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The Fictional Account of How Nick Diaz “Allegedly” Got Drugged Before UFC 158

The Fictional Account of How Nick Diaz “Allegedly” Got Drugged Before UFC 158

If you are one of the few existing in the dark zones of ignorance, the Co-Main Event podcast by Bleacher Report’s Chad Dundas and MMA Junkie’s Ben Fowlkes is the best MMA podcast in this dimension. Sure, maybe on Planet Diaz they might have a podcast where one of the infinite versions of Nick and Nate Diaz have their own, rambling three hour show, but we aren’t privy to those realms. So, for now, the CME is all we got.

However, this isn’t even about something that they had on their three rounds of podcast entertainment. No sir or ma’am or pronoun, this is about what they put in the latest edition of their Breakfast of Champions newsletter which comes every Friday-and it’s so easy to unsubscribe.

Earlier this week, Nick Diaz just brought up he believes someone drugged him before his fight with Georges St-Pierre like it was big deal. As your brain explodes, gather up the pieces and read how this “allegedly” happened thanks to the Dundasso Publishing Company.

Just after midnight Francis Carmont steered the big Plymouth down Rue Barré and hooked a left into the alley behind the car wash, listening to the tires crunch on broken glass as he rolled the big boat into the darkened lee of a sagging birch. He cut the engine and rubbed his eyes. He felt dirty. Christ, an American car. And a Plymouth? This was what you got when you let Georges pick the ride. Nothing too flashy, he said. They didn’t want to attract attention.

Carmont’s first question: If he drove around in a car that made him look like the saddest asshole in Montreal, would that not attract some attention?

Georges had smiled at this. It was not a nice smile. It was a shut-up-and-drive-the-damn-car smile. Carmont had seen enough of those in his life to spot one from across the street. He didn’t know how many more of those smiles he could stand.

He was thinking about it when the rear door opened and the man he’d been waiting for slipped into the backseat. Carmont glanced at him in the rearview, but couldn’t make out his face. The man rustled inside the neoprene of his winter coat and then stopped. Carmont could hear him breathing back there.

“So?” the man said.

“So what?” said Carmont.

“The money,” the man said. “The way this usually works is, you give me the money and I give you the item. In that order.”

As he talked Carmont could see the dark shape of his mouth moving in the mirror, but nothing more. Carmont took off his driving gloves and reached into his coat pocket, then stopped.

“How do I know you have it?” he said.

“Oh good, you’re one of those,” said the man. “You think, what, I show up here empty-handed, think I’ll take the money and jet, make a brilliant getaway before you catch me? Fella, you’re the one in a car. You saw me come up here on foot.”

“I didn’t see you.”

“Nah, you didn’t,” the man said. “You were daydreaming. A bad idea this late at night.”

Carmont turned in the seat to face him. He still couldn’t see any more than the man’s mouth. He let his eyes flash anger in the dark.

“Easy,” the man said. “You think I want trouble? Look, I know who you are. I’m not going to get into a tussle with Frankie Cars. Especially not in the backseat of a … what is this, a Chrysler? Best wheelman in the middleweight division can’t even get something with a V6. What’s the world coming to?”

Carmont couldn’t speak. He saw the man’s mouth twist into a smile as his hand came up holding something small and made of glass. When the thin sliver of streetlight caught it, Carmont could see it was filled with blue liquid.

“That’s it?” Carmont said.

“That’s all you need.”

“It’s not for me.”

“I know that,” the man said. “Though I’m not supposed to, am I? Just like I’m not supposed to know who you are, or where this little baby is headed, or what it has to do with the big fight at the Bell Centre tomorrow night, right?”

Carmont stared at him. He reached in his pocket and felt the money, a tight brick of bills. He handed it over and felt the man press the cold glass of the vial into his palm.

“You can slip it in his morning coffee if you like,” the man said. “He won’t taste it. Put it in his food, maybe, that vegan shit he eats. This is the part you have to figure out on your own.”

“Not me,” Carmont said. “This is not my problem.”

He pocketed the vial and turned to put his hands on the wheel. That comforting feeling, even now. Like being in his own yard. Behind him the man shouldered open the rear door and laughed from somewhere in his nose.

“Whatever you have to tell yourself,” the man said. “I asked you a year ago, I bet you’d have told me you’d never be driving around in a damn Plymouth, running the superstar’s errands in the middle of the night. Am I right?”

Carmont said nothing, reached down and turned the key. The Plymouth labored to life.

“Don’t let it get you down,” the man said as he swung his feet to the pavement. “Don’t be scared, homie.”

If you liked that, you can listen to the Co-Main Event podcast here and subscribe to the Breakfast of Champions newsletter. …We’ll be expecting our check in the mail, homies.

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