September 6, 1985. The Trump Plaza Hotel ballroom in Atlantic City smelled like someone wrung out a sweaty hundred-dollar bill and lit it on fire.
Crystal chandeliers blasted light so harsh the red carpet looked like fresh-spilled blood. Camera flashes popped like machine-gun fire, freezing two snarling animals center-ring.
Cash, cheap cigars, and desperation hung thick in the air—AC blowing it around like a money-flavored fog that made your head spin.
Victor , a walking mountain of meat crammed into a silk shirt that was begging for mercy, 385 pounds making the wooden stage creak like it was about to snap. He leaned into the mic and trash-talked Tyson's mom—and every woman in his family tree—knowing damn well the kid never met his dad either. Every word rumbled out of his chest like a pissed-off grizzly.
A few feet away, Mike Tyson, younger, ripped, gold chains dancing on his neck like they were scared, screamed back in that high-pitched voice, lunging every two seconds while his handlers yanked him back like a rabid pit bull on a leash.
They were selling it hard—hard enough you'd swear they meant it.
"Tear that fat pig apart!"
Some drunk gambler in the crowd lost his mind.
The place detonated. Rich ladies in gowns with sweat stains under their pits, trust-fund kids digging nails into their palms, gamblers red-faced and heaving—they waved champagne bottles and fresh betting slips, howling like wolves.
Money wasn't a metaphor here; you could smell the green.
Off in the shadows, Donald Trump leaned against a marble pillar, arms folded, unlit cigar clenched in his teeth, hair glowing like a damn halo under the lights.
He drank in the chaos he'd created—every scream, every flash, every dollar about to flood his pockets. Pure satisfaction.
But deep in his eyes, a greedy little flicker burned hotter. This wasn't enough. He wanted total control. Bigger scores. Genius-level scores.
The press conference ended on the edge of a riot.
Gamblers stampeded the betting windows. Odds flipped like a slot machine on steroids:
Victor to win: 2.1 to 1
Tyson to win: 1.7 to 1
15 rounds, October 25—the only pro fight in America that night.
Big payouts bring big action.
Curtain down. Two killing machines went back to hell-week training.
Victor's camp stank of sweat, old leather, and pain.
Heavy breathing, meat smacking heavy bags, chains rattling—soundtrack on repeat.
Victor , now a 400-pound freight train, crushed every drill while Frankie and old man Jack watched like hawks.
Past 400 pounds, the dude's power was stupid. Every punch registered over 1,200 pounds—like swinging a sledgehammer made of hate.
October 9, he folded Donnie Harpin in half with one rude overhand right, followed it with two more bombs, and left the guy in a heap in the corner. Quick, savage, still perfect.
Across town, Tyson's gym was faster, sharper.
He exploded on the double-end bag—dodge, crash, hook, cross—every move stripped down to pure destruction.
His snarls echoed off the walls like the building itself was scared.
Same night, he turned Donnie Lang into a human speed bag and finished him with a TKO blizzard.
Perfect warm-up.
The media lost their damn minds.
"Beast vs. Hurricane!" "Mad Tiger vs. Savage!" "Fight of the Century!"
Trump, the original hype machine, plastered his face on every front page and TV screen right next to the fighters.
Betting totals shot through the roof. Every degenerate from Jersey to Vegas funneled cash straight into Trump Plaza like it was the heart of the beast—every heartbeat clinking like coins in a jackpot.
Trump sat behind his giant desk, watching the numbers climb into the stratosphere, grinning… then the grin faded.
He spun his leather chair, stared out at his neon empire.
Not enough.
Taking a skim like some chump bookmaker? That's for little people.
He wanted a rigged harvest worthy of his "genius."
First stop: Ivana.
In his plush office—cashmere carpets, cigar smoke thick—he waved the stogie like a conductor and laid out the "perfect plan":
Fake an injury on Victor at the last second, odds swing hard to Tyson, they bet heavy on Mike, cash in obscene.
Ivana froze mid-sip, red nails on the glass, looked at him like he'd lost his marbles.
"Donald, you're playing with fire. This isn't business; it's fraud. The dumbest kind."
Ice-cold voice. "One leak and you lose everything—money, name, empire. Don't even think it."
Trump's face twitched, then twisted into rage.
"You don't get it! You Czech bimbo! No risk, no empire!"
He swatted the air like she was a fly.
Ivana hit him with the killer line: "The second you try, either fighter will scream it from the rooftops. And then…"
Trump ignored her, went straight to Tyson's people—Jacobs and Cayton.
He barely got two sentences out before Cayton jumped like he'd sat on a scorpion.
"No way! Hell no! Donald, Mike earns his wins clean. We don't do dirty deals. Your five million doesn't move the needle. Forget it."
Jacobs just sat there, lips sealed, face like stone—silent but screaming no.
Back-to-back rejections lit Trump's ego on fire.
Screw the middlemen. He'd go straight to the greediest-looking animal in the zoo: Victor Li.
He barged into Victor's hotel suite with two stone-faced bodyguards.
"…Mr. Victor , this is money you'll never see in ten lifetimes."
Trump spread his arms like he was doing the kid a favor, eyes cutting like switchblades. "Just a little 'accident.' Sixth round stumble… or play hero early, then 'gas out' late? Look at all those zeros. Or… you wanna see what happens when you cross me? In Atlantic City—hell, the whole East Coast—one word from me and you're finished."
Victor sank deeper into the couch, 400 pounds of calm, cracked a weird grin, glanced at the bodyguards.
"Donald, is that a threat?"
Old man Hadda—quiet as Texas granite—moved.
Slow, almost lazy, he reached behind his back and pulled out a pristine vintage Colt .45 revolver.
Trump's bodyguards tensed, hands twitching toward their jackets.
Hadda flicked the cylinder open with a snap, thumbed one fat .45 round into his palm—smooth as a card trick.
Then he stepped forward and gently—almost tenderly—tucked that shiny bullet into the breast pocket of Trump's $5,000 Italian suit.
"Mr. Trump," Hadda growled, voice like gravel dragged across oak, thick Southern drawl hammering every word. "We talk business with money. Anything else…"
He locked eyes, cold and flat as a grave.
Victor hit a button on the phone. Ethan and Michael walked in from the next room carrying a canvas bag. Dumped it out—clunky metal parts—slapped together a rough, nasty-looking submachine gun in under ten seconds.
"…has to ask this first. Chicago typewriter's old, but every South Side house got spare parts to make her sing again. Simple as that."
Dead silence.
Trump could hear his own pulse hammering in his temples.
He could feel that bullet—cold, hard—burning a hole through his pocket like a branding iron.
Neither bodyguard dared reach for their gun. Chicago typewriters were famous for jamming, sure—but also for spraying when you least expected.
Trump stared into Hadda's dead eyes, then Victor's mocking grin.
Ten endless seconds.
The arrogance on his face cracked, shattered, turned into pure humiliated rage, then got crushed into icy nothing.
He didn't say a word. Just spun, stomped out, slammed the door so hard the hinges screamed.
That bullet stayed in his pocket like a hot coal.
Back in his penthouse, Trump ripped off his tie, hurled it on the floor, paced like a caged animal. Hadda's dead stare and that bullet looped in his brain. Victor acting like a damn mob boss lit him up inside.
Humiliation of the century.
He'd never been threatened—never been punked—like that.
Ivana watched him rage like he was a toddler in a tantrum.
Hotel manager and security chief caught the blast next:
"How the hell do you run security? People walk in with machine guns and nobody notices? What if they shot the place up?"
Security tore through Victor's bags—found nothing but "medical steel pipes." Came back empty-handed.
Trump went nuclear. "You telling me I hallucinated a goddamn Thompson?"
"Dig into Victor—any mob ties?"
Then he froze.
A darker, nastier idea slithered in.
They want clean fights? Clean money?
Fine.
He snatched the phone, voice shaking with twisted excitement, and fed orders to his moles in the betting pool.
Odds started sliding—slow, poisonous.
"Leaks" about Victor "over-bulking risking stamina," "old knee injury flaring up."
Meanwhile Tyson got painted as an invincible god.
The sheep followed the water. Gamblers, eyes bloodshot, shoved double, triple, life-savings money on "The Baddest Man on the Planet."
Trump watched from the shadows, cold smile spreading.
He'd drain every last drop from this fight—bankrupt the suckers, feed his pride, and stuff his greed until it burst.
Let the house always win.
read more inpat***
belamy20