Mike Tyson's soul hovered restlessly over Earth, shimmering with angelic radiance, wings of light fluttering gently. For a moment, he hesitated, suspended above the swirling clouds, eyes widening with realization.
"H-holy crap! I'm a freakin' ghost!" Tyson muttered, his voice high-pitched, lisping, yet strangely ethereal. "Let's see what kind of bullcrap they're saying about me down there!"
Driven by ghostly fury and curiosity, Tyson dove downward, passing effortlessly through layers of clouds and atmosphere, until he found himself drifting unseen through Los Angeles, his hometown.
Everywhere he looked, TVs and computer screens showed his final tragic leap, replayed endlessly in slow motion, fast-forwarded, reversed, and edited into ridiculous memes with sound effects, music, and absurd captions.
"What the—this ain't funny!" Tyson shrieked indignantly, waving his tiny glowing wings in anger. "Why they laughin'? I just died like a legend, d-dammit!"
Yet, despite Tyson's angry protests, the memes went viral, spreading rapidly and absurdly across social media. Tyson floated through apartments and cafés, watching millennials laughing hysterically, sharing remixed clips of his leap synced to Eminem's "Lose Yourself," complete with dramatic bass drops.
"You disrespectful punks!" Tyson shouted helplessly, wings fluttering furiously. "I'll haunt y-your asses till you say sorry!"
Suddenly, his ghostly form was pulled across America, arriving unseen at a large rally in Florida. On stage stood none other than former—and now bizarrely reinstated—President Donald Trump, holding a microphone and beaming confidently.
Trump's voice echoed grandly to the massive, cheering crowd: "You know folks, Mike Tyson—great fighter, great man—tragically jumped out a window. He thought he could fly. Incredible guy. Very brave. Let's remember him by voting for strength, bravery—someone who'll never jump out windows. And let's give a hand to those brave hospital heroes. They got medals today, you know. Big beautiful medals."
The crowd erupted, chanting "Four more years! Four more years!"
Tyson's tiny ghostly orb vibrated furiously, wings flapping indignantly. "Aw, hell nah! Trump's usin' my splat for votes now?! This is s-some straight-up bullshit!"
Yet Trump's tactic worked. Tyson drifted invisibly through homes, bars, and polling stations across America, watching voters passionately debate the absurd merits of electing Trump because he'd given medals of honor to "those Tyson heroes."
"Hell, Trump brought karate back!" shouted a proud voter in Ohio. "That nurse chick? A damn American icon!"
Tyson groaned helplessly, his ethereal form drooping in disbelief. "Seriously? They're makin' this political? Over my broken-ass body? Wh-what happened to dignity, America?!"
Nearby, Logan Paul sat recording his reaction to Tyson's infamous leap, tears streaming dramatically down his face, capturing himself for another highly viewed YouTube video titled: "Mike Tyson Jumps—LIVE REACTION! (Emotional Breakdown)"
Logan sobbed theatrically to the camera, voice trembling: "This…this was supposed to be a night of boxing greatness. Instead, it's tragedy. Rest easy, legend. Smash subscribe if you're mourning too. Let's hit 10 million subs for Mike."
Tyson growled angrily, ghostly glow flaring. "Logan Paul?! Y-you fake-ass b-bitch! Usin' my ghost to get subs?! I'm gonna ghost-punch you!"
But his spectral fists passed harmlessly through Logan's dramatically sobbing face. Logan shivered suddenly and gasped, "Whoa…that's a weird chill. Guys, I swear Mike's ghost just touched me!"
In disgust, Tyson's spirit sped onward, passing unseen through numerous media outlets, witnessing the bizarre impact of his death on pop culture:
Netflix immediately announced a 10-part documentary: "Tyson—The Final Leap."
TikTok exploded with a "Tyson Challenge," where teens dramatically leaped into swimming pools, yelling "I AM INVINCIBLE!"
A new flavor of energy drink—"Iron Splat"—sold millions overnight.
Finally, Tyson's ghostly orb hovered silently in Washington D.C., floating gently into the White House press room. Cameras flashed. Vice President Kamala Harris stood at the podium, adjusting her microphone with a confident yet strangely awkward grin, readying herself for a speech intended as serious yet somehow already cringeworthy.
Harris began, nodding emphatically, as though each word was utterly profound: "Mike Tyson was...a great boxer. Truly great. And greatness...is when you do great things. Because when you think about greatness, well...that's what it means—to be great. Mike Tyson was indeed great. And as we remember his greatness, we remember it because he is someone who was great—someone truly great."
She nodded again proudly, as though she'd just explained quantum physics perfectly.
Reporters coughed awkwardly, glancing at each other in confusion. Some stifled laughter.
Tyson's ghost hovered close, staring incredulously. "Wh-what the hell is this? Is she—d-d-does she know what she's saying?!"
Harris continued, oblivious, waving her hands passionately: "And Mike Tyson—he fought. He fought hard, like a fighter. And when fighters fight, they fight…well, they fight. And Mike Tyson—he fought!"
Someone in the audience chuckled softly.
"Oh my God, this is painful!" Tyson wailed, ghostly wings flapping in frustration. "S-stop talkin', Kamala! Please!"
Suddenly Harris giggled awkwardly, shrugging. "Honestly, folks, who saw this coming? Mike Tyson flying? Guess gravity wins, right? Ha-ha-ha!"
The entire room went silent, mouths open in stunned disbelief. Several reporters visibly cringed, staring at the floor in second-hand embarrassment.
Tyson erupted in ghostly rage. "YOU LAUGHIN' AT ME, KAMALA?! OH, THAT'S IT! YOU G-GONNA FEEL THE WRATH OF IRON MIKE'S GHOST!"
Furiously, Tyson chased Kamala's oblivious form back to her residence, roaring unheard ghostly insults, determined to haunt her into eternal fear. But his revenge was short-lived as Kamala casually began to undress, preparing for a shower.
"Whoa, no—OH HELL NO!" Tyson shrieked, instantly recoiling in horror from what he saw. "WHY SO MUCH HAIR?! WHY THE WRINKLES?! TH-THIS IS ELDER ABUSE!"
Terrified and nauseated, Tyson's ghost bolted skyward once more, shrieking frantically, determined now to leave Earth entirely, desperate to erase the horrific images now seared into his ghostly mind.
As he rocketed toward space, away from political absurdity, bad memes, Logan Paul's fake tears, and Kamala's terrifying shower scene, Tyson's spirit muttered bitterly:
"Screw this Earth sh-shit! I-I'm gonna see if it's flat and get my ghostly ass away from this freakin' madhouse planet!"
Determined and trembling with ghostly disgust, Mike Tyson's shimmering soul orb surged skyward, angelic wings fluttering frantically. He shot straight up like a glowing comet, rapidly ascending through layers of Earth's atmosphere, clouds rushing past him in a surreal blur.
He paused briefly in the quiet serenity of low Earth orbit, gazing down on the pale blue planet below, its gentle curve clearly visible.
Tyson sighed, his ghostly form radiating mild disappointment. "Ah, crap. It's round. Well, guess Kyrie Irving was wrong after all. I'll tell him—if I ever haunt his ass."
With a shrug of ghostly acceptance, Tyson's glowing orb turned toward the Moon, determined now to explore the cosmos, to see what other secrets the universe might hold. Wings flapping energetically, he streaked through the vacuum of space, the vast lunar surface unfolding beneath him, a silent expanse of craters and dust.
"Y-you know, moon's kinda boring," Tyson mumbled to himself, inspecting the bleak, gray landscape. "I-I thought there'd be aliens or some shit up here. Not just dusty-ass rocks and craters."
Boredom quickly overcame his spectral curiosity, prompting Tyson's restless soul to venture deeper into the infinite void beyond. The Earth shrank behind him as stars filled the black canvas of space, galaxies spinning silently in the distance.
Yet just as Tyson started truly enjoying his cosmic freedom, a sudden, blinding golden flash exploded before him, lighting up the surrounding darkness with dazzling intensity. He shielded his ghostly eyes with his wings, blinking rapidly.
Floating there, just ahead, was a radiant figure, shimmering magnificently in golden-white armor that seemed crafted from pure celestial energy. Yet, incredibly, inexplicably, this divine figure resembled nothing more than a muscular four-year-old child, complete with pudgy cheeks and oversized celestial armor clearly too large for his tiny form.
The child-God hovered before Tyson, flapping enormous wings lazily, his infantile face stern and important, voice deep yet hilariously childish.
"Mike Tyson," the buff toddler-God boomed dramatically, flexing tiny but shockingly muscular arms. "Stop right there!"
Tyson froze, wings quivering uncertainly. "Who the hell are y-you? Some kind of s-space baby?"
The baby-God frowned, puffing out his celestial chest indignantly. "I am God, silly boxer-man. You died too early. You gotta go back. You have, um—" the child paused, counting tiny divine fingers clumsily, "—like, destiny or something. Big stuff."
Tyson groaned, shaking his shimmering orb form. "N-nah, little dude. Earth's stupid. People there laughed at me, made memes and bad speeches and… and the Vice President has weird hairy bits. I'm done with that place."
But the divine child-God crossed his small, muscular arms stubbornly, pouting dramatically. "You don't have a choice, Mike Tyson. You go back to Earth now, okay? I'm God. I make rules."
Tyson growled impatiently. "I-I ain't goin' nowhere, l-l-little muscle-baby! Y-your rules are dumb."
Without further hesitation, Tyson tried to dart around the child-God, his wings flapping desperately—but the baby-God, deceptively quick for his toddler form, grabbed Tyson's glowing orb with comically oversized hands.
"Oh no, you don't, naughty boxer!" the tiny deity scolded, shaking Tyson like a misbehaving toy. "Time to send you back to Earth with a holy throw! Are you ready?"
Before Tyson could protest, the toddler-God wound up dramatically, his face squinting comically, muscular arms rippling ridiculously beneath the oversized celestial armor.
"God throws Mike Tyson… NOW!" the child shouted triumphantly, releasing Tyson's soul-orb in a shockingly powerful throw.
But like most four-year-old throws, the aim was horribly off-target.
Tyson shrieked as he soared wildly through space, rocketing past Earth, completely missing it by countless miles. Planets blurred past him, stars streaked by in bright flashes, galaxies became distant smears of light.
"NOOOOOOOOOO! YOU STUPID BABY GOD! THAT'S NOT EARTH! THAT'S SOME OTHER SHIT ENTIRELY!" Tyson's ghostly scream echoed helplessly through the cosmic void, lost in the vast emptiness.
The toddler-God hovered there, blinking innocently at his terrible throw. "Uh-oh. Did I miss? I think I just used like ten million years of God-energy, too. Oh well." The little God yawned sleepily, suddenly bored and exhausted. "Time for a God-nap."
With a gentle wave of his tiny hand, the toddler-God floated sleepily back to his celestial cave high above Heaven itself—a serene, grassy realm filled with gently snoring celestial bears, lambs, and kittens. Curling up cozily among the divine creatures, he promptly fell into a deep, peaceful slumber, leaving Tyson's soul soaring helplessly onward into the cosmos.
Meanwhile, Mike Tyson continued streaking through the infinite void, his tiny wings flapping in sheer frustration. "This is s-some top-tier b-bullshit right here! I-I get thrown by a muscle-baby God? What kinda sick-ass afterlife is this?"
As Tyson shot deeper and deeper into unknown space, distant stars and swirling nebulae surrounded him, cosmic wonders unfolding in every direction. Ahead loomed a magnificent spiral galaxy—beautiful, mysterious, utterly alien.
And with sudden, grim clarity, Tyson knew instinctively that this distant galaxy was now his inevitable destination, his bizarre new home.
"F-fine," Tyson grumbled, wings flapping weakly. "Whatever galaxy this is, I hope it don't got Kamala Harris or Logan Paul. Especially not Kamala's shower. Can't handle more wrinkly shit."
But in that distant galaxy—far, far away—his new life awaited, completely unaware and unprepared for the surreal cosmic chaos Mike Tyson's soul would soon unleash upon it.
He would awaken as Anakin Skywalker, the boy destined to change the universe itself.
And he had no choice but to embrace this wild, strange destiny—thrown by a buff toddler-God, angry at Earth, terrified of Kamala Harris's wrinkles, yet ready to fight, stutter, and meme his way into a new existence, one bizarre galaxy at a time.