To the Tiger, this was the natural order of things. For what more could be expected of mere mortals when confronted by a presence so magnificent as his?
And the Tiger’s presence was indeed magnificent-
The afternoon sunshine painted the Tiger’s bronze skin. His muscles rippled and his tattoos danced, gleaming beneath a brilliant sheen of sweat. The fingers of his left hand stroked the great bronze shield on the front of the heavyweight championship belt, the image of a muscular boxer holding a globe aloft with gloved hands.
Sunlight gleamed against bronze. The Tiger straightened to his full height of six feet two inches, gripping the belt and aiming the shining trophy like a mirror. A slashing beam of reflected light blinded one of the gawking duffers. She shielded her eyes and continued to stare, as if she were braver than all the others who had come before her.
But the Tiger knew that this woman was not brave. She was a fool. She may as well have looked into the eyes of Medusa.
The Tiger smiled his baddest-man-on-the-planet smile.
If she wanted to stare, he’d give her something to stare at.
Dramatically, the way a great artist unveils a masterpiece, the heavyweight champion of the world pulled the scarlet towel from around his waist.
The woman fainted. Her companions, squealing in astonishment, barely managed to collect their friend’s supine body as they piled into the golf carts and dispersed as quickly as a herd of startled antelopes, leaving behind nothing save a lone white ball balanced on a tee.
The Tiger stared down-below the gleaming shield that girded his belly, below the nest of dark pubic hair-and smiled.
The operation had been a complete success.
Truly, he was King of the Jungle.
The heavyweight champion’s augmented penis bobbed in the hot tub, buffeted by a steady stream of jetting Jacuzzi bubbles.
The champion settled back, uttering a satisfied sigh. It was funny how things worked out sometimes.
First there’s the accident, and of course it’s frightening but you’re treated by the finest surgeon in Vegas, and he refers you to the best cosmetic surgeon, who provides you with a discreet informational video that you watch in the privacy of your own home. . and before you know it- snip, snip, pull, pull, stitch, stitch-you end up with. .
“Oh my God. . every time I see it. “ Porschia marveled, searching for words. “Gosh, Tony, it’s like a big old barge or something.”
“The Tiger sincerely hopes that you brought your tugboat, my dear.”
Porschia laughed. She stood at water’s edge, wearing a thong bikini bottom and a Tony “The Tiger” Katt T- shirt that was knotted beneath her pert, upturned breasts. Statuesque and strawberry blond, she was a budding star in her own right. Porschia Keyes, understudy to the lead dancer in the big review at the hotel that was sponsoring the Tiger’s first championship defense.
Of course, Tony viewed their relationship in completely realistic terms. Cut beneath the hearts and flowers and Porschia was just another perk from hotel management, no different than the big house or the private gymnasium. That didn’t mean the Tiger was uncomfortable with the arrangement. Perks like this he could definitely live with.
Tony modulated his voice at a low, sexy growl. “How about fixing us a drink, darling? The Tiger will have a kamikaze. You have whatever you like. We’ll spend the whole afternoon together.”
“Don’t you have to train?”
“The Tiger ran four miles before breakfast. He ate his Wheaties. He hasn’t had a cigarette in a month. The fight is not for another three weeks. A day off will do the Tiger a world of good. It will keep him from getting stale.”
Porschia thought it over. “Okay. I’ll phone the hotel and bag my afternoon rehearsal. But you have to help me come up with an excuse.”
“Tell them you tangled with a tiger.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell them you were mauled.”
“Yeah.”
“Because you’re gonna be.”
“Yeah.”
“So hurry back.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then we’ll
Porschia flushed. “God, Tony, I just love it when you talk
The Tiger offed the Jacuzzi jets and was enveloped by the afternoon silence of a wealthy neighborhood.
A year ago Tony Katt was holed up in a crackerbox apartment in Fresno. Sure the apartment was a step up from the slams, but not much of a step. Then he had that fight on ESPN. Not even a main event. Just a ten round prelim. But Caligula Tate-the guy who promoted the heavyweight champion of the world-watched that fight, salivating over the big white boy covered over with jailhouse Aryan Brotherhood tattoos. When he turned off his television, Tate knew he’d found a pug that would bring in the long green when matched with Alexis Shabazz.
Shabazz was a proud member of the Nation of Islam. Having finally won the title after a long and distinguished career, he was looking for a few good paydays against limited opposition before hanging up the gloves. Which was another way of saying that Alexis Shabazz was over the hill.
His people figured he’d have no trouble taming Tony the Tiger. They were wrong. About that, and about a few other things.
Shabazz trained for a short fight. He knew his old legs couldn’t carry him for twelve rounds, so he planned to starch Tony the Tiger as soon as the opening bell rang. Shabazz was a little used up and a little slow, but he still had amazing power. Boxing writers said he had Liston’s jab and Foreman’s right hand.
Shabazz planned to topple Tony with a big right hand, pocket his check, and be on the next plane to Philadelphia. He warmed up in his dressing room, shadowboxing several rounds in advance of the fight, and by the time he entered the ring he was primed and ready to knock the jailhouse tattoos off the Tiger.
There was only one thing Shabazz didn’t count on-the national anthem. Because for all intents and purposes there were two of them.
That was the promoter’s fault. Caligula Tate figured he’d do the anthem as a duet to promote racial harmony, because he was taking a real beating in the press for matching a Black Muslim with a guy who had a swastika tattooed over his heart.
Tate hired a redheaded C amp; W queen with skin the color of Bisquick and a has-been soul mama singer from darkest Detroit to do the honors. What Tate didn’t know was that the soul mama had a crack habit and was in desperate need of some serious career revitalization.
The big moment arrived. The cowgirl kicked things off like a true Texican-
Then the soul mama stepped into the spotlight. A vision in purple sequins and scarlet feathers, she was determined to send every member of the pay-per-view audience scurrying to the nearest music store for a copy of her remastered greatest hits CD.
The soul mama wailed. She screeched. She jumped up and down and squinted and stomped her feet, and by the time she reached “the land of the free and the home of the brave” she had stretched the national anthem to a record time of six minutes and fifty-five seconds.
All the while, Alexis Shabazz shadowboxed in his corner, trying to stay warm but actually blowing his load.
