UFC 260: Miocic vs. N'Gannou 2

Tyron Woodley   vs.   Vicente Luque 


The year is 2053. 

You walk the crumbling pavement littered with torn Bonds and REIT contracts beneath an unholy green nuclear borealis, a Geiger counter crackling in one hand, weaving you way between decrepit skysc****rs lurching floor after floor of broken blackened windows save a few lit hellishly by plastic fed fires leaking greasy smoke into the sulphorous night air.

Two hundred feet away a tank painted in transflag pastels is  rolling over a nest of  tireless gutted EV's, stacked like scarab chitin beneath the sickly  pale blue bug-zapper light of a caged regime sign that dully pulses the message 'Build back better'. You mentally pray to Cardi B's WAP it spares you no interest--*****s and sequins fired at high velocities are fatal. 

Sour winds carry the symphony of the Collaborated Uniparty National Trust's utopia: Glass shattering as a mob of peaceful protestors liberate Yeezy V23567's from a sports store that takes bread as credit. Gibbering Rag-clad lunatics acting out Shakespearian delusions in unlit narrow alleys puddled with open sewage. Somewhere between the endless sirens and wailing women, the sonorous bell-dongs of a child being beaten with a pan ring out the hour.

You round a corner and are met the scene of woman in a crinoline fairy skirt masturbating furiously beside a rusty dumpster that is overflowing with ****-stained Ben Franklins--a fiat long rendered meaningless by successive QE and deflationary spirals such that its only current value is whatever application can be wrought from it. Well inured to virtually every species of  social degeneracy imaginable  you are unmoved. Yesterday in this very place, you barely registered a long-bearded man in a loincloth eating an unplucked pigeon like an apple.

You move to cross the street and are forced to quickly dive into the gutter to avoid a rapidly accelerating garbage truck which suddenly veers off and plows directly into the pervert mid-jerk, before backing over the body, and screeching off in a spin of smoke. You've not intention of administering aid but, having decided in an instant the creature is decidedly better off, and given the possibility that she might be carrying some State-issued larvae Soylent, and given the fact you've eaten nothing save a sparrow and a pound of weeds all week, you move to inspect the body. 


The woman, if such things existed as meaningful distinctions now, lies face down. Her apparent sex despite the presence of a brassiere and neon ribbons in her oily hair, is belied by a lumberjack's neck and thick tangles of hair across the shoulders, chest and back. A Xe. What else? Through the gloom you can make out a mapping of piercings and tattoos; here, an anarchy symbol, there, a squirting phallus in black ink headed by the letters 'BLM 4 Lyfe'. Xe is like a tacky ball of lard rolled raw through a stamp collection and a junkie's rug.


As you turn the the body over with the tip of your boot, hoping the smell will not impregnate the leather, a dirty rind of moon peeps out through the clouds, illuminating it's face. You know this person.

It's Erison.

You startle back as one swollen eye cracks open, a hand of sooty sausage-like fingers splayed at wrong angles raises something up for you to inspect. It's faded, autographed photograph of Tyron Woodley--no doubt the inspiration for the night's debauchery, and judging by the overall wearing, that of many previous. Woodley, having died in a fight with Gabbi Garcia, entering the bout 16-48-2, has not fought in over a decade.

He smiles, the few remaining teeth heavily stained with crayon, and before expiring forever rasps out 'Woodey...My Boy woody...one day gonna get back that belt'.....