OK, so these are normally only relatively short and part of the staff picks. But I thought Bisping-Rockhold deserved its own special plus-size chapter in the increasingly silly saga of the great and generic land of middleweight . I was actually thinking about how rad and fun it would be to write this story before the fight even started, but didn't think that it could ever actually exist. Thus, without further ado:

The scout spurred his horse towards the army of the Powerless Volume Punchers as it wound its way way.down the plain towards the bulk of Mount Exceptional, the shadow of the mountain pointing towards them like an arrow. The scout reined his horse alongside Lord Bisping and Duke Camozzi at the front of the column.

"They're camped in front of the gate." he said. "There's no way past."

"What do they think they're doing?" said Bisping.

Camozzi scratched his jaw. "Who knows? When I fought Miranda, he struck me as a man willing to do a great many things to ensure victory. But this? The entire force of the Flashy but Periodically Disappointing Kickboxers is apparently gathered in front of the gate. They must have heard about your challenge to the God King, and they seek to bar the way."

"Can we beat them?" said Bisping.

"Perhaps," said Camozzi. "We're outnumbered, though. The Laws dictating one-on-one fights go some way to ameliorating the problem, but it would still be four vs three. I might be able to dispatch the Bang Bus and then Miranda again..."

"Are there really three of us?" asked Bisping. He nodded significantly to Tavares' carriage which was rumbling quietly along behind them.

Camozzi sighed. "True. And if we win, at what cost? You'd be worn down, even in victory."

"We'll deal with that problem when we get there," said Bisping. "I need to check the rest of the column. Keep an eye on the front for me." He turned his horse and started back towards the back.

Camozzi watched him go, then gently slowed his horse alongside Tavares' carriage. He tapped gently on the side. "Brad? Brad. I think we're going to have to fight..."

***
It was hours later, and the sun was starting to send pink streaks through the sky when another scout came galloping back towards the column. "Scrappers!" he shouted. "Scrapper army, coming round the wall! More Scrappers than I've ever seen in my life!"

Mount Exceptional was the towering centerpiece of the land of middleweight, the peak where the Gods would meet and fight among themselves. It was ringed by a wall fifty feet high, and at each of the four points of the compass, gates were set into the walls. As Bisping arrived, the scout reported of the mass of Scrappers that was making its way around the northern side towards where the Flashy Kickboxers were camped in front of the eastern gate.

"Maybe they'll fight each other," said Camozzi. "We can get past the victor once they're weakened."

The scout shook his head. "From what I saw they're forming camps next to one another. No conflict."

"No conflict?" said Camozzi. "It doesn't make sense. The Kickboxers are a new faction... but even they know the way of middleweight. We fight each other. ‘To struggle for dominance none could achieve.' That's the way of things."

"They must be presenting some kind of united front," said Bisping. "Again, we'll deal with it when we have to."

***

It was dusk when the third army appeared. By this point the Powerless Volume Punchers were close enough to the mountain to see the thin smoke from the Kickboxer and Scrapper camps, and to see the lights from the new army.
"The BJJ Guys with Suspect Gas Tanks?" asked Bisping. The scout nodded. "Did you see anything specific?"

The scout looked confused. "... they... looked weary from the journey?"

Bisping gave him a flat look. "The standards, boy. Who were they calling themselves for, the Prodigal or the Born?"

"I think I could see those from both Leites and Natal factions,"

"Incredible. It seems everyone has allied against us. They fear an ascendance more than we could have imagined." He glanced around. "It's getting dark, though. We'll deal with them tomorrow."

***

Camozzi slept uneasily that night. This close to Mount Exceptional the air seemed to hum with power. His scars ached, and past and present and possible futures rushed together in his mind. He dreamed of the River, as he often did. He dreamed of Boetsch, King of the Blue-collar Scrappers, trapped somewhere between life and death, and unable to escape. He dreamed of when he had pledged to Bisping alongside Ring and Tavares; he remembered helping to drive Ring from the land of middleweight. He woke just before dawn, still tired.

Bisping came across him idly pushing a stick at a dying campfire in the dim light, and sat wordlessly beside him. They stayed there for a while. Camozzi saw a shadow moving just outside of the light of the fire. He thought that he knew what it was, but Bisping spoke suddenly. "Do you think the people would say that I've been a good king?"

Camozzi was caught off-guard. He stammered.

Bisping saw, and chuckled. "Don't worry, old friend. I think I know: they'd say I was arrogant. Thoughtless. That I tried to fight the Gods too many times and got embarrassed time and again. That I embarrassed my people, too." His smile faded. "I don't regret it though. The Gods will fight one of us every now and again. Mostly to hone their skills before they battle one another. To them, you know, we're nothing more than... practice."

Camozzi had heard his King when he was drunk, when he was happy; when he was flushed with victory and when he was enraged. He had never heard him sound this bitter before.

"We're defined by our weaknesses to them. Volume Punchers without power. The Scrappers are slow. The BJJ Guys... well, you know. Sometimes, every now and again, we might be able to catch one of them off-guard, but all we can do is drag them down to our level for a time; to spatter them with generic middleweight mud. There's no Godhood for any of us." Bisping set his jaw. "This, though. This fight is an exception. To strike down the God King is to take his power. No arguments, no exceptions. Vanquishing him is to stand above all. Can you imagine?" Bisping laughed. "All of those divine bastards, forced to bend their knees to the power of genericism."

"... sir..." said Camozzi, unsure of how to say what he wanted.

Bisping looked at him. "Ah."

"This is no aging Spider, and you were within inches of losing, sir." said Camozzi carefully. "The Surfer is at the absolute peak of his powers; one of the strongest Gods we've ever seen."

"... and I've never beaten anything like that before." said Bisping. "True. But I think there's something to be said for just how flush with divine energy he is. He thinks he is invincible, and he ie is not." He looked into the dying fire for a long moment, then back up at Camozzi. "If I win, I've left the instructions that you're to be the new King of the Powerless Volume Punchers, Chris."

Camozzi was shocked. "My lord... I'm not fit. I'm only ranked third! Tavares is younger, faster..."

"It's not about how skilled you are," said Bisping. "It never has been. Even if it were..." he glanced around the camp "...have you ever wondered about our sigil?" Bisping pointed to one of the standards. It showed a cloud, with a sheet of rain falling from it. Camozzi nodded, but Bisping was already carrying on. "You know, in Manchester, my homeland... it used to rain all the time. Even so, as the sign of a great kingdom, it's a little dull, is it not? However, that sign is who we are, and how we fight. Each drop of rain is powerless. It can be ignored without effort. And yet, enough of them, and they make for a flood. They can wash away entire towns, or wear away at solid stone. The only thing necessary is consistency; to keep at it, to never give up.
So tell me Chris- you've fought against one of the divine before twice yourself. If you had to pass through the Alligator's River yet again... would you do it?"

Camozzi looked down at his scars crossing his arms. He remembered again the pain and the flashing teeth; the pink froth of water and his own blood. He remembered struggling for breath. "Yes," he said.

"And that's why it has to be you. That's why I have to take this fight."

"I'll fight, too," said a voice, and the shadow Camozzi had seen earlier detached from one of the tents, resolved itself.
"Brad!" said Bisping, delighted. "Well met!"

"I've been hiding away too long," said Tavares. "You were right, both of you. I'm sorry."

"Let's go, then," said Bisping. "We don't need the rest of the army. What could possibly stand in the way of Bisping, Camozzi and Tavares together again? The entire forces of the great and generic land of middleweight, and the God King himself? A trifle!" Tavares forced a smile, and offered his hand to pull Bisping to his feet.

***

The three of them walked out onto the plain, and in the grey light of dawn Camozzi could see the sheer scale of the armies arrayed before them; the line of the sun creeping out over tents and banners and the masses of fighters streaming out of tents like ants.

Out at the front were the Flashy but Periodically Disappointing Kickboxers, under the tiger banners and wearing their moth-eaten finery, and at the head stood King Hall, flanked by Santos the Hammer, Oluwale the Bang Bus, and Luthor, who glared at Camozzi through his bruises.

As the Volume Punchers approached, Hall strode out and stood before Bisping. He was tall and powerful, towering over them all, and Camozzi saw how many could have thought he was destined for divinity.

"So, Bisping of Manchester. You want to challenge the God King?"

"I will."

Hall looked at him, searched Bisping's face for a long time, until he seemed to come to a conclusion. "When you fight him, make sure he learns what disappointment feels like." He turned away and walked back to his men, raising one arm. Slowly the army parted, the sea of fighters and followers splitting. A pathway opened, and far away Camozzi could see the darkness of the gates to Mount Exceptional.

"They're not here to fight," whispered Tavares.

"They know what's good for them," said Bisping.

The Volume Punchers walked down the path that had opened up, and the Kickboxers watched as they passed. There was no cheering around them, no shouts of encouragement. This was no demonstration of support, but instead a witnessing; an understanding that this was a moment that would never be repeated. A generic middleweight, fighting for the title.

They carried on walking through the Kickboxers until they were surrounded by swathes of Blue Collar Scrappers who stood in their countless masses, clutching spades and pickaxes and other tools. There was Sam the Smiler, grinning as always; the ancient Kelly the Kangaroo Sage chewed stolidly on a piece of koala jerky; Camozzi saw Collier the Uncoaled, free of Watson justice for now in this strange armistice. There in the crowd was the giant cranium of Leleko Hugehead, the Most Hittable Man Alive.There was no Scrapper King, but on the outskirts Scott Coal-heart delivered crisp instructions to a group of Watsons who circulated in and out of the crowd, flashing their badges and keeping the peace.

"Look," whispered Tavares, gesturing towards one battered-looking fighter, a slightly darker face than those around him. "A Brazilian Watson. You don't see them very often."

"Aye. Muai Thai de mina de carvão fighters are rare," muttered Camozzi.

Askham stopped talking to the other Watsons, looked up. He locked eyes with Camozzi for a brief moment, then turned to Bisping. His mouth twisted into a slight smile. "Fight smart." he said. Bisping nodded, and they carried on.

They kept walking, and they came to the army of the BJJ Guys with Suspect Gas Tanks, and for once Natal and Leites stood side by side as the Volume Punchers walked through. Camozzi saw the bruises on Leites' face from the antlers of the Moose, and the slashes in Natal's from the blade of the Reaper. Natal raised one hand to Bisping in greeting. "Break his gas tank," he offered, and Bisping nodded, and they carried on.

Camozzi saw Abreu the Automaton and False King Casey. Towards the back of the crowd he glimpsed some terrible giant thing, all sunken eyes and distended ribcage, glaring over the heads of those around it. More than this, everywhere he saw men with the marks of those had lost to the Gods, or men who would spend their lives slaving beneath them; men who would never be sung about, who would slide quietly into history.

He also realized the truth of what Bisping had once told him. The Powerless Volume Punchers were small. Every other faction was growing and adding new fighters. How long could the three of them possibly last? And yet, somehow the realization did not sting. Instead, he felt the same sense of dislocation and deja vu he had felt while dreaming. It felt as though they had always been here; as though Camozzi, Bisping and Tavares had and always would be walking down this pathway towards the great dark gates.

The sense of disconnection persisted as Bisping stopped in front of the gates and loudly spoke his name, and remained as they swung noiselessly open. It was unbroken as Camozzi numbly shook his king's hand; as Bisping walked through the gates.

Bisping paused on the threshold, and dipped his head. He turned and tossed something that looped towards Camozzi and gleamed in the morning light. Camozzi instinctively snatched it out of the air and almost dropped it due to the sudden, unexpected weight. He looked down to find himself holding Bisping's crown. "Just in case," said his king with a small smile.

"Wait!" said Camozzi, suddenly shocked awake, and the doors boomed shut over Bisping of Manchester, and his destiny.

***

No-one would ever know exactly what happened behind the gates or what Bisping faced on the long climb to the peak. Silently, the other factions slowly gathered up their tents and began the long trek back to their homelands, until only the Volume Punchers remained.

Tavares returned to his carriage, his small flare of courage spent. Camozzi spent much of the day sitting by the fire and staring down into the loop of gold between his hands. Around him the men would talk excitedly, their conversation always returning around the same few points, again and again: "What if he wins?.. he can't win...but what if?"

The only members of the camp who remained unaffected by hope were the healers. They'd seen enough of violence and what it did, and they'd put their king back together again enough times after his fights against Gods and men. They swapped dour predictions as they mixed salves and laid out their instruments.

It was dark when the first booming detonation rolled out, and everyone froze. Miles away each of the other faction armies stopped to look up as the sounds of divine combat crackled and rolled out from Mount Exception over the great and generic land of middleweight. There were brief flashes of light and explosions... and then, quicker by far than anyone had expected, there was nothing.

A groan went up from the Powerless Volume Punchers. If the fight had ended this early, there was only one possible outcome. Far away, members of the other factions looked at each other and shrugged or rolled their eyes. A few made jokes about the tapestries of Bisping's defeat that would be distributed after his loss and a few sighed, reminded again of inexorable generic fate. The Volume Puncher healers tutted and started unfurling bandages, and kindling fires to boil their instruments clean. This was going be a bad one, they muttered.

Only Duke Camozzi remained unmoving, looking up at the sky, face twisted in fear or hope and the crown clutched unconsciously in one hand until his knuckles turned white.

A small rumble of confusion started among the men. Victory had been achieved...so where, then, was the sign? When a challenge to determine a God King was decided, there would always be some indication of divine power; an ostentatious display of dominance that could be seen by everyone in the land.

Every time the Spider had won a battle, a vast constellation in the shape of an arachnid had blazed to life in the sky. The Chris had caused stars to be replaced with long stripes the length of the horizon, replacing the heavens briefly with the flag of some alien country. The Surfer had caused a great wave of light to burst over the land. Yet now, there was nothing.

One of the healers lighting the fires below a pot of water saw the surface ripple as something small struck it. He looked up. All over the great and generic land of middleweight, it began to rain.