Author: [Chameleon] Alina vs Tyson

[Chameleon]

Alina vs Tyson
by Chameleon

Who would win in a wrestling match, it was asked, as these hypotheticals often are, Alina Popa or Mike Tyson. A picture, a side by side comparison, went viral. The shots were perhaps chosen with bias but still, it did go some way to sway popular opinion, as well it might.

He’d never even heard of her and was deeply insulted at the suggestion that a woman – any women – could defeat him, even long retired as he was. Alina was by no means a spring chicken but at thirty-nine she was still in her prime. In bodybuilding, it takes a long time for an athlete to reach her peak, taking years to build the kind of muscle mass she boasted. She’d been a pro for almost twenty; two whole decades of perfecting her physique.

“Wrestling,” he reiterated quickly, “not arm-wrestling.” Someone had just shown him the actual picture that was being circulated with the viral hypothetical – the common boast. It was a side by side comparison, Mike Tyson, some publicity shot looking mean and post-fight exhausted, placed next to one of Alina, fists on her broad hips, low camera shooting up her expansive frame. Her muscles were positively throbbing with size and density, a big grin on her round, friendly face.

Even though the shots weren’t to scale and even though she wasn’t flexing her infamous arms, it was still very much apparent that the circumference of her biceps exceeded his by a significant amount. In so far as pure brute brawn determined the winner of an arm-wrestling match, he clearly wouldn’t stand a chance.

Someone had presented it – the hypothetical question which the caption proposed – to Tyson himself. Publically. Who had of course sneered at the suggestion that a woman, even a bodybuilder, could possibly best him. And he’d happily accepted the challenge-match to put his money where his mouth was. Then they’d shown him the actual picture, shown him exactly who it was they were talking about here, and he’d visibly paled. But it wasn’t like he could back down.

As it happened Alina was just as unaware of the viral picture as her proposed opponent. She had better things to do with her time than worry about such ridiculous hypotheticals. But someone did put it to her, also publically, that not only had Mike Tyson been made aware of the question: “who would win in a wrestling match between...?” but that he’d replied: “Fuck you talking about, ain’t no bitch gonna take me down – that’s like science fiction – you’re talking crazy. You’re on drugs if you think any bitch can even touch me!”

She wasn’t a wrestler any more than he was. Not technically. The wrestling she did was in hotel rooms with men who liked getting overpowered by women like her. Not that there were too many women around like her. Although it could get competitive at times if that’s how the client like to play, it wasn’t sport in any sense of the word, save possibly the most euphemistic one.

But an actual combative match-up between athletes, that was something completely new to her. The competitions she entered involved getting hair and make-up done before she went on stage, getting tan applied. They were beauty contents for body-beautiful women who were nonetheless judged on their dedicated accomplishment rather than genetic craps aligning with current fashion. (Not that there wasn’t regrettably some degree of inconsistent whim in bodybuilding too.)

But even so, Alina was confident enough in her ability, even untested, and doubly motivated given the notorious boxer’s reaction to the challenge.

And she had every right to be confident. Tyson might be a heavyweight and have two inches on her but at 1.73 metres she was one hundred kilos of pure brute brawn. Twelve years his junior and as strong as she’d ever been in her life, she could squat nearly two hundred kilos, bench press one hundred and ten, and deadlift one hundred and forty. She could curl thirty kilo dumbbells in each arm, and all for reps. She was about as strong as a woman got outside of a superhero story.

When she stood opposite him in the ring, Tyson visibly baulked, wondering what the hell he’d let himself in for. Alina flexed her muscles and it was the terrifying thug’s turn to be scared. She was so much bigger in real life than internet pictures could even suggest.

They closed on one another. He made a desperate grab for her but she just brushed off his attack with a careless sweep of her huge arm. Tyson staggered backwards.

Alina came in, grabbed his shoulder, his arm, forced his body to lean forward as though bowing at the waist. She twisted his arm to jut painfully up behind his back, pinned there by her claw grip of his forearm. Then she exerted her strength and simply slammed him bodily down against the floor. His face smacked hard and her tremendous muscular weight came down on top of him, winding him, but his arm remained held behind him, twisted back, on the brink of breaking.

“Quit,” she ordered.

Tyson’s face was a rigour of agonised resistance.

She gave his arm a sharp twist, making the joint creak.

He gasped in pain, the sweat rolling off of him.

“If you don’t, I’ll snap it,” she sang, her voice so sweet and pleasant it was almost musical. “In fact, unless you submit, I’ll rip it right off. Then I’ll rip off your other arm and both your legs too. I’m strong enough, so don’t test me. Just image it, you’ll become famous – like a freakshow. Lifted and carted about, cared for, for the rest of your life. Come see Mike Tyson, the living torso – he used to be a boxer you know.”

It was too much. “I quit!” he yelled. “Please, let go. Let me go!”

Delighted, Alina released him and stood. Her victim lay face down on the ground, breathless and defeated.

[Chameleon]

But he was not a man to be gracious in defeat. Tyson immediately complained, “it’s not fair, it’s her sport, not mine.”

It wasn’t her sport, her sport was bodybuilding. And she wasn’t even a champion in it, at least, not an overall champion. She had won any number of competitions but in the Grand Prix of bodybuilding – the Ms Olympia – she’d only ever been a runner up.

Wrestling was far closer to his chosen field than hers. But now was not a time to get pernickety. Demonstration matches like this required more visible, more decisive argumentation and proof. It was time to get palpable.

And it wasn’t like they hadn’t suspected a man such as he would lack humility.

“Hardly,” she sneered, though her voice was still sing-song pleasant. “Wrestling’s far closer to boxing than bodybuilding is. But if that’s your argument, then fine. You want a boxing match, I’ll try my hand...”

And the pretty ring girl with the improbable breasts and the surprisingly cobbled abs was suddenly there, holding two pairs of boxing gloves.

Tyson looked appropriately terrified. He thought his humiliation was over but this brutal bitch appeared intent of taking him at his word. Before he could even think how to extricate himself from this new challenge, the ring girl was already wrapping his hands and putting the gloves on him.

On the other hand, it did give him the opportunity, finally, to put this bitch back in her place. How often had he – had any man – the opportunity to legally lay into a woman like he wanted to lay into this over-pumped, over-primped steroided bimbo? Muscle was one thing – hell, wrestling was one thing – but he was fucking Tyson, and this was a boxing match.

He didn’t need to psyche himself up – he was already raring to go.

There she was, gloves on her hands, biceps flexed... actually, her biceps were so large and round they were actually bigger than her gloves! But what was it they said? Bodybuilding was a beauty-show for fags. Boxing was a real test of the man. And she wasn’t even that, no matter how many male hormone she pumped into her body.

Tyson strode forward into the centre of the ring. He let loose his most hate-filled, most furious, most killer punch. A solid, thrusting jab to the face – knock her out in one – fucking kill the bitch.

Alina stood there and took it. She not only kept her footing but she shook the punch off as though barely fazed by it. Though her nose tricked a little blood and her lip looked like it had split, she actually smiled, as though amused by how little impact his blow had had upon her robust form.

And she hadn’t ducked – hadn’t even flinched. She hadn’t swerved or weaved. She had let the punch fall, confident in her capacity to withstand it, and wanting to demonstrate her capacity to withstand it.

Tyson just stared, unable to believe what had just happened. He wasn’t that out of shape – that blow could have felled a bull. What he’d done with that punch in the ring... on the streets, on occasion... There was no way she should still be standing – still be conscious.

But she was utterly undaunted.

Then she moved. Like lightening.

To the audience watching, the blow seemed to have an almost mocking quality to it, as though trying to state in motion and execution, see, that’s how you throw a punch. And in comparison to the punch it was mocking, the effect was indeed devastating.

Tyson fell dead. Even with the gloves on she’d burst both his eyeballs. His nose was squashed to pulp. The autopsy revealed his brain was a mass of ruptures – reduced to mush.

Live-streamed around the globe, the film was already out there – too late to suppress it. The Tyson Death video went viral. As did the snippet of interview with Alina that was filmed before the match. Chorused questions had bombarded her as she arrived and made her way through the hordes of journalists, wanting to capture the prelude to this historic event. One had asked: “Alina, are you going to win?”

And she turned, smiled her warm and friendly smile, told the camera directly, “Win? I’m going to kill him!”

[kredenchurut]

this story is perfect! is there any chance you will continue with it? and to make it even better i think a few more details would be awesome. like how did they get to the match from announcing it, how did alina prepare for the fight, etc.