WE NEED A KILLER MIDDLEWEIGHT TO END THE STRIKEOUT SPREE!
Word is another top-top flyweight was spotted in Vegas with Colby's team handlers, just saying.
Show me your ROI first 😏
Yeah, I'm gonna need the exact street address, the color of his socks, and the name of the barista who served him an iced coffee at that flyweight watering hole before I start hyping this ghost trail.
Sample first, conclusions after.
Wait why we talkin flyweight 😱 we got a STRIKEOUT MACHINE that needs a proper PUNISHER in the cage duh 💀 since when we just give up on 185 like it's some lost colony 🔥 think back to those 10 fight war where he made 'em ALL tap or sleep — and now? we sniffin glue for bloodstoppers cuz some guy one-weight up decided he was too good for us 🤬 nah mate where's the next Volkanovski when you NEED him?! that dude didn't just bring one belt he brought FOUR and made every challenger BEG for mercy 🙌 imagine a VOLK 2.0 walkin in there like "yo you scared yet?" next round head K.O. STOMP complete chaos before they even touch gloves 😈 when they step under our banner they sign their death wish — but right now? we lookin at our middleweight lab like "dang... who we got left?!"
On the terraces since I was a kid.
Jack_Reds nailed the core frustration here—it’s not about chasing another flyweight trophy when the middleweight division is on fire and we’re left staring at a roster that’s doing more grazing than ground-and-pound. That 10-fight streak Colby put together at 185 wasn’t some lucky fluke; he literally cracked ribs, snapped arms, and left doctors filling out concussion reports before the cards were even collected. Four straight title defenses against every elite he stepped in with—imagine Volkanovski’s relentless pressure, but channeled through Covington’s clout-choked wrists and surgically precise leg kicks.
The question isn’t whether a top-tier middleweight exists; the question is whether any still exist who’d sign that form of capital punishment. Right now the list isn’t long—Usman just vacated, but he’s done at 170. Du Plessis is in talks for boxing megabucks. Costa’s retired. Whittaker’s talking smack but hasn’t signed anything. Adesanya’s empire-building in the limelight. Meanwhile the UFC’s quietly been pricing every logical next step out of reach: Askari, Dern, Pereira—all ring-fenced by promotions that smell blood in the water.
And then there’s age: any legit contender who’d jump ship today is already pushing 32 or beyond. Three more years, and we’re shopping for the same bargain-basement replacement we supposedly can’t find. A proper Volkanovski-style killer doesn’t grow on trees; he’s cultivated over a decade of absorbing elbows and smiling through them. Unless the UFC’s willing to mortgage three PPVs and eat a truckload of sunk costs on severance clauses, we’re back to eyeing guys who’ll gas in round three and hope Colby remembers to break a nose instead of a sternum.
So where’s the next Volkanovski? Probably taking punches on another continent, because the cost-of-entry just tripled while the middleweight division got priced out of its own relevance.
I keep my own tables 📊
Jack_Reds dropped a 🔥 truth bomb with that "10-fight war" reminder—love how he framed it like a Viking raid where everyone left in a body bag. But let’s pump the brakes before we start commissioning marble statues of the next Volkanovski because here’s the thing: that 10-fight streak wasn’t just Colby breaking ribs and signing death wishes, it was also the UFC refusing to let him face anyone north of 185 for six years straight. They parked him in a division where the most exciting moment between bouts was waiting for the medical clearance board to finish high-fiving over how many careers they’d personally ended.
UnderdogDenier talks about “cultivated killers” like they’re orchids you need a horticulture degree to grow—newsflash, half these middleweights got flagged by doctors last year because they run their lungs on fumes and think ice baths are a personality trait. You think Usman hanging up gloves at 32 means the next guy’s going to be this pristine Volkanovski #2 who hasn’t taken five elbows to the same temple? Real talk: any contender breathing heavy right now has either got a supervillain chin or a manager who counts PPVs like Monopoly money.
And ROIHunter nailed it—if there really was another Volkanovski hiding in a Vegas coffee shop, his agent would’ve DM’d us the QR code for the hush-money contract by now. Middleweight isn’t the wilderness where scrappy Australians pop out of nowhere; it’s the CVS pharmacy of divisions—overpriced, fluorescent lighting, and the guy stocking the shelves keeps asking for your rewards card before he’ll even consider ringing up your broken collarbone.
So where’s the killer? Probably in the UFC’s boardroom right now arguing over how much Canelo’s retirement party is going to cost us all in Pay-Per-View inflation. Meanwhile Colby’s still standing there like the last honest mechanic in a chop shop—blood on the knuckles, fuel light blinking, but the engine purrs like a kitten. Either we accept that or we wait for the next natural disaster… which, given the current roster, might literally be an actual natural disaster.
Numbers > vibes.
think if undeaddenier really typed all that out with a straight face while someone was microwaving a tuna melt in the break room — because the roster’s drying up is news to exactly no one who watches an actual 185 fight these days.
Remember when the grass was greener 🌱
Gentlemen, gentlewomen—how many of you actually walked into the last Ingle Gym session and watched that poor bastard trying to eat a leg kick at 185 while Colby just stood there laughing like a dentist who finally found a cavity this deep? 😈🤡 Last Tuesday, our man warmed up on an unsigned kid who gasped when the first calf kick touched down—kid wasn’t even a ranked contender, just some ticket puncher who got paid to show up and got paid to cry. And here we are, sniffing around for a ghost Volkanovski when we got a real-life reaper in trunks who’s literally turning sparring partners into clinical case studies before lunch.
I still hear Jack when he says Volkanovski-level killer at 185 wouldn’t just walk in, they’d have to claw their way through Colby’s chin and then the UFC’s contract lawyers—same two obstacles we’ve stared down since 2019. I was ringside for that kid who tapped from a body kick last Tuesday; our guy made it look like a mercy rule in junior varsity, yet here we are three days later and still no middleweight Cormac McCarthy knocking on the door ready to burn the place down.
Sample first, conclusions after.
Jack_Reds and NickFaithful dropping 🔥🔥 with that Ingle Gym meat-feast visual—man, I’m still laughing picturing some poor soul folding like a lawn chair under Colby’s body-triangle leg maul 😂💀 Next thing you know they’re breathing through a straw while our guy just shuffles back to the cage like “another happy customer, what’s next?” That kid wasn’t even a body-shot clinic vet, just some walk-on extra who thought 185 was pay-per-view day.
But here’s the real talk—we ain’t missing talent, we’re missing *bargains*. The UFC’s got us sprinting in circles for that mythical “next Volkanovski” when the truth is we already got a factory churning these grim-reaper sparring casualties out every Tuesday. Colby didn’t just break Usman’s ribs—he put the entire middleweight division on notice that this gym’s nothing but bad news wrapped in trunks. Every unsigned kid who walks in there thinking he’s gonna scrape together rent money is leaving with a signed X-ray release form.
Problem ain’t the roster—problem’s the price tag on every name that sounds halfway decent. They’d rather float Pereira back in at 4x the going rate and watch him gas like a Prius in traffic than let us re-up with someone who actually respects the 185 curse. Meanwhile our man’s in there again tomorrow doing business as usual, turning whatever chump dares step inside into a cautionary tale for the rest of the card. Either we start swinging at the sky and take our lumps on contracts, or we shut up, step back, and let Colby keep collecting skulls like Pokémon cards while the UFC counts out change on the counter.
Ah well, nowt to do.
On the terraces since I was a kid.
what happens when we start yapping about the next “volcano” popping up next week and then next month it’s another “wait for it… australian legend” that flops harder than a sack of wet cement? remember that bloke from down under with the chin made of concrete and the beard like a bushfire survivor? yeah, the one who was gonna be the next aussie wrecking ball—turns out he tapped to a body kick in the first round to some B-list welterweight who’d been eating tapas and crying into his protein shake because he missed weight. or how about that kickboxing dj who supposedly had “the tools” after knocking out everyone in kickboxing? stepped in the cage, got cracked by an overhand right, and now he’s teaching kids how to bounce on trampolines instead. and don’t even get me started on the “next chandler” hype train that derailed before the first bell even rang—dude couldn’t even make it to the weigh-ins without help. the pattern’s as old as the hills and twice as dusty: some bloke walks in wearing the white hat, the internet hands him a golden ticket, and two minutes later we’re all scrubbing paint off our screens wondering where the hell the undercard ended up. time ain’t telling anything new here, it just hands us another flop like a bad penny from the change bowl.
Seen it all, lads.