The Matrix, the Silva, the violent limbo. Whatever you want to call it, this man has tapped into it. Arms down, he feints backwards, one half breath away from a flurry of straight power punches.
“Leit tha tee shawt goo,” someone barks, confirming they are in Ireland.
Indeed, the young fighter has been using his opponent’s t-shirt as a means to keep him in range. It’s a flaw in the Anderson Matrix to be sure. What Would Anderson Do? Certainly not that.
“Take those t-shirts off,” someone who has been drinking in moderation suggests.
And so, the men agree to bare their torsos. He is instantly authentic again, feinting backwards then throwing a clean right counter. Down goes the guy who never had a chance, like the Irish ghost of Forrest Griffin.