“Ladies and fuckin’ gentlemen,” Matt Serra, decked out in his finest silks, his sigil of spaghetti and meatballs adorning it in gold trim, boomed over the crowd from atop the pedestal. The throne loomed behind him, adorned with golden eagles, an American flag draped over the back of the chair. “I present to you the Undisputed King of the World, Chris Weidman.”
Chris Weidman emerged from behind the velvet curtain, the crowd applauding before a brief, oddly familiar “U-S-A” chant stirred among them. Weidman wore his battle armor, a pair of blue and white trunks, an original American flag draped over his shoulders and the UFC Middleweight Championship around his waist. Weidman raised his hands up high, the flag outstretched behind him to show the colors before he stood before the throne. Banners dropped behind him, displaying the sigil of House Weidman; simply the outline of his face. Chris Weidman promised not to be a flashy ruler, but a modest one, one for the people.
Weidman sat carefully upon the throne, ensuring not to sit on the flag, to preserve the image and the pride of the colors that won him the hearts of his subjects. There were outcroppings of those in the crowd who wished to boo the new Undisputed King of the World. Brazilians, they called them, non-believers they were labelled. Heretics. Minister Longo stood, hawk-eyed overlooking the crowd, his beady eyes focusing in on each heretic before scanning to the one he believed to be the cause of it all. He called over a heavily-armored guard, pointing out toward the heretic in question, giving a solemn nod to the guard.
Weidman sat, legs crossed with his hand waving at the fans, unnoticing of the insurrectionists in the crowd. They mattered not to the king of the world, they were left for Minister Longo to clean up, he thought to himself. They could not ruin his moment, his coronation ceremony. This had happened before, but the doubters flooded the ceremony heavily, like a biblical plague of locusts descending upon the crop to ruin it for the year. This time was different, this time everything was legitimate.
“Fuckin’ bring ‘em to me,” Longo shouted at the guard while the crowd continued to roar. The guard pushed and fought his way through the rabid crowd of what we’d call New Yorkers before grabbing a man by the arm. The man was shorter, older, a salt and pepper mustache adorned his weathered face. The man pulled away, knocking over a woman in her best nightclub attire of a short skirt, neon green tube top and no less than half of a pound of makeup on her face onto the ground.
“Oh, you fuckin’ hit a lady, old man?” A man with his black collar popped, gold chain over his hairless chest shouted at him, the old man now in a defensive posture. He remained silent while the guard approached him, shock stick out and pointed in his direction. “This fuckin’ guy thinks it’s okay to hit a fuckin’ lady!”
“Come with me,” the guard muttered. “Minister Longo has summoned you.”
In a flash the old man advanced forward, his left foot slipping behind the guard’s foot, his left hand quickly following up, connecting square on the jaw, the guard tumbling to the ground. The old man took to one knee, trapping the near arm and landing three unanswered shots to the face before standing back up, circling away from the guard and the now-angry mob growing around him.
“What’s goin’ on, Uncle Ray?” Weidman turned to Longo, whose face had turned a deep shade of red in agitation.
“You dun’t fuckin’ worry ‘bout nothin’, Weidman,” he fumed. “This is your time, Weidman. Serra, you watch Weidman.” His thick New York accent made the words almost spill out in comedic fashion, Serra moving in closer, keeping his composure. Longo hobbled down from the platform, motioning to two guards to follow him while he moved to confront the dissenter.
The three descended upon the old man, the old man landing a few shots on each guard before they were able to grab him by each arm. Longo lands a short punch to the body, the old man crying out in pain. The man flailed, but Longo continued peppering him with shots; a few to the body, then to the face. Longo held up a hand, implying for the scuffle to stop.
“I’ll let you go,” he muttered, the crowd all now paying attention to Longo in the crowd, Weidman craning his neck from the throne to see what his mentor had been doing. Serra shook his head, cursing under his breath, imagining the meatballs awaiting him in the great hall growing cold and rubbery. He knew how Ray got, he knew that his food would grow cold with each passing moment. “I’ll let you walk, if you kiss Weidman’s belt. He’s your ruler! You kiss his belt, damnit!”
The old man paused, looking deep into Longo’s piercing eyes before letting loose a projectile of saliva and blood from his mouth that connected upon Ray’s opulent nose. Longo reared back, the crowd growing silent, wiping the spit from his face. His fists clenched together and he pulled back, only to stop himself, shaking his head.
“That’s what he wants,” Longo turned to the crowd. “But I’m not gonna give ‘em it, oh no. This is Weidman’s day. Weidman!” His shout echoed through the hallowed hall. “I’m going to teach this old shit a lesson he won’t evuh forget,” he turned back to the old man. “Kick my leg.”
“Go on,” he goaded the old man. “You kick my fuckin’ leg right now or help me gawd I’ll destroy you right here and now. You kick my leg.”
A look of horror washed over the man’s face, him shaking his head quickly, trying to move his hands together into a form of prayer to show his submission. Longo slapped him with the back of his fist, the guards having to labor to keep him on his feet.
“You kick my leg right the fuck right now, you hear?” He bellowed, stoically. Longo stood back, rolling his shoulders before assuming the position. The crowd knew what was coming, knew the horror they were about to witness, but could not turn away. This was a royal decree, this was order, this was the Knee Destruction(TM). It was a punishment worse than death. “Kick my leg or help me gawd,” he shouted, only for the man to nod, sweat dripping down his brow.
Longo stood back, taking his battle position while the guards let go of the man. He slumped over into a heap like a man long-defeated, laboring to his feet. He squared his legs up, tears stinging his eyes shut before letting out a mighty battle cry, throwing a kick with his right leg that would have done considerable damage to anyone, anyone, that is, that didn’t know the Way of the Knee Destruction. Longo waited, then with precision picked up his leg, pushing down with his knee while it made contact with the center of his shin. A snap and a cry filled the royal hall, the man falling into a heap, the bottom of his leg freely dangling in a gruesome scene.
“Hail Weidman!” A voice in the crowd shouted, followed by another, then grew into a tidal wave, the infectious chant filling the hall. Weidman rose to his feet, arms raised high while Longo stood over the weeping old man, his tears turning to acid, eating away at the stone ground, glaring back up at Weidman atop the throne with his piercing eyes, content with the kingdom that they had built in the image of Chris Weidman.
Disclaimer: This is very clearly a work of fiction. No shins were broken at UFC 175 and Chris Weidman might be the UFC Middleweight Champion, but is not the ruler of a dystopian future New York.