Undisputed Truth: My Autobiography. Mike Tyson

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       Cover

       Title Page

       Dedication

       PROLOGUE

       1

       2

       3

       4

       5

       6

       7

       8

       9

       10

       11

       12

       13

       14

       15

       16

       EPILOGUE

       POSTSCRIPT TO THE EPILOGUE

       A NOTE ON LEXICON

       ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

       ABOUT THE AUTHORS

       PHOTO CREDITS

       PICTURE SECTION

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

      THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO ALL THE OUTCASTS –

      EVERYONE WHO HAS EVER BEEN MESMERIZED,

      MARGINALIZED, TRANQUILIZED, BEATEN DOWN,

      AND GOTTEN THE WRONG END OF THE STICK.

      AND INCAPABLE OF RECEIVING LOVE.

      I spent most of the six weeks between my conviction for rape and sentencing traveling around the country romancing all of my various girlfriends. It was my way of saying good-bye to them. And when I wasn’t with them, I was fending off all the women who propositioned me. Everywhere I’d go, there were some women who would come up to me and say, “Come on, I’m not going to say that you raped me. You can come with me. I’ll let you film it.” I later realized that that was their way of saying “We believe you didn’t do it.” But I didn’t take it that way. I’d strike back indignantly with a rude response. Although they were saying what they said out of support, I was in too much pain to realize it. I was an ignorant, mad, bitter guy who had a lot of growing up to do.

      But some of my anger was understandable. I was a twenty-five-year-old kid facing sixty years in jail.

      My promoter, Don King, had kept assuring me that I would walk from these charges. He had hired Vince Fuller, the best lawyer that a million-dollar fee could buy. But I knew from the start that I was in trouble. I wasn’t being tried in New York or Los Angeles; we were in Indianapolis, Indiana, historically one of the strongholds of the Ku Klux Klan. My judge, Patricia Gifford, was a former sex crimes prosecutor and was known as “the Hanging Judge.” I had been found guilty by a jury of my “peers,” two of whom were black. Another black jury member had been excused by the judge after a fire in the hotel where the jurors were ­staying.

      But in my mind, I had no peers. I was the youngest heavyweight champion in the history of boxing. I was a titan, the reincarnation of Alexander the Great. My style was impetuous, my defenses were impregnable, and I was ferocious. It’s amazing how a low self-esteem and a huge ego can give you delusions of grandeur. But after the trial, this god among men had to get his black ass back in court for his ­sentencing.

      But first I tried some divine intervention. Calvin, my close friend from Chicago, told me about some hoodoo woman who could cast a spell to keep me out of jail.

      “You piss in a jar, then put five hundred-dollar bills in there, then put the jar under your bed for three days and then bring it to her and she’ll pray over it for you,” Calvin told me.

      “So the clairvoyant broad is gonna take the pissy pile of hundreds out of the jar, rinse them off, and then go shopping. If somebody gave you a hundred-dollar bill they pissed on, would you care?” I asked Calvin. I had a reputation for throwing around money but that was too much even for me.

      Then СКАЧАТЬ