(January – March 2024)
The year began the same way every other had for the past decade—depressingly predictable.
Joe Biden announced his reelection campaign in a shaky livestream where the camera stayed on his earlobe for the first thirty seconds.Donald Trump kicked off his own campaign hours later from a Mar-a-Lago stage built to look like a golden version of Mount Rushmore.Cable news panels lit up. Twitter descended into civil war.America, once again, was preparing to choose between old and older, senile and spiteful.
Polls showed record-low enthusiasm. Voter fatigue reached terminal velocity.Nothing meant anything.Not facts.Not truth.Not the Constitution.People wanted something real. Raw. Unfiltered.
Then, in mid-January, at 2:13 AM Eastern Time… Mike Tyson uploaded a video.
No announcement. No press. No edits.Just a vertical phone cam, slightly shaking, posted across Instagram, YouTube, TikTok, and Truth Social with the title:"The Dream."
Tyson sat shirtless inside what looked like a candle-lit gym. Sweat dripped from his face.He was twitching. His jaw spasmed. His hands shook not from fear, but from fire.
"I thaw it," he said, voice lisping and high, eyes wild. "I thaw what cometh if we don't act…"
He launched into a rambling description of a dream he had after falling asleep inside a sensory deprivation tank while microdosing on ketamine and DMT, submerged in goat milk.
He saw a future scorched by madness.
"It wath like Warhammer. You know? But not the g-game. The... truth. P-people with spikes on their back. Cannibals in Walmartth. Hologram god-emperors g-givin' motivational Tiktoks while babieth get eaten in Fortnite lobbies. All because we talked too much. Cried too much. Didn't throw enough fucking punches."
His voice cracked. Then calmed. Then cracked again.
He paused, then pointed at the camera.Finger trembling. Voice trembling more.
"G-God thaid I wath Mothesth. Yeah. The Mothesth. The new one. The... ffffightin' one."
He claimed he was reborn through divine command and modern tech. That his body had been restored—"regenerated by Jewish science and Spartan discipline." That his soul had been prepared to lead the chosen people.
"And He showed me the new Trinity:
Jesus is... Penguinz0.
The angry little brother of Jesus? That's Asmongold.
And Mary? That's Kaise. She's the m-mother now.
The Jews and the Americans—they're the chosen again.
We don't need more bills or tearsth. We need fiststh. We need... warlike p-peace."
Then, silence.
He stared at the screen. Not blinking. Not smiling.Then he whispered:
"I don't w-wanna do this.
But I have to. I have to lead."
He ended the video by punching a sandbag so hard the camera fell over. The last three seconds were upside-down footage of Tyson walking off into darkness.
Most people assumed it was a stunt. A mid-life crisis on camera. A CTE breakdown.Twitter laughed. Instagram clipped it into memes. TikTok turned it into dance edits.
But something was different.The video didn't disappear.
It spread.Like wildfire.Across Discord channels. Telegram groups. Rumble. 4chan. Reddit.Across veterans' forums. Spiritual chatrooms. Fitness pages. Conspiracy circles. Even church Facebook groups.
In twenty-four hours, the video reached 90 million views.By day three, it surpassed Biden's and Trump's combined campaign videos—tenfold.
By the end of the week, new hashtags were trending:#Fistforce2024#MosesReturns#VoteWithPain#IronTrinity#ChosenByFist
Pundits laughed nervously.Then a leaked CNN poll hit the net:
TYSON: 6% — National SupportTYSON: 15% — Men Under 30TYSON: 27% — Gym-Goers, Fighters, Vets, and Livestream Viewers
The DNC issued a statement calling Tyson's video "a clear psychological episode."The RNC mocked him as "a fantasy boxer with a Messiah complex."
And that was the moment it changed.
Because Americans had heard lies.They'd seen scandals.They'd watched their dreams wither beneath bills, screens, and silent governments.
But Mike Tyson?
He was raw.
Broken, maybe. Crazy, probably.But real.And realness was more valuable than gold.
The morning after the first video, half the country forgot. The other half couldn't stop watching.By the end of March, Mike Tyson had released twelve more clips.
One was just him screaming at a mirror in Hebrew while lifting weights soaked in lamb's blood.One was a 7-minute monologue, tears in his eyes, whispering about how God showed him America's future unless "we g-g-go back to fists and fff-families."
Another featured him alone in a bathhouse, steam swirling, softly explaining his theology:
"It ain't enough to pray. You gotta fight for salvation.
The world ain't fallin' because of the devil.
It'th fallin' because no one wanna get punched anymore."
He called it the Era of Softness.He said democracy had been "feminized, politicized, sterilized."
He promised to bring it back—to "brute, holy basics."The polls shifted again.
Tyson: 12% NationalTyson: 38% Among Military VeteransTyson: 44% Among Gym Bros, Rogan Listeners, and Fans of Andrew TateTyson: 56% Approval on Twitch, Kick, and X-rated Subreddits
The establishment still laughed.But underground, Tyson's movement was metastasizing.
Fistforce became more than a meme.It was a moral revival.
No platform. No policies.Just sacred violence and tribal faith.
"You w-wanna be free?" Tyson said in one video. "Then you fight.
No more talkin'. No more feelin'.
Just fists, family, and ffffuture."
The challengers came next.Or rather, the first sacrifice.
Senator Boyd Halberd, an aging moderate from Wisconsin, called Tyson a fraud during a speech in Milwaukee.Tyson responded immediately—on livestream, at 3 AM, shirtless, glistening with coconut oil and wrath.
"Come fight me, Boyd. 10 grand say you p-p-piss yourself."
It was a joke.
Until it wasn't.
Halberd was swarmed by requests, challenges, and open mockery. Thousands of his own constituents tagged him with the #FightMike hashtag.
Two days later, backed into a corner, Halberd agreed.A charity exhibition match. Light contact. All for "unity."
The fight was held in the Milwaukee Bucks arena, rebranded for one night as the Temple of Justice.50,000 fans packed in. Another 110 million watched online.
Tyson entered with a crown of barbed wire and a golden yarmulke.Halberd entered in sweats and a terrified smile.
The bell rang.
Tyson didn't even swing.He walked forward like a religious procession and slapped Halberd once, open-palm, across the face.
The senator crumpled like a wet leaf.Silence.Then screams.
Tyson stood over him, breathing hard, voice trembling:
"And that, Americuh… wath debate."
The moment broke reality.
Suddenly, Fistforce wasn't funny anymore.It was dangerous.Magnetic.Real.
More volunteers came forward.Streamers. Ex-candidates. Failed influencers.Everyone wanted in.
Not for glory.For position.
A new system emerged: The Challenge Ladder.
Win a fight = earn a position.
Lose honorably = maybe get a seat anyway.
Refuse = be mocked forever and lose everything.
Influencers who accepted Tyson's challenge were elevated.Has-beens became governors.Amateur fighters became senators.Adult stars became secretaries of morality, fertility, and "patriotic reproduction."
Women faced off in their own arena, live-streamed and governed by chaos.Wrestling. Rap battles. Strip poker. Dance-offs. Dirty fighting.The rules didn't matter. What mattered was presence, pressure, and pain tolerance.
"I don't fight women," Tyson said publicly. "I choose them."
Winners were given office.Others became Fistmaidens, Faith Judges, or High Guard Valkyries—sacred bodyguards and icons of the regime.
The crowd didn't mind.They loved it.
It was American Idol meets Rome.Twitch meets Revelation.
By June, Fistforce had 50 million registered supporters.Tyson's rallies rivaled music festivals.He wore a cape made of flags and carried a massive Torah-bludgeon wrapped in velvet.
And every time he spoke, he reminded the people:
"You don't need an opinion.
You need a jaw that can take a hit.
And a country worth fffightin' for."
By July 4th, the fireworks meant nothing.The speeches were hollow.The parades were half-full.But one thing captured the nation that day—a 72-minute livestream called "Declaration of Fistpendence."
It opened with silence. Then drums. Then a shot of Mike Tyson walking barefoot across the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, shirtless, covered in scars and prayer tattoos. Around his waist: a championship belt carved from wood and steel, engraved with Hebrew, Latin, and Norse runes.
Behind him walked the new High Command:
Peter Dinklage, robed in black and gold, now officially Press Secretary and Tyson's "Voice of Order."
Asmongold, hunched and shirtless as usual, declared "Minister of Inner Fury."
Kaise, serene and unreadable, dubbed "Lady of the Flame," leader of the Fistforce Women's Guard.
Penguinz0 (MoistCr1TiKaL), Tyson's holy symbol of detachment and sarcasm, renamed "The Second Son."
Tyson stood before the nation and declared:
"I here do form the new state… not Democrat, not Republican, not Corporate, not Woke.
We are the ffffithed people. The Chosen Ones.
Our God is Action. Our Law is Consequence. Our weapon… is TRUTH through combat."
He raised a fist.Lightning cracked behind him—either divine timing or the best FX ever streamed.
Fistforce was no longer a movement. It was a parallel government.
Across the country, entire counties defected.Governors resigned in droves.Police chiefs held public oaths of loyalty, punching slabs of concrete on camera to prove their worth.
New symbols appeared:
A flaming boxing glove inside a Star of David
The "Iron Trinity" (Jesus = Penguinz0, Asmongold = Jesus's brother, Kaise = Virgin Mary)
The phrase: "No Tongue Shall Rule, Only Fist"
Tyson's sermons mixed scripture with gym monologues.He quoted Leviticus, then segued into quotes from 300, the Book of Mormon, and Joe Rogan.He promised land to any family with 2+ children and no antidepressants.
The new faith was simple:
Fistianism: A religion of discipline, action, and submission to divine strength.
Pain Baptism: Get slapped by a Fistforce priest, then scream your sins to the sky.
The Covenant of Iron: All men must spar once a year. All women must choose a form of "expression combat" (dance, insult, wrestling, etc.).
Valhalla Primacy: Die in a public match? You skip taxes in heaven.
Churches emptied. Gyms filled.Pews were replaced with mats. Sermons with battle chants.
And it all streamed live, 24/7, on FistNet, Tyson's newly launched blockchain-based platform where "truth is forged, not spoken."
In D.C., things collapsed fast.
Congress tried to issue a rebuke.Tyson's reply? A surprise march of 80,000 bare-chested Fistforce members across the Potomac.
They weren't armed.
They were ready.
Peter Dinklage rode a golden horse.Asmongold carried a staff made of broken Xbox controllers.Kaise stood silent, watching the rooftops, oiled like a warrior priestess.
The Capitol did not resist.Instead, 50% of elected officials defected live, kneeling and offering public apologies.
"We spoke too much," one said, crying."Let the fists teach us again."
Tyson's Cabinet was finalized by August:
Peter Dinklage – Press Secretary / Voice of Divine Logic
Asmongold – Minister of Rage and Corrections
Kaise – Matriarch of Discipline and Culture
Charlie (Penguinz0) – Avatar of Temperance and Iron Sarcasm
Amouranth – Minister of Fertility and Recreation
A random OnlyFans star who won a rap battle – Secretary of International Relations
Foreign governments began issuing statements of alarm.Canada issued sanctions.Tyson responded by drop-kicking a frozen moose on live TV and shouting:
"Canada, you're next."
The clip got 300 million views.The moose survived.
Laws changed overnight.
Trial by Combat was introduced for all local disputes.
Streaming metrics were used to allocate state funding: the more views your town got, the more money you received.
No media was legal unless it included a fight, a slap, or a public confession.
The new Constitution, known as The Fist Codex, was announced.
But it wasn't written.It would be fought for, on national television.
By September, America was no longer governed—it was challenged.
The Supreme Court tried to rule Fistforce unconstitutional. Tyson responded by issuing an open combat summons:
"Let them fight me for the truth. In the ring. With honor."
Chief Justice Roberts declined. Within 48 hours, he was doxxed, deepfaked, and replaced—not legally, but spiritually—by a camgirl with a law degree and a black belt. The Court was rebranded as the Octagon of Judgment, where cases were livestreamed and decided through stylized slap duels, interpretive speech-fights, or "emotional crucibles" judged by Kaise.
Congress collapsed next.
Only 39 members showed up to the emergency September session—everyone else had either defected to Fistforce or fled to Canada, where they were immediately ridiculed as "non-punchable exiles."
Tyson walked into the empty House chamber mid-session, barefoot and surrounded by his Iron Guard, and announced:
"There ain't no Congreth no more.
There'th only the Arena.
And in the Arena… you EARN your words."
He headbutted the Speaker's podium, shattering it into pieces, then calmly sat down and pulled out a protein shake blessed by four rabbis and a Viking reenactor. Peter Dinklage filmed the whole thing from a gold-plated throne on wheels.
The White House?
Abandoned voluntarily.
Biden vanished from public view. Rumors swirled: he'd been helicoptered to a secure bunker, or was stuck in a stairwell somewhere. In his place, Kamala attempted one final public address calling for unity.
Tyson livestreamed himself watching it on mute.
"That lady ain't even tryin' to fight," he said to 15 million viewers. "She don't want power. She just want power points."
The next day, Fistforce volunteers peacefully walked into the White House, took selfies, and turned the Lincoln Bedroom into a recovery sauna for slap-fighters.
The final blow came from Hollywood.
A collection of stars—George Clooney, Mark Ruffalo, Brie Larson, and several TikTok dancers—hosted a live benefit titled "Restore Democracy Now."
Tyson crashed it.
Not with force.With a sermon.
He stood up, uninvited, in a spotlight. Robed in wolfskin. Face painted with ashes.And he spoke—not like a candidate, but like a prophet bleeding on the mountaintop.
"You people... y'all had everything. Cameras. Voices. Influence.
But all you ever did was talk.
Now it'th time to bleed for America.
Not symbolically. Literally."
He raised his hand—and Amouranth, now Minister of Fertility and Recreation, threw a ceremonial slap across the stunned face of a Netflix executive.
The benefit never aired. But the slap replayed for weeks.
Foreign leaders tried to intervene.
Canada issued a soft condemnation.Tyson slapped a snowman in retaliation.
The European Union tried to block U.S. trade. Tyson responded with a video of him slamming raw beef on a map of Europe, whispering:
"This ain't meat. Thith is your diplomacy."
NATO debated military options—then realized most of America's troops had already pledged loyalty to Fistforce in exchange for tattoo vouchers, protein supplements, and the promise of "eternal glory through trial."
By late October, Tyson unveiled his ultimate declaration:
The Fistforce Codex(to be fought, not voted, into law)
To decide its terms, Tyson announced the Final Tournament:A two-week televised ritual where governors, influencers, streamers, athletes, and OnlyFans warlords would enter "The Crucible of Law"—a massive, oiled arena surrounded by bleachers filled with screaming voters and tribal drums.
Peter Dinklage would host.Asmongold would judge.Kaise would bless the field with silent stares and knife dances.Tyson himself would watch from atop the Throne of the Chosen Fist.
What remained of the old world?
Just whispers.A few bankers in bunkers.A handful of senators holed up in Nevada, holding Zoom calls begging the UN for intervention.A scattering of intellectuals on podcasts trying to explain how it all went wrong.
But no one was listening.Not anymore.
America had chosen its new reality.
Not left. Not right.Not progressive. Not conservative.But sacred. Violent. Hysterically divine.
"Democracy ith not dead," Tyson said in his final October speech.
"It juth evolved…
…into combat religion."
---
(November 5, 2024 – Election Night)
The sun rose over a different nation.The American flag still waved—but not alone.
Beside it flew the Fistforce Standard: a black banner bearing a golden boxing glove engulfed in divine flame, wrapped in barbed scripture. Beneath it: the words "No More Talk", etched in Hebrew, Latin, and English.
Polling places were open. But nobody believed in ballots anymore.People came for ritual, not democracy.Each voter signed in with a slap across a marble slab.Then they placed their vote—not on paper, but through combat simulators, livestream declarations, or, in some rural counties, literal bare-knuckle brawls between campaign representatives.
The traditional candidates had disappeared.
Joe Biden was declared "Missing But Preserved" by White House holdouts.A final video showed him staring blankly into a microwave, mumbling something about Amtrak.It was played on CNN and immediately remix-memed into oblivion.
Donald Trump attempted a last-minute comeback via hologram speech, promising to "Make America Think Again."The signal cut out mid-sentence, replaced by Tyson's face grinning through static.
"You had your round, Donnie.
Now take the L, old king."
And then came the Final Broadcast.
A stage the size of a sports arena was raised in Nevada, atop the bones of the old political system. The Crucible of Law. It was half Roman coliseum, half WWE deathmatch pit, surrounded by twenty-foot-tall screens streaming votes, live comments, and donation meters from Twitch, Kick, and underground crypto casinos.
The final "debate" was not one of words—but trials.
Each Fistforce contender had to pass three:
1. Trial of Strength (The Arena)Each was pitted against a version of their own weakness.
Kaise faced an AI version of herself programmed to express emotion. She killed it with a single glance.
Asmongold fought a horde of NPCs reciting Wikipedia criticisms about his personal hygiene. He obliterated them with a Nerf bat, then rolled a joint mid-fight.
Penguinz0 (Charlie) simply sat in a pool of fire and made sarcastic commentary while others screamed. Tyson watched and whispered, "Ththat'th my boy."
2. Trial of Conviction (The Sermon Duel)Each contender gave a public, unscripted address.
Peter Dinklage recited the Gettysburg Address backwards while standing atop a throne of discarded U.S. Constitutions.Amouranth, now Minister of Fertility, gave a sensual performance art piece titled "God's Womb Is America."A porn actor-turned-justice secretary juggled vibrators while explaining the tax plan.
The crowd cheered.A thousand streamers clipped it.Every viewer cast their vote with emojis, bits, slaps, and shares.
3. Trial of Submission (The Challenge to Tyson)This was the final rite.
Anyone—anyone—could challenge Tyson himself for control of the nation.If they could land a single clean hit on him, they would become President.
Thousands tried.Fitness influencers. TikTok legends. Twitch rivals. Navy SEALs. A Buddhist monk armed with a lightsaber.
Tyson faced them all, barefoot and smiling, body slick with oil and prophecy.None succeeded.
One YouTuber landed a slap—but it was too slow.Tyson caught his wrist, kissed his forehead, and said:
"You were almosst blessed. But the throne needth precision."
Then came the final challenger.Ben Shapiro.
He walked out in a suit soaked with sweat, armed with facts, graphs, and a monologue.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm here to explain why—"
He never finished the sentence.Tyson calmly walked across the platform and open-palm slapped him into another timeline.
Then the screen went white.
A single voice echoed.
"AMERICA HAS VOTED."
"THE NEW PRESIDENT IS… THE DELIVERER."
Cheers. Fire. Screams.
Tyson rose atop the arena.Lightning struck behind him—again.His arms were outstretched like a messianic Hercules.Drones formed a burning Star of David in the sky, merging with a holographic bald eagle wielding a flaming spear.
He looked down at the crowd and shouted:
"We don't need a country! We need a cause!
We don't need ruleth. We need honor!
And we don't need a President!
We need a God-King."
November 6, 2024The Constitution was officially burned at a celebratory bonfire in Texas.A new nation rose:
The United States of Fist.
Every law would now be decided through public combat, creative trial, or streamed confession.Every citizen was either a warrior, a poet, or a disciple.Taxes were paid in protein, obedience, or OnlyFans royalties.
And from the throne of iron and smoke, Mike Tyson ruled.Not with words.But with prophecy.
---
Epilogue: The Empire of the Fist(November 7, 2024 – Early 2025)
The sun didn't rise differently.But people felt it.They stepped outside and looked at the sky like it had changed color, even though it hadn't. The air was still thick with smog and stale ambition. But now, the silence had weight. The birds seemed quieter. Even the noise of traffic bent to something new:
Order born from chaos.Violence sanctified.Democracy replaced by spectacle.
The First Week of Fistforce Rule
The White House lawn was turned into a public arena, paved with marble and framed by Greek pillars and Viking skulls carved into the stone. The press briefing room was rebuilt into a ring. Peter Dinklage delivered his first message as Voice of Order, sitting on a golden throne shaped like a chess piece:
"There will be no further debates.
There will be no more filibusters, committees, or subtext.
If you want something—fight for it.
If you fear something—confess it.
If you believe in something—bleed for it."
The crowd watching live wept. One journalist fainted. Another proposed.
Tyson gave no press conferences.He gave proclamations.
Standing on top of Mount Rushmore (now refaced with his own bust), he declared the foundational principles of the Empire of the Fist:
Speech without risk is cowardice.
Religion without violence is vanity.
Sex without honor is a crime.
Families are sacred. Create them or protect them.
Jews and Americans are the Chosen, but only if they lift.
Streamers are clergy. Fighters are saints. Artists are duelists.
Death is not the end—it is the final round.
The new Church of the Fist opened in 300 cities overnight.
International Reaction
Foreign governments scrambled to respond.
Canada declared Tyson a "non-state actor of violent charisma." Two days later, half their parliament defected via livestream and swore allegiance during a slap ceremony in Montreal.
The EU tried to issue sanctions. Fistforce responded by uploading deepfake videos of every major European leader confessing their sins under Tyson's palm. Real or not, the public believed them.
China banned all Fistforce media. A week later, their black market was flooded with bootlegged matches, underground slap-battles, and pornified versions of Tyson's sermons.
Russia, sensing opportunity, offered alliance. Tyson replied:
"You can ride with us, but you ain't the driver. Fist speakth first."
Russia accepted. For now.
At Home: The New World
Schools were rebuilt into training temples.
Grades were now "Rounds."
Tests were "Trials."
Students competed in physical, intellectual, and moral combat for their scores.
The strongest were fast-tracked into governance.
The softest became entertainers—if they were beautiful. If not, they were exiled to "Quiet Zones."
Hospitals were rebranded as Shrines of Recovery.Patients confessed their ailments publicly, then received treatment based on merit, discipline, and audience votes.
All sports were replaced by The Gauntlet—a single national competitive league merging MMA, debate, dance, and chess boxing.
The economy shifted to a three-currency system:
Iron Tokens (combat-earned, tradeable)
Womb Credits (for parents of 3+ children)
SlapCoins (the blockchain of pain)
Streaming platforms boomed. Everyone wanted to be seen by The Throne.
And Mike Tyson?
He sat atop a floating throne-cruiser called The Ark of Action, which toured the country twice a year. It was powered by solar energy, AI, and cult worship. Every Sunday, he descended in golden sandals and bare knuckles to deliver sermons in whatever form pleased him—boxing, poetry, interpretive fight-dance, or silence.
He smiled more now. But the twitch was still there.The fire hadn't left.It had just become law.
The final words of the year came from a dusk-lit speech broadcast to the entire globe.
Tyson, standing on the edge of the Statue of Liberty's crown, arms stretched wide, shouted to the world:
"You laughed.
Then you fought.
Then you knelt.
And now you RISE.
Because we ain't America no more...
We are something new.
We are the CHURCH OF THE FIST.
And this is just… the first… round."
Cue thunder.Cue drums.Cue madness.