Disaster Master

Tyson bent down, his attention drawn to the crowd of enthusiastic fans who had gathered to cheer him on. With a grateful smile and a quick wave, he expressed his appreciation before stepping onto the scales.

As expected, the number was just right—perfect.

Not long after, Henry Becky stepped into the spotlight, prompting an immediate roar from the local supporters.

With a confident nod to the cheering crowd, Henry strolled past the scales, easily making weight.

Tyson stood ready, anticipating Henry's arrival. As Henry walked confidently towards the center with a few strides, he turned slightly away without giving Tyson a glance, completely dismissing him.

Standing at a commanding 6 feet 1 inch, Henry had a well-defined muscular physique and a chiseled face that radiated a certain coldness, flaunting an unapologetic arrogance. With twelve consecutive victories behind him, it was no surprise he carried himself that way.

Tyson shook his head and stuck out his tongue towards Henry, joking to the fans gathered below, "Who does this guy think he is? He looks like he came here for a photo shoot instead of a fight!"

The crowd from Brooklyn erupted into laughter, appreciating Tyson's playful attitude.

In stark contrast, the Albany locals shot glaring daggers at him for daring to mock their favorite fighter.

Henry, catching their eyes, turned with a narrowed gaze toward Tyson. "You better watch your mouth, kid. Jokes like that could come back to haunt you."

Henry's nickname, 'Master of Disaster,' echoed through the arena.

Tyson couldn't help but admire the flair of that title—there was something catchy about it.

In his heart, Tyson believed in never holding back; whether it was fists or words, he was all in.

Leaning into the mic, he continued, "So, you're the Master of Disaster? Well, I think I'll go by 'The Hotdog Specialist.' Just last week, I turned this guy Logan into a pizza—what do you think about that? I'm always ready to lend a hand! I'm just a warm-hearted guy, you know? Mike the Good Guy is here to help!"

The audience began to rally around Tyson's charm, coming alive with encouragement.

"Good Guy Mike! That's a perfect name for him!"

"He's truly a good man—no one can contest that!"

"Yeah, Tyson, we're your biggest fans!"

The host of the event, struggling to regain control of the microphone, finally caught Tyson's eye. "So, Mike Tyson, what do you think of Albany and your opponent?"

Tyson thought briefly and replied, "This is a great city. The people are fired up; they're all eager to see me go toe-to-toe with their fighter. They really dig what I bring to the ring!"

Tyson's gaze turned back to Henry as he smirked, "And Henry here is a cute guy. I really like him—so much that I'm thinking of giving him a 'hotdog face' right after I knock him out! I hear he's a fan of hotdogs, right?"

The host turned back to Henry. "Henry Becky, what's your plan for this fight?"

With confidence, Henry held the microphone, looking straight at Tyson as he spoke emphatically, "This is going to be a disaster—a total disaster for you!"

Tyson shrugged, appearing unfazed, and mockingly gestured as if he were surprised by the claim.

The atmosphere in the arena was electric, with enthusiastic cheers and laughter rippling through the crowd.

The host attempted to steer the conversation back on track, but Tyson, eager to keep the momentum going, grabbed the microphone once more.

"Hey, how about we make a prediction?!" Tyson exclaimed, pointing enthusiastically at the audience. "I'm telling you right now, this fight is going to end in just one round. When Henry is down, staring up at the lights like a lost puppy, you all are going to feel devastated!"

Just as Tyson was ready to hand the microphone back, he pulled it back with a grin. "I love how you all are looking at me, but you know what? Nothing's changing; I'm going to own this night!"

With that, Tyson strolled off the stage with his team, taking long strides that radiated confidence and leaving the audience buzzing with excitement.

Henry, watching Tyson exit, felt his eyes narrow in determination.

That was quite the spectacle.

Tyson's sudden departure left a stamp on the weigh-in—an undeniable high point.

The host, attempting to regain composure, continued with a few more questions to wrap things up.

Later, as Tyson settled into the back of a sleek Cadillac, he found himself staring absentmindedly out the window, lost in thought.

Mastering the art of trash talk wasn't easy. While Tyson had a knack for sharp words and witty comebacks, he often found the constant banter exhausting.

Yet he understood the need for this strategy; to captivate and engage the audience, he had to knock down his opponents a notch while elevating himself.

Taking the conventional route would mean years of climbing the ranks, and time was not something Tyson was willing to waste.

Establishing himself as both a fighter and a captivating personality was imperative if he wanted fans to see him as a legitimate threat.

His team was well-versed in Tyson's unique style, knowing he was humble and intelligent beneath the bravado.

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**Saturday, Six O'Clock in the Evening**

A shiny Cadillac pulled into the parking lot of Madison Square Garden, the lights glowing brightly against the evening sky.

Tyson, flanked by his trusted corner crew—Teddy, Oliver, Jimmy, and Bill—exited the vehicle one after the other, stepping onto the asphalt with purpose.

This time, Kus had decided to stay back, likely still put off by Logan's antics in the previous fight, showing no interest in being part of this one.

That meant senior trainer Teddy would take on the pivotal role of the head coach for the night.

Oliver and Bill, taking on support roles, helped to gather equipment and set up in the locker room.

Inside the hustle and bustle of the venue, Tyson focused as Teddy worked skillfully to wrap his hands. Once that was done, he donned his gloves and began executing warm-up drills, hitting the pads with calculated precision.

As time ticked closer to the main event, the staff led them into the venue, and the roar of the crowd enveloped them.

When Tyson emerged into the arena, the deafening applause washed over him like a wave, reinforcing his determination.

The audience was undeniably enthusiastic; they were die-hard boxing fans from Brooklyn, fans who had followed Tyson's journey and wanted to support him.

Looking out over the sea of faces, Tyson estimated there were nearly five hundred Brooklynites in a stadium that shouldn't have had so many. It was a somewhat wild scene, especially since they were in Albany—Henry's home turf.

Tyson acknowledged the crowd with a deep bow, soaking in their appreciation before moving on to the pre-fight inspection.

As he slipped between the ropes of the boxing ring, he took a moment to settle into his corner, mentally preparing for the battle ahead.

Before long, Henry made his grand entrance, bringing with him an electric wave of applause from locals who were undeniably in his favor.

Lowering his head, Henry walked purposefully to the inspection, exuding confidence with every step.

After stepping into the ring, he began to stretch and shadow box, showcasing his readiness to defend his title.

With the crowd buzzing, the host approached with his microphone, announcing, "Welcome to tonight's main event—a must-win battle!"

"Mike 'Beast' Tyson, professional record: four wins—all in the first round!"

"And his opponent, 'Master of Disaster' Henry Becky, an undefeated fighter with a flawless record of fifteen wins!"

"Let's give a warm round of applause for our referee for the evening, Reynard Jonson—a former national team boxer turned official!"

As the energy surged through the auditorium, all eyes were on the ring, waiting for a legendary showdown that promised excitement and thrill for boxing enthusiasts everywhere.