Tyson Story: The Baddest Man On The Planet
You arose from where you sat when it couldn’t have been more fitting: a Tyson story was next to come upon the television. The Colts’ second home after the Robert Irsay midnight ride away from Baltimore hosted Tyson—who got sentenced to over half a decade in prison due to charges involving having raped pageant contestant Désirée Washington—in a place known as the Indiana Youth Center. Nobody who worked there called him ‘Kid Dynamite,’ ‘Iron,’ ‘The Baddest Man on the Planet,’ or even ‘champ.’ His name was six syllables, or should I say digits, long: nine two-two three-three five. Tyson, who got twenty-two million dollars for the Spinks demolition, got paid less than seventy cents daily to work in the prison’s gymnasium, providing equipment to
…show more content…
You had decided: chocolate chip cookies, a turkey sandwich, and chicken noodle soup. Each cookie had calories and fats in excess, but you asked for wheat bread as a means by which compensation could come. “Tell me something, my friend,” you said, a reference to The Joker in the 1989 Batman film. “You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?” Your Porsche got whipped in traffic as you laughed, your cranium rocking backwards. “I always ask that of all my prey. I just like the sound of it.” If fishing expeditions didn’t count, Tyson was your last bounty, caught three years ago. At moments where you visited stores filled with videos, you didn’t buy them for rental periods, but bought each in mint condition, glistening plastic wrap still intact. You took cases back to your mansion, stacking each atop your den’s CRT. Twenty cases sat atop the Mitsubishi by then, ten to fifteen tapes in each pile. From afar, somebody might presume a Manhattan skyline replica was atop the TV. Each tape formed high buildings rising to stratospheric plateaus, chaotic messes on one tiny black concrete piece. Individuals said you might be wise to invest in a shelf or two with capabilities for housing such an enormous investment. You responded by saying you liked having things in their proper
You had decided: chocolate chip cookies, a turkey sandwich, and chicken noodle soup. Each cookie had calories and fats in excess, but you asked for wheat bread as a means by which compensation could come. “Tell me something, my friend,” you said, a reference to The Joker in the 1989 Batman film. “You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?” Your Porsche got whipped in traffic as you laughed, your cranium rocking backwards. “I always ask that of all my prey. I just like the sound of it.” If fishing expeditions didn’t count, Tyson was your last bounty, caught three years ago. At moments where you visited stores filled with videos, you didn’t buy them for rental periods, but bought each in mint condition, glistening plastic wrap still intact. You took cases back to your mansion, stacking each atop your den’s CRT. Twenty cases sat atop the Mitsubishi by then, ten to fifteen tapes in each pile. From afar, somebody might presume a Manhattan skyline replica was atop the TV. Each tape formed high buildings rising to stratospheric plateaus, chaotic messes on one tiny black concrete piece. Individuals said you might be wise to invest in a shelf or two with capabilities for housing such an enormous investment. You responded by saying you liked having things in their proper