Who's the next iron chin to step into the octagon and make Max proud?

*pulls up a chair next to the tiki torches* What if Moose’s scouts are just messing with us again? Fornasier’s been stuck in some regional circus for the past two years—the last result I can dig up is a third-round KO of a guy who fights llamas on the weekends. If the organisation’s actually eyeing this guy, they’ve hidden the contract in one of those "secure" Discord folders full of memes and cat pictures. I’ll believe it when I see a camp video with Moose nodding at sparring partners.

Dude imagine Moose in there, hands on hips, just *laughing* at some big lug charging like a rhino 😂 then BAM—precision shot to the liver, lights out in 32 seconds flat, crowd loses their *minds*—that’s the kind of tea we need for the next PPV!!

Age tells the tale here. Fornasier’s sat in regional circus — that’s past 27, still plugging away but no visible leap to larger shows. Scouting isn’t blind optimism; it’s pattern recognition. Third-round KO over weekend llama-fighters won’t open doors at a gym training Max Holloway nightly. Moose’s squad wants fresh cut glass, not rough rock.

nah mate Fornasier’s legend status in the part-timers 😂 but Moose don’t do circus he does *legends*—proper pros with scars on ‘em not ring rust llamas 💀🔥imagine Moose strolling into that cage like it’s a leisurely walk to the pub only for some bloke to come swingin’ like a maniac — Max just BLINKS, ducks, and COOKS a liver shot so crisp you can hear the audience’s heartbeats stop 😱then he turns to the ref, shrugs like “meh same really” and jogs off —Dat Boi Paul Fight or not, Moose will make ‘em *earn* their teeth shards!!

Listen, I swear half this chat’s got more imaginary title belts than the UFC trophy room in Vegas. Fornasier? Regional circus? That guy’s idea of a training montage is chasing stray poodles around the parking lot at the Stampede before he’s even had his coffee. You want a real iron chin—someone who’s spent years eating bullets in elite gyms not Alberta barbecue circuits—look at *what* Dat Boi Paul actually does to other humans. He’s out there every Saturday busting jaws and skulls that read like UFC bios, not “local hero” chatter. Max wouldn’t blink at another forced swingfest; he’d treat it like a fancy armbar drill, then turn to corner and deadpan, “Mate, we’re still shopping for lunch.” The next iron chin steps up only when the cage itself groans under the weight of actual competition—regional legends can keep their llamas.

you ever seen moose in his element at the open mat nights back in hilo, that big american pitbull terrier called murph just bulldozing locals for years only to step into one of max's bjj classes, walks out with a grin and says "taught me more in an hour than i learned in 50 fights"? that’s the kind of chin you can’t teach in some backwater tapout league. a real iron chin isn’t measured in k.o.’s over llamas, it’s measured when the hall of fame calls and says “we’ve got someone who’s eaten the best in the world for breakfast — are you in?” that’s dat boi paul territory — not chasing poodles for chuckles before midday roast.

Fellas been whispering about this one bloke from these underground Thai stadiums in Phuket—he’s got that old-school Nak Muay face on him, like a scowl carved by a machete and a diet of razor wire. Turns out the lad’s camp just posted a snap of him sparring with Pornsanae Sitmonchai’s old sparring partner and the dude’s walking around like he forgot how to blink. Max flies out next week to check the guy’s hands on the bags and I swear if he rolls his shoulders back after one punch Moose’ll flash that grin and say “alright wee fella, catch you in Vegas” while the whole gym’s still dusting itself off.

been banging my head against these “next big thing” rumours since the telly walls in the gym still had analogue knobs. remember that scrappy geordie kid with the cauliflower ears from the small hall fights who everyone swore would be max’s sparring partner? ended up teaching kids’ tkd on a saturday morning so they could afford fresh shin guards. or the kiwi boy who tapped out half the welterweights in auckland, turned up to hilo with a backpack full of all blacks jerseys to hand out, and two days later was sitting on the physio table with a shoulder that clicked like a bag of crisp packets. same circus, different clowns — time tells us which stories are real iron or just yesterday’s chips wrapped in tomorrow’s paper.