Muhammad Ali sits beside me outside the office of Peter Moore, President of EA Sports. I had not expected to see Mr. Ali today, but, nonetheless, there he is: frailly shaking, quietly proud.

Curious about the great one’s thoughts on his role in the new Fight Night title, I ask him, “So, Mr. Ali, how does it feels to be playable in a video game?”

I wake up in Bellevue Hospital three hours later. My left eyes swollen shut, both arms broken. My groin burns, but with my arms in slings, I cannot reach it. I imagine the worst.

Muhammad Ali has beaten me, brutally. And without reason.

In a cot beside me rests Peter Moore; beside him, John Riccitiello; and beside him, over two dozen Electronic Arts executives. Mr. Moore, through the wires of his broken jaw, screams in agony. I ask the nurse what has happened and she explains Ali, upon learning he was in a video game, assaulted the entire EA staff – even the office’s two labradoodle’s: Lily and Tango.

That evening, I catch a plane to Vancouver where I begin my investigation  at EA Canada, Round 4’s developer. I have so many questions: did they consult Ali? has Ali contacted them? do they feel safe?

But I’m too late. All that remains of EA Canada are bits of hard drive and the skin off Mr. Ali’s knuckles. Everything else has been beaten to a fine dust and cast to the northern winds.

Everywhere I go I find the same thing: a trail of Mr. Ali’s rage and destruction. Until, finally, a clue appears. Outside a Gamestop that had housed a Round 4 in-store demo kiosk (destroyed) I find an airplane-boarding pass for one Mr. Cassius Clay.

It’s dusk as I pull into the west tarmac of John F. Kennedy Airport. Ali’s assistant, a sprightly white woman wearing a puffy Creighton University sweatshirt, muscles a half-dozen pieces of luggage through the door of a small private jet. I ask her where Ali’s flying. “He can’t run forever,” I say, words I had heard in some movie that somehow felt relevant.

She looks to see if Ali’s around, then whispers, “He’s off to Vietnam. “But why?” I ask. “Ali hates Vietnam.”

Then I get it, er, I think i get it. EA must print the Fight Night discs in Vietnam to cut costs. Ali plans to destroy every copy of Round 4 before it has a chance to ship. With the copies, whatever it was that so enraged the living legend, will be done, gone.

A black car pulls up with Ali riding shotgun. He recognizes me and smiles.

“Why are you doing this?” I shout.

Mr. Ali refuses to answer my question as he board the plane. A stewardess shuts the passenger door. The plane taxis down the runway. Ali and any hopes of an appearance in Fight Night Round 4 take flight. And they’re gone.

Maybe Ali hates video games, I think. Or maybe he’s gone senile.

A week later, I recieve a small parce; inside, I find keys to a locker in JFK. I put off visiting the airport for awhile, until one day, on a trip to Atlanta, I remember it. I walk over to the storage area, just south of the west terminal, pull the key off my key ring and open the locker.

Inside I find a matchbox full of teeth and a hardened turd.