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Nick Diaz, bloodied and bashed let's his hands near weightlessly fall to his waist. The crowd collectively gasps as if they were one orchestra of emotion. His furrowed brow and trademarked scowl turn into a look of inquisitive innocence. Carlos Condit, backed up against the fence awaiting further punishment after being on the receiving end of a superlative Diaz rally just 1 minute into the third round in a back and forth title fight peaks through the opening between his raised hands and looks on at the Stockton banger in bewilderment.
"Diaz has just dropped his hands and I think he's goading Carlos into getting reckle-wait no Mike he's reaching into his shorts. What is Diaz doing?" Joe Rogan exclaims, utterly astonished. So astonished, in fact, he actually looks to Mike Goldberg of all people for a possible explanation. Mike realizes that there's no leg kicks involved so he can't think of anything to say. He rattles his brain but panic ensues as there's nothing but dead air so he thinks fast and improvises. "This UFC title fight is brought to you by corn nuts. Corn to the core.". Mike and Joe both let out sighs of relief and feel as though a weight equal to Roy Nelson in the off season has been let off both of their shoulders.
The Reebok logo, crudely plastered over the heavily stylized words "Metal Mulisha" on Diaz's shorts becomes increasingly creased as Diaz rummages through his shorts looking as if he is trying to liberate his sweaty scrotum from the side of his leg. But he isn't. Diaz's hand emerges from his shorts.
"Yo, why are we even like, fighting or whatever?" Diaz poses to Condit. Condit is shocked. "F-for family" he stammers. "I fight for my family and the glory that comes along with it." he states more firmly as the round clock still ticks.
"Where's the fuckin glory in fightin for the UFC when we aint paid shit homie? I mean I still drive a honda fuckin civic and can barely pay my rent. Shit I haven't even paid taxes since, well ever homie. It's like I could probably make more money sitting at home fuckin teaching jiu jitsu and smokin weed all day you know what I'm sayin? We don't get paid enough to receive this kind of punishment. It's like I'm not sayin we don't get paid enough money cos there's like kids in Africa and other countries like that who can barely pay their rent on time you know what I'm sayin? But at the same time we don't really get paid enough. It's whatever it is what it is you know?"
Condit is clearly stunned. After months of trash-talk in the buildup to this fight and two rounds of beating each other to near death, pushing each other past each of their limits Diaz changes the script and says this? Condit looks at the crowd. He sees faces just as stunned as he is. He then see's a face of an androgynous pre-pubescent blonde boy, wearing a white t-shirt much too tight for his flabby build with a red UFC logo across his chest, the logo bending downwards forming an "n" shape much like a bent barbell with a "U" and a "C" as plates on either end across his feminine chest. But this emotion is too heavy for any man to carry, let alone young boy. Tears well in his eyes as his face turns flush. He nods at Carlos pleadingly. Carlos pauses for a few moments but then nods back knowingly. He now knows what the right choice is.
Carlos walks towards Diaz while unstrapping his gloves. The crowd is dead silent at this point as are Mike and Joe who's jaws are nearly touching the table. Diaz unclenches his fist revealing a perfectly rolled joint to Carlos. This stops Carlos dead in his tracks. The last time he smoked marijuana his teammate and former friend Jonathon "Bones" Jones told Carlos' wife on him and he had to sleep on the couch for a week, kleenex supplies ran low that week in the Condit household. Condit looks over at Dana White like a child looking for approval from his father. Dana, with his hands in the pockets of his grey jacket stares sternly at Carlos. Carlos breaks eye contact and looks at Nick.
"Don't be scared homie" Diaz says, smiling this time. Carlos reaches out and as he grabs the joint the crowd goes wild with cheers and embraces between Diaz and Condit fans alike.
"Shit I forgot to bring a light" Diaz reveals, clearly annoyed at himself. "Don't worry I got you covered bruh" Herb Dean interjects as he reaches into his thick,braided hair and takes out a Bob Marley zippo lighter. He then lights the joint while it rests in Diaz's mouth. Diaz then passes it to Carlos who inhales far too much and coughs uncontrollably. "Looks like that high altitude training hasn't made my lungs THAT strong" Carlos quips and they all laugh. He then passes it to Herb Dean , who, after smoking and leaving about one and a half inches of joint left throws it on the ground and puts it out with his foot. Thousands of Sherdog users run to their computers to cry early stoppage but can't as they are met with an error 503 message. "But Herb what about the flyweight main event next?" Nick asks after noticing the ash left on the octagon canvas. "What about it?" Herb retorts and they all share a hearty laugh.
Dana enters the octagon. Diaz and Condit both gulp in fear of what's to come. Bruce Buffer hands Dana the microphone. "There's not going to be a Welterweight champion after what I just saw tonight." Nick and Carlos' eyes wander to each other then to the floor like a couple of guilty schoolboys. "There's going to be two!" The crowd gasps. Nick and Carlos share an expression of surprise but are clearly happy. "That was the best thing that's ever happened inside this octagon. Two warriors going at it. I couldn't decide on a winner so it's only fair that they both get the belt, the win bonus and performance of the night awards"
Later at the press conference, while Diaz and Condit pose with the shared belt Dana tends to the media. "Diaz and Condit are the best pound for pound fighters in the world. I don't care what you say, I mean how can you argue against it after tonight?". "Will there be an immediate rematch?" Karyn Bryant asks. "We'll see" Dana replies with a telling grin.
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