October 24, 1985—the weigh-in was pure circus.
When Victor's slab-of-a-body hit the scale, the needle jittered like crazy before locking at 400 pounds. The room gasped.
Tyson coolly pulled off his hood. 230 pounds of muscle gleamed like obsidian under the lights.
Noses inches apart, Victor's shadow swallowed Tyson whole—but the kid's eyes burned hot enough to spark the air.
"Tomorrow I'll leave you looking like a kid who got caught stealing candy."
Tyson's voice rumbled from the depths.
Victor's lip twitched, sweat beading on his cheek. "Your fists better back up that mouth, kid. I don't wanna see you cry again."
Trump shoved between them, gold tie nearly brushing Victor's chin.
"Gentlemen! This is show business!"
He forced them apart, flashing his camera smile—but his grip on Victor's arm went white-knuckle. He'd just learned: neither fighter bet a dime.
---
October 25, 1985—Atlantic City, Trump Plaza Hotel & Casino
Nighttime Atlantic City lit up like a greedy jewel on the black coastline, Trump Plaza the crown.
Neon screamed "MIKE TYSON vs. VICTOR LEE" across the humid sky.
Crowds poured in like bloodthirsty locusts—expensive cologne, sweaty testosterone, and raw hunger for cash and carnage mixing into something thick and dizzying.
Spotlights swept the roaring stands like judgment day, locking on the sacred, brutal square in the center: the ring where fortunes would be made or broken.
In the prime VIP box, Donald Trump held court—surrounded by celebs, socialites, and sports moguls.
His trademark bloated grin was plastered on, amber liquor swirling as he glad-handed, voice booming, every gesture screaming I own this.
He loved the spotlight, loved this gamble named after him.
But if you looked close—past the polish—you'd catch the cold tension in his eyes.
His gaze kept flicking to the fighter entrances, waiting for the prey that decided his fate.
His money was tied to those ropes.
Massive bets, twisted side deals—every round hit his vault:
- End in 3: easy $50 million
- End in 5: $32 million
- Past 10… bust.
Trump killed the thought, smirk curling. Who could?
Who the hell lasts 10 rounds with Mike Tyson—the destroyer he hand-picked?
Absurd. Especially with the ref in his pocket.
Then the entrance exploded like a tidal wave.
First: Victor Lee.
A walking meat mountain—the human fridge!
White robe barely containing him.
But this wasn't fat anymore. It was sculpted—sharp, flowing muscle over a massive frame, fused with just enough tough fat to eat punches.
A year ago? A lumbering prehistoric beast. Now? A precision killing machine built for speed and annihilation—forged by some dark alchemy.
Most chilling: his eyes. No rage, no fear. Just cold, calculating fire.
Then the roof nearly blew off—screams laced with disbelief.
Mike Tyson emerged.
Simple black cape. Head down, eyes on the tunnel floor—like the chaos didn't exist.
His arms snapped quick, short shadow punches. Muscles rippled dangerous under the lights.
Every step thudded—war drums, cannon fire, death marching.
His raw killer aura hit like a shockwave. Even the wildest cheers choked for a beat.
But both fighters glared at Trump. Murder in their eyes.
Trump's glass paused mid-sip. Smile froze a fraction.
Whispers in the box shifted. A snake of unplanned dread slithered through.
DING!
Round 1 bell—like a death row gong.
Against all odds, Victor attacked first!
A white lightning bolt—who'd ever thought that fit him?—charging Tyson.
Arms a violent windmill!
The infamous Chicago Typewriter: 18 lethal punches, air screaming!
Crowd lost their minds!
But Tyson showed why he's a genius.
Ghost dodges—duck, weave, slip—missing by millimeters. Heart-in-throat stuff.
Then, in the split-second Victor's barrage faded—Tyson moved!
A hell-born straight right from the depths—cruel, precise—exploded on Victor's forehead!
Victor never saw it. Tried to catch him off-guard. Got schooled—and Tyson was that ridiculous!
BOOM!
The thud drowned the arena.
Victor's massive frame toppled like a felled redwood—CRASH!
The ring shook.
"DOWN! MY GOD! TYSON! MIKE TYSON!"
Announcer's voice cracked from shock: "Round 1, 1:12—Mike Tyson floors Victor!"
Count started like a funeral bell.
…5, 6…
At "7," Victor snapped his head, ice-fire eyes refocusing. One hand on canvas—he sprang up, freakishly agile!
No wobble. Just pure, furious calm.
Trump nearly leaped in celebration—$53 million locked in. But Victor rising choked his cheer. Eyes went colder.
Back in the fight, Victor flipped the script.
No more wild pressure.
He became a suffocating tactician.
Constant clinches, smothering Tyson's space with evolved weight and core power—wrecking his rhythm.
Screaming in his ear, leaning, shoving—then precise hooks and straights to control range.
Chilling: he fed his reinforced chest and gut to Tyson's organ-rupturing body shots!
THUD! THUD!
Tyson's fists sank into Victor's abs—sickening crunches. Victor just grunted, didn't budge—answered with a heavy right to Tyson's guard.
Knocked him sideways, but no real damage.
Round 1 bell saved everyone's nerves.
Scoreboard: Victor landed four punches!
Arena erupted in disbelief.
In the corner, Old Jack and Frankie screamed in his ear: "YES! Like that! Clinch him! Grind him down! Your body can take it! No space!"
"Points don't matter! Fifteen rounds! Wear him out—then KO!"
Trump slammed whiskey in the box. Smile gone. Profit hate in its place—Round 2 KO now only $26 million.
He ignored the elites, eyes locked on the ring, knuckles white on the glass stem.
Round 2.
Frankie's plan: executed.
Victor became sticky taffy—a moving, punching heavy bag.
Relentless pressure. Body as shield and weapon. Dragged it into the ugliest, soul-draining infighting.
Tyson snarled—rage building. Yelled in Victor's ear:
"Fuck you, toilet bug!"
"Dirty yellow pig! Trade with me!"
His bombs hammered Victor's ribs like siege rams.
Each hit made the crowd gasp—but Victor's face just twitched. Answered with tighter clinches and shoves.
But Victor talked back:
"Hey!"
"Hah!"
"Fuck! You! Bastard!"
His punches kept coming—not for one-shot KO, but steady, relentless damage and points.
Both heavy artillery—air ripped with every swing.
Victor knew: never let Tyson set. Close the mid-range—clinch, push out, simple footwork, trade hooks and straights on the outside.
But Tyson was a coiled beast. His weaves and pressure were suffocating. Every duck-and-charge made the crowd hold breath—those killer bombs loaded.
Victor's eyes burned, focus razor-sharp.
In one routine tangle, Victor saw it—a flash gap.
Tyson's right overextended. Recovery exposed a tiny window.
Victor didn't think—stepped in. Left hook like a scorpion sting—whipped around Tyson's lead hand, crushed his left cheek!
CRACK!
The thud cut through the noise—clean through the guard.
800+ pounds of force detonated. Tyson's neck snapped. Core couldn't eat it all.
His tree-trunk legs buckled. Body tilted—he crashed to the canvas!
Victor lunged to follow up—but the ref yanked him back.