Saturday night. The Apex. A fluorescent-lit corporate fight lab where dreams come to die, and the UFC keeps its worst secrets. They hold these cards in silence, locked away from the world, so that when the inevitable horrors of bad judging, worse refereeing, and completely meaningless fights unfold, no one is around to see them.
Manel Kape took center stage this time, a man who fights like he’s always trying to get away with something. And why wouldn’t he? The refs don’t call fouls anymore. They’re too busy trying to look professional while doing absolutely nothing. Kape threw open hands like a street magician, fingers sliding into Alma Bayev’s eye sockets as if he were searching for lost keys in a dark alley. “Accidental,” they said. “Unfortunate,” the commentators mumbled. But if you do it once, it’s an accident. Twice, it’s a tactic. And three times? Well, that’s just how the game is played.
Referee Mike Beltran, a man with a mustache longer than his attention span, let it all go. Herzog did the same last week. Herb Dean has made a career of doing the same. They don’t want to interfere. Not in the big fights, where the stakes are high, and certainly not in the Apex, where no one is watching except degenerates, drunks, and the few souls left who still believe in the sport.
And the co-main event? Jesus Christ. Cody Brundage vs. Julian Marquez—a fight so meaningless, you could have replaced both of them with two homeless guys scrapping over a cigarette outside a 7-Eleven, and it wouldn’t have changed a thing. Brundage had one real win in seven fights. Marquez hadn’t won a fight since Biden’s first year in office. They lost their mouthpieces mid-brawl. The ref just watched. Brundage landed a few good shots, and Marquez went down in a heap. Maybe it was entertaining, in the way watching two idiots fight over a bar tab can be entertaining.
Somewhere in the mess of it all, Nasrat Haqparast had finally figured it out. Used to fight like a man trying to club a bat out of the air—big, looping, desperate swings, hitting nothing. But now? Now he had something. Composure. Balance. Less caveman, more assassin. It was a rare thing: a fighter actually improving in a sport where most just get older, slower, and closer to getting cut.
Then came Chepe Mariscal, the only man in the building who looked like he belonged in a fight. Mariscal does not stop. He does not hesitate. He does not ask for permission. He just walks forward, throws men to the ground, and beats them until they stop getting up. Across from him, Ricardo Ramos, a man obsessed with his own highlight reel, tried to spin and flip his way to victory. Spinning elbows, spinning kicks, spinning failure. You don’t spin your way out of hell, son. You fight your way out. And Mariscal fights.
And then… the heavyweights. Sweet merciful God, the heavyweights.
Austin Lane, built like a Greek statue with the durability of wet cardboard, walked in and did what Austin Lane does—got hit once, went stiff, and crashed to the mat like a demolition project gone wrong. A man that large, that strong, that utterly incapable of taking a punch. The cycle repeats.
And the UFC? They keep spinning the wheel, baby. Next week, Alex Pereira vs. Jamahal Hill, and suddenly, we care again. That’s how they do it. Keep you numb, keep you bored, but every now and then, throw you a bone—just enough to make you believe there’s still something here.
But let’s be real. The UFC doesn’t care. The refs don’t care. Half the fighters don’t even care.
And yet, next Saturday, we’ll be back. Because we can’t help ourselves.
Violence is a hell of a drug.