Mike Tyson Tactician of Elibe: Chapter One

It's a cold morning on the plains of Sacae. But Mike Tyson wouldn't know because he's too hot from his fire poetry readings. He's also really fucking confused about waking up in this weird ass field. More confusing still is the girl standing over him, her hair an unnatural green. His first thought is that she should put on some pants, since, you know, Mike is gentleman who never went to prison for doing anything bad. The second thought is why this girl has a sword strapped to her hip. Mike doesn't get much time to contemplate either, though, as a searing pain splits across his head. The last thing he sees is the girl kneeling down before everything fades to black, just like when Buster Douglas knocked his ass out in 1990.

When Mike awakes, he's inside some kind of hut, the girl from earlier standing a few feet away. The former heavyweight champ with a stupid tattoo on his face groans and attempts to sit up. The mysterious girl immediately notices and rushes over, cup and bowl in hand.

"Are you awake?" she says, leaning forward.

"I fink so." Mike cradles his forehead. "Muh head is kwilling me."

"I found you unconscious on the plains." Boxer poet doesn't respond, so the girl continues. "I am Lyn, of the Lorca tribe. You're safe now. Who are you? Can you remember your name?"

"Worca trwibe?"

"Yes. A tribe of the Sacae. You seem confused."

"Bish, hell yea I'm comfused! Dafuk is happenin'?"

"Your name is [tactician]..." Lyn begins, sounding a bit wooden before recovering. "Sorry, I can only deviate from the script so much. You should tell me your name though. Saying [tactician] is hard."

Mike frowns, everything feeling fuzzy and jumbled. "Wha… Mike."

Lyn smiles and offers a wink. She clears her throat before moving on. "Your name is Mike? What an odd-sounding name… But pay me no mind. It is a good name. I see by your attire that you are a traveler. What brings you to the Sacae plains? Would you share your story with me?"

This is some crazy shit. Crazier than when Mike told an interviewer once he wanted to have children with his pet tiger. And what's this about traveling attire? He's wearing a bathrobe and slippers. Mike tries to reply, but Lyn put a finger to his lips and holds up a hand. A high voice chimes, "Prologue time!" and Lyn nods.

"Hm? What was that noise? I'll go see what's happening. Mike, wait here for me." She exits the hut, leaving Mike blinking in bewilderment. Lyn reappears almost as quickly as she left, expression appropriately panicked. "Oh no! Bandits! They must have come down from the Bern Mountains! They must be planning on raiding the local villages. I… I have to stop them! If that's all of them, I think I can handle them on my own. You'll be safe here, Mike."

Nothing makes any sense to Mike Tyson at the moment. Not even all the drugs he did back in the nineties prepared him for this shit. He shakes his head and looks up at Lyn, who is still staring at him. She cups her hands around her mouth and whispers, "You're supposed to offer to help. I need your guidance to defeat Batta the Beast."

Batta the Beast? That's this punk-ass bandit's name? Mike fucked up dudes with way more threatening names than that back in the day. Something inside Mike Tyson flips. He was born for this. This is his true destiny. He stands up, majestically shedding his bathrobe.

Lyn's mouth gapes a little as Mike strides forward. He fixes her with a determined glare. "I'm not just Mike… I'm Iron Mike Tyson." A pair sunglasses materializes on his face. "Let's dew dis."

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