The Writer and the Boxer

This was the best coupling I've seen on a shelf in quite a while. Look at them. Sitting there, as equals.

If Mark Twain and Mike Tyson got into a heated debate,
Twain would win.
If Mark Twain and Mike Tyson got into a fight,
Tyson would win.
And if Mark Twain and Mike Tyson teamed up...
The World would win.

Twain stood there on the bow of the steamer as if he had been standing there for his entire life. For all Mike knew, he had. As Tyson approached the author, Twain puffed on a cigar. The smoke from his exhale belted out and around his head, leaping and dispersing into the air, telling of the direction of the wind and the slow forward motion of the craft under their feet.

Tyson walked slowly, hoping not to draw any more attention than he already had. His ascension through the lower decks had been a bit more conspicuous than he had hoped for, but he supposed it was a foolish hope to begin with. What else had he expected? He was a well dressed, enormous, confident man of color and he was parading confidently through the dining hall and the gambling rooms of a steamer in the deep south.

Tyson had known the risk, but it couldn't be helped. He was looking for the only man in this time (that Mike could think of) who had the mental capacity to understand the stakes. He was not interested in these simple folks and their predjudices. His only thought was for humanity. He did not care that they stared or leaned over to their wives and whispered something disparaging. He did not care, any more than was necessary, what they thought of him, or what they would make of the tattoo.

Mike had heard that Twain wanted a bit of privacy and had cleared the top observation deck of the ship for his own personal use. Tyson also knew that this was likely his only opportunity to be alone with the writer, so he had acted quickly. He had bribed one man and sucker punched another and now he found himself alone with the greatest satirist of all time, and the only man that could help. Mike had to be quick.

"Hello Mistah Mahk Twain," Tyson began in his signature lisp, "I hope I'm not disturbing you, but I'd beg a moment of your time." Mike was trying to be as sophisticated as possible. Maybe it was the fact that he had never read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and did not want the conversation to veer in that direction, or maybe it was the itchy tightness of his tailored 1890s suit. Either way, he felt that a formal tone would be best.

Twain did not turn to look a him, but kept his gaze on the darkness beyond the railing. Somewhere out there was the answer, covered by the darkness and the low rumble of the river.

"Do you know, Mr. Tyson, how much trouble you are in?" Twain made no pleasantries. He was aware, probably even more than Iron Mike, how much danger there was to be had on this ship.

"I'm sawee," Mike said, taken aback. He put his hand on the railing to steady himself, "But I've wisked a gweat deal to find you. I need your help, sir."

"I am aware, Mr. Tyson, of your predicament. I did not become the man I am today by being unobservant of my surroundings. But you can hardly expect me to just be at the beck and call of the fates every time the fabric of space and time is on the verge of collapse."

"Mr. Twain, please," this is not what Mike had expected, "I've come here from..."

"I know why you're here and what we must do, Mr. Tyson," Twain spoke calmly, even though he could feel the vibrations of the thugs climbing the stairs underneath his feet. He took one more puff of his twenty dollar cigar and then chucked it overboard, "I was merely having a moment of self pity. I was wondering where the fates were while my publishing company failed? Where they were when my critics roared for my head? Where they were when my son fell ill, and where they will be when the very power that I posses to understand space and time the way that I do causes my daughter to convulse and not understand why?"

The writer turned to the boxer and continued, "But none of that matters now. I'll fight along side you just like I did with Joan when here need was dire. Just don't expect me to be pleased about it."

Mike Tyson grinned. The gap in his teeth caused the older man to smile as well.

"Thanks Mark," Mike had done his duty without speaking five sentences, "Mr. Bradley Cooper will be relieved."

"And that is what's really important, isn't it?"

The two men chuckled softly together as the door to the upper deck was kicked open.

"Now," Twain almost mused, "you take care of these ruffians and I'll prepare for the jump."

"Jump?" Mike didn't like the idea of leaping from anywhere.

"Yes, Mr. Tyson," Mark Twain turned back to the river as three large men spilled out onto the deck behind him, "Any great adventure must first begin with a risky leap."

Tyson moved quickly in the swaying lamplight on the deck. He gut punched the first man, leaving him unable to breath, broke the wrist of the second, and turned a knife that the third man pulled back upon its owner.

When the three men were lying helpless on the wooden ground, Tyson turned back to see Twain standing on the top bar of the guard railing. Mike lumbered up next to the old gentleman in the white suite and, as softly as he could manage with his giant, powerful hands, held on to Twain's shoulders.

Twain could sense the boxer's apprehension, "Don't worry, Mike, if it doesn't work, we've got at least a mark twain of water underneath us to cushion our fall."

This didn't seem to comfort Mike. In truth, he didn't really know what that meant. But he was brave and ready. The pair leapt from the railing together and as they fell, about ten feet from the water, a small rip in the night air opened up and swallowed them. There was no excessive light or sound, it looked mostly like the onset of the visual blur one gets when experiencing a migraine. Just a little eraser mark on the eye, but Twain and Tyson disappeared into it without a trace. They were off on their adventure, and the steam ship with its 42 passengers was scarcely aware that anything had happened at all.

A moment later, the wounded men on the deck flashed out of existence as well. Then, a beat after that, Twain reappeared where he had been standing before. He looked weary and hardened as if he had not slept or ate for quite some time.

Scott Bryan
5-15-2014