"Really?" Leon pretended to be interested, curving the corners of his mouth and looking back.
"Of course, do you want to see now? I don't mind..." Megan's cheeks climbed a blush, fancy nails gently teasing her tight short skirt.
"Watch the match first; Jon Jones is about to enter the ring. This is the highlight~"
Leon didn't give her a chance to continue teasing, quickly changing the subject, his gaze focused on the octagon.
He and Warner Bros. had reached a consensus. The news of investing hundreds of millions of dollars to shoot Ready Player One had been spreading wildly in Hollywood recently. Almost every woman he knew was inquiring about this matter.
Hoping to get the leading female role in this big-budget movie.
In this regard, Leon always put on an ambiguous attitude, neither refusing nor agreeing directly.
Every time he just dropped a sentence "You are indeed suitable for the role of Samantha" and hurriedly changed the subject, leaving infinite reverie space for the female stars.
Megan Fox showed particularly fanatical desire for the heroine of Ready Player One.
Since being "blacklisted" by Spielberg, she fell from a first-line female star to a second-line star overnight. The psychological gap made her suffer from mild depression and become obsessed with plastic surgery.
Since her debut, Megan has been regarded as the representative of the new generation of sexy goddesses. Her appearance broke the consistent standard of sexiness in the film industry since Monroe, Monica Bellucci, and Angelina Jolie.
Sexiness does not necessarily have to be linked to bombshell beauties. Megan, with a slim figure, also became a synonym for sexy relying on the hormones sprinkled in the Transformers series.
But the abuse of cosmetic medicine is subverting her image in the audience's mind step by step.
Leon could clearly notice that her chest and lips were much fuller than when they last met, obviously having undergone some filling surgery.
With the matches proceeding one by one, more and more bloodstains remained on the floor of the octagon, the color gradually darkening.
The air was filled with the pungent smell of sweat, disinfectant, and adrenaline.
"Look! The highlight is coming!" Dana nudged Leon with his arm. "Jones and Tito are about to appear. Let's wait and see if your strong recommendation for Jones before was correct!"
If not for Leon's full recommendation, Jones, who had just become the light heavyweight champion, would not be qualified to compete for the "BMF Gold Belt" with a star fighter like Tito.
This has nothing to do with fighting skills.
Compared to Tito, who has endless scandals outside the venue and married a famous porn star as his wife, Jones, who went to community college, is simply a good boy.
"Jones! Kill this motherfcker!"
"Twist his head off; we all want to see what's in this Brazilian idiot's head, marrying a woman who lives in my D drive!"
Due to Conor's emotional mobilization during the prelims, the American audience went completely crazy, frantically mocking Tito from Brazil with the home field advantage.
"Who do you think will win?" Dana asked.
"I'm not a professional." Leon spread his hands. "But I think it should be Jones."
"Why? Tito almost dominated an era; he is the biggest star fighter in the entire weight class!" Dana's volume rose three degrees, the tendency obvious.
The victory of a star fighter like Tito brings higher commercial returns to the league.
"I don't understand fighting, but look at that Brazilian's dark circles; his legs are shaking. A low sweep from Jones can make him kneel..."
The process of the match was almost the same as Leon expected. This was a one-sided slaughter. Tito had no threatening offense at all, swinging a punch into the air as if he could fall down himself.
In the end, Jon Jones won by submission with a rear-naked choke in the first round.
There was not a single wound on his face, not even sweat, quite showing the style of "Pretty Boy" Mayweather.
"Congratulations Jones!" Dana's expression looked like his mother died, extremely reluctant to fasten the light heavyweight champion gold belt for him.
The award presentation that followed was the highlight. Leon held the silver "BMF" belt high and walked into the cage.
The whole audience stood up to pay attention, witnessing the birth of the first "Baddest Motherfcker" in history.
Spotlights circled inside the cage like a group of greedy vultures, finally focusing on Leon.
He stood in the center, holding that belt made of aluminum alloy, exuding a cheap atmosphere everywhere.
"Good fight; hope you can keep this belt forever." Leon patted Jones's shoulder.
"Leon Bro!" Jones reacted, hugging Leon emotionally. "I don't know how to thank you; you bestowed this glory on me!"
"Relax, buddy. Call your good homies, find a nightclub with the most bitches, and have a good time. You deserve a wonderful night..."
The audience was collectively dumbfounded. Stallone and others sitting in the front row also scratched their heads, not figuring out what happened.
Why were the two most prominent fighters tonight thanking Leon?
He looked more like the president of this company than Dana.
Under the gaze of the whole audience, Jones made another shocking move.
This man who beat his opponent's nose bloody in the ring a few minutes ago knelt on one knee in front of Leon, like a medieval knight waiting for a bestowal.
Leon was stunned slightly first, then reacted quickly.
Curving the corners of his mouth to smile, he "bestowed" the belt into Jones's hands, completing the ceremony.
The award ceremony ended, and Leon returned to the VIP seat.
Dana stood up quickly and said in a joking tone: "You are simply a living signboard for the UFC now. You are a big shot in Las Vegas tonight... Look, those fighters are usually out-and-out bastards, but they all respect you very much. You look more like the president of this company than me."
"Is that so? Then don't you think the profit-sharing agreement we signed is very unfair? You should give me shares of this company."
Deeply binding fighting events to consolidate the street image was a PR strategy set by Leon from the beginning, but he didn't expect to be bound to this extent.
His name has become an important gimmick for the UFC to drive PPV sales.
The smile on Dana's face froze instantly, only able to cough twice to cover up the embarrassment. "The PPV sales this time are expected to exceed one million copies. According to the sharing agreement we signed, you can get at least $4 million... Of course, I know this little money is nothing to you..."
"Don't say it." Leon patted Dana's shoulder. "My name brought you at least tens of millions of dollars in revenue, and this number will increase in the future."
"I'm not joking; you have to consider my suggestion seriously."
Dana's face turned green and white alternately. As the UFC president, he could always maintain a tyrant attitude when facing a group of huge men, but he repeatedly suffered losses in front of the white boy in front of him.
"This bastard seems to be getting more and more carried away..." an assistant beside Dana said.
"He's only 21 years old; he is a billionaire; he got everything he wanted." Dana spread his hands helplessly. "When I achieved all this, I was almost forty. You have to know that this guy's street notoriety is not undeserved. He seems to be able to get everything he wants."
After the match, Dana led a group of fighters to host a brief post-match press conference. Although reporters repeatedly requested Leon to attend, they were rejected instantly without surprise.
Under Megan's teasing, he originally wanted to return to the room to start his own "Red Panty Night."
But under Dana's vigorous retention, he still decided to attend the celebration banquet held later at the Trump International Hotel.
In the top-floor banquet hall of the Trump International Hotel, celebrities clinked glasses and toasted.
Leon held a glass of whiskey, surrounded by Stallone, Van Damme, and Vin Diesel. The stars talked and laughed in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"I like that Irish kid. His left uppercut was beautiful. I was also a boxing master when I was young." Stallone seemed to recall the scenes of filming Rocky when he was young, put down the wine glass, and performed a boxing shadow boxing in public.
As a result, he staggered and almost fell. Van Damme quickly supported him. "Don't show off, old guy; you are already sixty-five years old."
"Sixty-five years old? I can't tell at all." Leon followed along. "Who has seen a 65-year-old man who can still save the world flying a plane with a cigar in his mouth? Even Schwarzenegger can't do it. I look forward to seeing the sequel to The Expendables in the cinema next year. I love this movie to death."
"You will. In fact, we are shooting. I am very interested in letting Conor join our movie. He has great potential as an actor, don't you think?" Saying that, everyone locked their eyes on Conor at the same time.
He was swaggering through a crowd of social celebrities, raising his fists in a provocative pose whenever he met someone, performing the punch that knocked down his opponent tonight.
"I only used one punch! One punch made that Brazilian bastard see his grandma!"
"Do you know why? Because I have divine power! Just like only King Arthur can pull out the Sword in the Stone, this is a gift from God!"
Saying that, he raised his left arm high and kissed his left fist.
Stallone sprayed cigar smoke from his nasal cavity and said with a smile, "Compared to his fist, I believe more that his mouth has been kissed by God. He is a born performance artist."
Leon understood, waving to Conor's direction. "Conor, come over here."
The Irishman who was arrogant just now immediately restrained himself and ran over with brisk small steps.
"Boss, you called me?" Conor looked at the big shots around him, looking well-behaved. "Um... look who's here, Rocky, Dominic... Oh my God, did I come to Hollywood?"
"Mr. Stallone wants to chat with you."
Leon patted the other party's shoulder and turned away to leave enough performance space for him. With him present, Conor would be a bit reserved instead.
"Leon!"
Dana raised his glass and shouted at him, his face as red as a ripe tomato, obviously having drunk a lot.
He pointed to a man in a sharp suit in front of him and introduced: "This is Monroe, my good friend, the most famous luxury car agent in Las Vegas! Tom Cruise and JAY-Z's luxury cars are bought from him. You definitely have a lot in common."
Monroe's face was piled with a flattering smile. "Mr. Leon, I have heard your name countless times long ago. It is a great honor to meet you here..."
He rubbed his hands and handed over a gilded business card. "I am dedicated to providing the best quality car service for celebrities across the US, serving only that most distinguished small group of guests, and you are undoubtedly a high-quality customer. Many sports cars are parked outside the hotel for you to test drive at any time, including the latest Lamborghini Aventador. Only a few agents can get the car now..."
"Oh." Leon glanced at him, took the business card, scanned it casually, and then stuffed it into his pocket, obviously not interested in the car dealer in front of him.
Before becoming famous, he was full of desire to own a luxury car.
Let alone a luxury car, even a fourth-hand Corolla that could still move could make him excited.
Freedom is a very vague concept. If you want to describe this feeling, there is a joke that fits very well—"When a boy just got his driver's license at sixteen, holding the steering wheel and stepping on the accelerator, that is the feeling of freedom."
The necessity of a luxury car lies in that when you drive an expensive sports car, you no longer need to explain your wealth to everyone you meet. Seeing your car, everyone will show respect.
But Leon no longer needs to rely on luxury cars to prove anything. Everyone inside and outside the circle knows he made a lot of money.
Monroe was stunned for a moment, obviously not expecting to receive such a cold shoulder. He scratched his head, his smile a bit stiff.
But Conor not far away heard about test driving luxury cars, and his eyes lit up immediately. He put down the champagne and leaned over excitedly, almost knocking over a waiter next to him.
"Sht! The latest Lamborghini?! Is there the latest Lamborghini here?!"
"That's right, there is also a McLaren MP4-12C parked outside, a global limited edition, supercar, zero to hundred acceleration only takes 3.3 seconds." Monroe seized the opportunity to promote. "Only a supercar deserves a warrior like you! You can test drive freely!"
"McLaren?" Sparks were about to spray from Conor's eyes.
A few months ago, he was just an amateur fighter relying on his girlfriend's relief to support himself, and had to work part-time fixing water pipes to survive.
He had only seen luxury car brands like McLaren and Lamborghini in magazines.
Leon shrugged. "I drank too much tonight. If I drive, I'm afraid we'll speed all the way straight to heaven."
He has always had strict control over drinking, but tonight, under the warm invitation of Stallone and a group of action superstars, he drank over 500 ml of spirits.
Now he could clearly feel the alcohol going to his head, and the scene in front of him was a bit blurry.
"It doesn't matter! I didn't drink a drop of alcohol!" Conor laughed loudly, begging Leon constantly. "Boss! Take me to see that big baby! Holy sht! Driving a supercar galloping on the streets of midnight Las Vegas is a scene that repeatedly appears in my dreams!"
Under the repeated pleading of the other party, the drunk Leon tilted his head and actually agreed to this request.
The two came to the parking lot outside the hotel. Conor spotted that white McLaren MP4-12C at a glance. "That's it! Look at its taillights! Simply more dazzling than a Brazilian chick's butt!"
Leon waved his hand, and Monroe obediently handed over the car key.
The two opened the car doors. Leon leaned against the window, sleepy.
"Give me a second, BOSS! I will dispel your sleepiness like a wizard!" Conor grinned and started the sports car.
The next second, a huge engine roar pierced Leon's cochlea.
Conor stepped on the accelerator to the bottom. The strong push-back feeling still made Leon sober instantly.
"Fck, what are you doing!"
"Don't worry, boss! I'm professional!" Conor still kept the accelerator floored, galloping on the Las Vegas Strip. "This big baby must be driven like this! You are the king of Las Vegas, I am your sword bearer! Those bitches all have to make way for daddy!"
Under the effect of alcohol and high-speed racing, Leon's vision suddenly blurred.
Streetwalkers under neon lights, couples by the Bellagio fountain, indulgent gamblers under the Eiffel Tower replica of the Paris Las Vegas Hotel, these scenes suddenly twisted together.
His brows gradually unfolded. Everything around him suddenly slowed down in his eyes, as if floating in the clouds.
Suddenly, a strange melody broke into his mind. The peculiar melody mixed Trap music and 80s disco dance music style, lyrics piecing together like fragments.
In the MV picture, a black man with a mouth full of blood bent down and grinned at the camera. The next second, he jumped into a Mercedes sports car galloping on the midnight street.
Drifting in the dream woven by neon lights.
Sin city's cold and empty (Oh)
No one's around to judge me (Oh)
I can't see clearly when you're gone
I said, ooh, I'm blinded by the lights
No, I can't sleep until I feel your touch
I said, ooh, I'm drowning in the night
Oh, when I'm like this, you're the one I trust
Strong drum beats struck Leon's heart.
When the last note stopped, a strong light shot into his eyes, piercing straight into the lens.
The MV title unfolded—Blinding Lights.
He opened his eyes, instantly waking up from drunkenness. "Conor, stop the car!"
"Huh?" Conor was stunned, immersed in the driving pleasure and unsatisfied.
"Sht! I told you to stop immediately!"
Seeing the boss's tone brooked no doubt, Conor quickly parked the car on the side of the road.
Leon pushed open the car door, got out, and stood under the street lamp.
Staring at the colorful and decadent neon lights of the gambling city, and the high beams interlaced by luxury cars on the road.
He shook his head, which was as heavy as lead, with a just-lit cigarette in his mouth.