Round One, Two Punches

Edwin's voice was syrupy sweet as he greeted Mike Tyson, his fake intimacy all too evident. "Haha, welcome, dear Mike," he said, plastering a smile across his face like a cheap mask.

Tyson shrugged, attempting to brush off the veneer of warmth. "I won't play in your underwear," he retorted with a hint of playful menace, the corners of his lips twitching slightly.

Edwin's smile faltered momentarily. "Of course, no one would ever step into that ring clad in the underwear we produced," he replied, attempting to recover as he led Tyson and his entourage into the lounge.

Once Edwin had left the room, Bill, seated beside Tyson, leaned in with an analytical glint in his eyes. "This loss is on him. Thanks to Mike here, this little spectacle is an audience draw—seven hundred people, Bill! A game he sponsored is losing money faster than a sinking ship, and he's earned a few enemies in the process."

Bill was right; the thrill of conflict always ignited curiosity in the crowd.

As the three of them conversed, Tyson and Teddy began their warm-up routines, their movements fluid and fierce, muscles flexing under the harsh lights. Time sped by, and before they knew it, it was almost 8:15 PM. A voice called out to Tyson, signaling that it was time for him to step into the ring.

Tyson peeled off his gloves, shook his head to clear his thoughts, and strode toward the entrance with purpose. Jimmy and Teddy hurried after him, their hearts pounding in anticipation.

Stepping into the arena, Tyson was met with the raucous energy of the crowd. He could feel their eyes boring into him, pointing, whispering.

"Hey, look! That's the boxer who rolled up in a fancy car to the press conference yesterday."

"Yup, almost went toe-to-toe with that guy yesterday!"

"This is gonna be one hell of a fight!"

The undercard had lulled the crowd into boredom, and now, Tyson's presence electrified the space. People leaned forward, eager for the drama to unfold, their earlier ennui evaporated. They had all seen the confrontation on TV. A young black fighter stepping out of a Cadillac, squaring off against a behemoth of a white boxer—the tension had been ripe, a perfect setup for a clash of wills.

As Tyson made his way to the boxing edge, he felt the audience's excitement wash over him like a wave. The officials began checking his gloves and mouthguard, their solemn faces a stark contrast to the boisterous crowd.

When he finally stepped onto the ring, he raised his arms, turning to face the roaring crowd, which erupted into cheers.

Next came Mercedes. The audience's shouts swelled once more.

"Kill the black boy!"

"Trash—show him what supremacy looks like!"

"Don't just talk the talk, fight like a king!"

Mercedes strutted toward the ring like he owned the place, his presence commanding attention. About ten paces from Tyson, he halted, and their eyes locked. Without hesitation, he performed a slicing motion across his neck, provoking the crowd into a frenzy.

The officials frowned, motioning him closer for an examination. Ignoring the scrutiny, Mercedes waved to the audience, clearly reveling in their adoration. Once cleared, he entered the ring, standing inches from Tyson, their intensity radiating.

"I'm going to break your face, nigga," Mercedes snarled, venom lacing every word.

Tyson merely regarded him with piercing eyes, the daring chill sparking tension between them.

A referee entered to separate them, calling for calm as he introduced each fighter.

"Mike Tyson, known as 'The Beast'. He's 18 years old, 5 feet 10 inches tall, weighing in at 230 pounds with a flawless amateur record of six wins, zero losses."

"Hockto Mercedes, dubbed 'Detonation'. He's 23 years old, a towering 6 feet 4 inches tall, 245 pounds, boasting a professional record of nine wins, three losses, and one tie."

On paper, Tyson's amateur record sparkled, but Mercedes' experience from brutal professional bouts loomed like a long shadow. The difference hung in the air. A smirk crept across Mercedes' lips as he jabbed his chin mockingly in Tyson's direction.

Much drama, Tyson thought. He admired Mercedes' flair for theatrics but quickly brushed it aside, preparing for what was to come.

With the referee at the center, the two fighters stood toe-to-toe, faces hardened in a fierce gaze. The crowd's energy reached a crescendo, anticipation thick in the air.

The referee offered last warnings, yet the tension remained unyielding.

Finally, with a resigned sigh, he nodded for the fight to begin.

Mercedes lunged first, his fists coiled tight as he dashed forward, launching a straight punch aimed at Tyson's head. Tyson stood unyielding, effortlessly dodging to the side, swiftly swinging his glove back in a calculated motion.

The impact was palpable as Tyson's fist connected with Mercedes' cheek. The larger fighter stumbled back, eyes wide, but Tyson held his ground. He extended a gloved finger toward Mercedes, beckoning him to come forward for round two.

But Mercedes, undeterred, pushed back in, his confidence unabated as he threw a swinging punch, a wild arm aimed to overtake Tyson.

Tyson, however, leaned back and then surged forward, landing a devastating straight punch that connected with blinding speed. Mercedes' eyes glazed over as the world tilted sideways; he was sent crashing onto the mat, his senses leaving him as the arena erupted in chaotic cheers.

Tyson, unfazed, turned away as the referee slid into position, kneeling beside the fallen fighter. He began the count, each number echoing through the silence that briefly fell over the arena.

"Two… three…"

Mercedes remained motionless, unconscious, the referee's hand waving frantically to call off the fight.

The crowd erupted into roaring applause, the frenzy of excitement reaching a peak they hadn't felt all night.

"What's this guy's name? I need details!" someone shouted from the front row.

"Too damn quick!" another voice chimed in.

Medical personnel rushed in, tending to Mercedes, who lay sprawled across the mat. They turned him over gently, extracting the mouthguard, revealing the additional horror—a shattered incisor clattering to the canvas. Gasps rippled through the crowd, a palpable awe washing over every spectator.

"My God, he actually lost a tooth!"

"Did you see that? He knocked it clean out!"

Curiosity morphed into sheer amazement as Teddy and Jimmy burst through the crowd, their excitement palpable. The referee raised Tyson's hand high, declaring him the victor.

Still, Mercedes did not stir from the canvas.

With a flourish, Tyson seized the microphone from the announcer's hand, maneuvered himself close to the fallen boxer, and gently cradled his head. Leaning in, he planted a soft kiss on his forehead.

"God bless you, poor child," he said, a mocking compassion lacing his voice, drawing another wave of cheers from the crowd.

Without a backward glance, Tyson handed the microphone back and stepped away, leaving the arena saturated in his raw, chaotic energy. He had fought, and for one electrifying round of glory, he was king.