Seemingly Loss-Making Propaganda

Tyson stepped out of the media building, the heavy door creaking on its hinges as he pushed it open into the afternoon light. The sun hung low in the sky, casting elongated shadows across the pavement, and he could feel the heat of the day wrapping around him like a shroud. The rhythmic clanging of melee training drifted from the nearby gym, a constant thrum that pulled him toward familiarity. He made his way home through a neighborhood that had seen better days, past the faded brick buildings and overgrown weeds that lined the cracked sidewalks.

As he neared his driveway, he spotted Kus, bent over in concentration, meticulously trimming the lawn with a well-worn pair of garden shears. When he caught Tyson's approach, he straightened up, brushing sweat from his brow. "Mike! Where've you been?" he shouted, a half-smile breaking across his face. "I was at the training hall searching for you, but you were nowhere to be found."

Tyson leaned against the side of his car, shaking his head. "Just spent a few hours at the media building with Jimmy. We're trying to get a column up and running." A rush of pride surged in him as he said it—there was something exhilarating about creating something out of words, albeit terrifying to contemplate the ghosts of failed attempts that had haunted him in the past.

Kus set the shears aside and rubbed his hands together, a signal that business was about to get serious. "Brooklyn called. Might be a good idea to return the call, you know?"

Brooklyn? Tyson felt a tightness in his chest. May and her boyfriend had already made the leap to New York City, leaving him cocooned in memories of their childhood. Who in that tangled network of streets would be reaching out to him now? A nagging doubt crept into his mind, and he tried to shake it off as he dialed the number Kus had scribbled in the phone book with an almost frantic urgency.

The phone rang, and a slow panic built in him before he heard the familiar voice. "Yo, Mike, you good?"

The voice belonged to Bakim, a name steeped in memories of Brooklyn's gritty underbelly, where survival often meant making choices most men wouldn't dare. Tyson recalled watching Bakim navigate the chaos of their youth, a spark of audacity shining through the layers of bravado. He felt an uncomfortable nostalgia crash over him, flooding his thoughts with images of sweat, broken dreams, and resilience.

"Listen, I've got bad news," Bakim continued, a weight settling into his voice. "Bakim is gone."

Tyson felt a twist in his gut—a mix of sorrow and regret. Bakim had carved his place on the streets, stealing power from the very chaos that threatened to consume him. He'd killed the boss who had held sway over their lives, only to find death lurking behind the corners once more. A bitter truth gnarled within him: the streets did not forgive, and everyone seemed to pay the price eventually.

"Damn. I—I'll come to the funeral," Tyson finally said, knowing deep down it was the right thing to do.

The next morning, he awoke to a gray sky, heavy with the promise of rain. But he was used to the struggles of life in Brooklyn—it had taught him to persist despite the storm. As he made his way to the funeral, he felt the weight of a past he couldn't shake. Memories of laughter and gunshots played in tandem, each distance echoing his own choices, decisions that drew out the path he walked.

As he stepped into the funeral home, the atmosphere weighed heavily. Faces of strangers and old acquaintances melded together in silent grief. He spotted a few familiar ones; people who shared a history both grim and beautiful, bound by the threads of urban survival. Their eyes landed on him—some filled with understanding, some with suspicion—but the overarching tone was respect, a nod of recognition. Tyson had carved a path from the mean streets, a testament to the defiance he had built over time.

He approached the casket, the black wood gleaming starkly against the muted colors of the room. For a moment, his throat constricted as he took in the grave reality of mortality—a frightening reminder of the fragility of life. The silence stretched around him, punctuated only by soft weeping and the occasional voice murmur—a somber bittersweet symphony that lingered in the air as he contemplated the life cut short.

After paying his respects, Tyson drove back to the training hall with a heavy heart. His mind bubbled with thoughts that he couldn't shake. Despite it all, he had to keep moving forward.

Later that afternoon, Tyson focused on the rhythmic voice of perseverance. Jimmy greeted him at the gym with a newspaper template, his excitement palpable. "Mike, look—Joe really nailed your profile! You're front and center, half the damn newspaper! They've done it right, a full spread on you before your first big fight."

Tyson's face lit up with a sense of accomplishment. "He's got a gift, that guy. It really feels like we're onto something here."

Jimmy smirked, a twinkle in his eye. "We want to schedule another fight this month. Think you're ready for two in a row?"

"Arrange it," Tyson declared, his spirit igniting with the thrill of competition. "I'll take whatever they throw at me. I'm ready to fight like hell—even amateurs can't hold me back."

Days rolled on, the rhythm of training interspersed with preparations for the press. But soon enough, Jimmy and Bill returned to the training hall, their expressions a mask of agitation. Tyson paused mid-drill, sensing the shift in their energy as they waited for him to finish.

"The paper isn't selling well," Bill said, frustration seeping into his tone. "It's been a rough couple of days."

Tyson arched an eyebrow, his resolve hardening. "Well, that's expected. A newspaper on the brink of bankruptcy isn't exactly selling miracles—especially not about a kid with raw talent trying to crawl out of the gutter."

Bill hesitated but pushed on, "We only moved a couple thousand copies. The rest are just sitting there. What do we do?"

Tyson's mind raced with possibilities, each thought sharper than the last. "Stop worrying about losing money. Why don't we just give away the rest? Flood New York with my name. Everyone needs to know who I am—Mike Tyson, the beast in the ring!"

For a moment, the room fell silent as Tyson's idea hung in the air, hefty and daring. Jimmy and Bill exchanged glances, caught up in the whirl of Tyson's vision.

"Are you sure that's wise?" Jimmy asked, still grappling with lingering skepticism.

"Listen," Tyson continued, fire igniting in his voice, "what's the point of this paper? It's meant to get my name out there. It's a marketing play—nothing more and nothing less. The longer we let those papers sit, the less chance we'll have. Let's give them out for free, let people talk. Before long, we'll be in demand. People will want to read about Mike Tyson, the boy from Brooklyn who turned it all around."

Slowly, the enthusiasm in the room grew as Tyson painted his plan vividly, his fervor igniting ideas in Jimmy and Bill. Determination surged as Bill nodded finally. "Alright, no turning back now. I'll convince the higher-ups to let us distribute the excess copies for free."

"And about that fight?" Tyson prompted, excitement tinged with urgency. "What do you have for me?"

Jimmy's expression brightened, his eyes sparkling with possibility. "We've got your next fight set up—it's listed with ESPN."

Tyson jumped up, the weight of exhaustion instantly eclipsed by adrenaline. "Where's it going to be?"

"Atlantic City," Jimmy announced, his enthusiasm spilling into his grin. "It's a big event—lots of eyes are going to be on you."

Tyson's heart raced at the mention of Atlantic City, the bright lights flashing through his mind. Legal gambling, stunning resorts—there was palpable energy in that place, a perfect stage for someone hungry for recognition. "That's a prime spot! When do we leave?"

With that question, he felt the spark of potential ignite within him. The journey ahead seemed destined for greatness, and he was ready to face whatever challenges the world threw his way. Tyson's name was about to echo from the shadows of Brooklyn into the bright lights of the boxing arena, and he would fight for every ounce of recognition.

In a city that often forgot, Mike Tyson prepared to forge his legacy, a fierce warrior stepping into the world's spotlight, ready to become a name everyone would remember.