds. "Alright, let's see what you've got," Tyson relented, signing off on the new deal.

As they prepared once more to enter the ring, Tyson made a point to stand clear of where Alfred's mess had happened. He wasn't keen on reliving that kind of chaos, no matter the stakes.

When the timekeeper yelled, "Fight!" Tyson beckoned with an exaggerated wave.

"Let's see you try!"

With newfound confidence bolstered by the protective gear, Anthony charged in and launched a series of jabs, fueled by adrenaline. Tyson shifted back, avoiding Anthony's strikes with ease, like he was dancing through a field, weaving skillfully out of danger.

With every punch that flew past him, Anthony felt the frustration grow; the more he swung, the more it seemed Tyson was just playing with him. "Come on! I can't be missing this bad!" he shouted, gritting his teeth.

"Try again, champ!" Tyson taunted, teasing Anthony as he backed away.

And then it happened—Anthony's emotions got the best of him. Blinded by frustration, he surged forward with a barrage of blows, throwing everything he had, but Tyson didn't break a sweat.

"Is that all you got?" Tyson laughed, effortlessly evading. Suddenly unimpressed, he decided it was time for his own response.

With expert timing, Tyson retaliated with a powerful hook to the ribs, swiftly following it up with a brutal uppercut that caught Anthony squarely on the chin.

The effect was instantaneous: Anthony's body went slack, while the crowd gasped in awe. Silence fell over the room, a hush amidst the chaos as he crumpled to the floor like a rag doll.

Tyson donning an air of satisfaction, simply unwrapped his gloves. "Hey, someone better start a recovery plan for your buddy over there!"

Oliver and Teddy raced to Anthony's side, diligently lifting him off the ground, checking his vitals, and making sure he wouldn't choke. They scrambled to make sure he was alright.

After a couple of tense moments, filled with worry, Anthony awoke, disoriented, eyes darting with confusion. It was the aftereffect of the punch mixed with a bout of temporary amnesia.

Tyson leaned in, grinning. "You owe me $5,000 now. Just consider it a lesson learned. No free rides in this game!"

As Tyson strode away, heading back to his training crew, he left Anthony fighting both his pride and the debt ahead. In the world of boxing, every win had its cost, but in this round, Tyson had undoubtedly come out on top with both style and swagger.