read lots story at patreon
always update and finish
belamy20
"That Irish bastard talks a big game." Phil curled his lip. "All the Irish people I know are like that. Give them a bottle of whiskey, and they'll brag that they rule the world and are the Virgin Mary's second child."
"Did you get played by an Irishman?" Leon teased.
"Fck, what are you talking about..." Phil's wrinkled old face turned red.
"I'm very optimistic about Conor's potential. Maybe he can become the Mike Tyson of MMA." Leon shrugged. "Marco has been following Conor, right? Tell him to put aside King Von's affairs for now."
"Marco is already in Las Vegas." Phil sniffled and hummed twice.
"Good."
The agency department had reasons not to be optimistic about Conor. Although MMA had become a world-class sport under Dana White's promotion and showed a trend of gradually replacing boxing as the number one combat sport, its commercial value was still a question mark.
Even the top figures of this event, such as Anderson "The Spider" Silva and GSP, earned appearance fees that were a fraction of Tyson's fees in the last century.
Brock Lesnar, the only UFC fighter with an appearance fee exceeding one million dollars, was an exception. He carried the huge traffic of a WWE superstar; his commercial value had little to do with his professional record.
Boxers looked down on MMA fighters. The three major boxing organizations were facilitating the "Fight of the Century" between Floyd "Money" Mayweather and Manny Pacquiao.
Currently, Mayweather was asking for $300 million. No boxing promotion organization could accept such an outrageous price.
It's imaginable that once this match is facilitated, the appearance fees taken by Mayweather and Pacquiao will not be less than $300 million.
And they only need to fight for 36 minutes. The gold content per second exceeds $120,000. Such money-making efficiency can really be compared to the Fed's money printing line.
"Bonnie, prepare. We leave early tomorrow morning." He turned to his assistant.
Bonnie nodded, her fingers typing rapidly on her laptop. "Everything is arranged."
For a public figure, attending such an occasion wasn't just to see two tough guys beating each other bloody in a cage.
It was actually part of a PR plan.
Some famous actresses posted reading thoughts on social media to create an image of a scholarly and intellectual woman, leaving enough fantasy space for simp fans.
Action stars strengthened their tough guy image by sharing gun collections.
Leon's current PR plan was to deeply bind with the UFC, engraving the street tough guy image like a "pitbull" into the fans' minds.
"How about choosing the suit bought in the UK?" Bonnie asked. "British fans praised your trip to the UK greatly, thinking the Birmingham-style Peaky Blinders outfit suits you very well."
"Forget it." Leon waved his hand. "Too deliberate. A tracksuit is fine."
American audiences weren't interested in the pretentious British style. Instead, the Adidas tracksuit often worn by Eastern European hooligans felt more imposing.
Early the next morning, Leon and Bonnie boarded the flight to Las Vegas.
The plane landed smoothly at McCarran International Airport. The cabin door opened, and a heat wave hit their faces, mixed with the dry breath of the desert and a faint smell of alcohol.
"Welcome to Las Vegas!" Inside the airport lobby, several men in suits and black sunglasses, dressed like CIA agents, quickly surrounded them.
The stretch Lincoln prepared by the UFC was parked at the airport exit. The driver respectfully opened the door, and Leon and Bonnie got in.
The car started and drove slowly towards the Trump International Hotel Las Vegas.
Leon leaned back in his seat, took out his phone, and lazily scrolled through social media.
Conor's weigh-in video had exploded on the internet. The comment section was chaotic—some called him an "Irish thug," others called him a "clown."
But in any case, this prelim fighter participating in the UFC for the first time stirred up a public opinion wave on the internet second only to the two main event fighters.
"A natural hype machine." Leon muttered in a low voice. Bonnie, who was of Irish descent, also liked Conor's tweet.
In the melting pot of America, there are about 36 million people of Irish descent, about seven times the total population of Ireland.
Accounting for 12% of the total US population, it is the second-largest foreign ethnic group after Germans.
Unlike the first batch of immigrants to the New World, the English and Germans, the Irish set foot on this land much later.
Most came to this land on coffin ships during the Great Famine in Ireland in the 1840s. Patrick, the great-grandfather of the 35th President John F. Kennedy, was one of these immigrants.
Most Irish people who just arrived in the New World were illiterate farmers, and the bottom-level dirty and tiring work was given to them.
Irish descendants engaged in low-paid and dangerous jobs that no one else did, such as dock work, moving bricks on construction sites, or going deep into the wilderness to build railways and mine.
Building railways was a deadly job at that time. Someone said that "there is an Irishman buried under every sleeper" in America.
Various experiences led to a strong ethnic consciousness among Irish Americans, easily twisting into a rope. Kennedy's presidency relied almost entirely on Irish votes.
Conor's sentence "One man goes to war, the whole nation joins the army" at the weigh-in ceremony completely stirred up the national sentiment of the Irish.
Before anyone saw him throw a punch in the ring, he already had a large group of supporters online.
In the evening, Leon wore a pure white Adidas tracksuit and a fully diamond-encrusted gold chain selected by Bonnie, looking like a street dealer who just made a fortune selling drugs.
Backstage, the fighters were doing their final warm-up before the match.
As soon as Leon entered, everyone's eyes swept over like searchlights.
Fighters whispered, "Look at that guy; heard he is related to the Mexican drug cartel."
"How old is he? 21? Fck, when I was 21, I was still a tire repairman in a garage. I couldn't even afford condoms, or I wouldn't be overwhelmed by the life of five children now."
"Compared to Diddy, that guy should be put in prison more..."
"Leon, long time no see!" A rough voice sounded.
UFC President Dana White walked towards him, his face as red as if he had just drunk a whole bottle of whiskey, smiling broadly.
"Dana, you look good tonight." Leon shook his hand.
"Thanks to you!" Dana put his arm around his shoulder; the two looked intimate. "Our tickets are sold out! Look how many spectators came tonight, over 20,000! Fans are more interested in BMF than I imagined!"
The seating capacity of the Trump International Hotel was limited; 20,000 people were the limit. Outside the venue, even the tickets with the worst positions were hyped up to over $1,000 by Mexican scalpers.
Dana continued: "The influence of this match is unprecedented. Many celebrities are attending tonight; you definitely won't be unfamiliar with them. Many should be your friends..."
"Oh?" Leon raised his eyebrows.
"Sylvester Stallone, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Vin Diesel... They all came to the scene to witness who will be the number one villain in fighting history!"
"Okay." Leon nodded perfunctorily. He indeed had no interaction with these famous action superstars in film history, except for Vin Diesel.
He had entrusted Bonnie to make a formal offer of $14 million for that Beverly Hills mansion.
Dana White patted his shoulder and pointed to Conor not far away. "I'm starting to understand why you signed a nobody. This Irish bastard really has something..."
Leon shrugged, scanning Conor in the crowd.
That guy was doing shadow boxing warm-up training, indiscriminately provoking every fighter passing by him, spraying trash talk wildly.
As the match time approached, the stadium of the Trump International Hotel was full.
The audience seats were crowded, and shouts and the sound of beer cans colliding mixed together.
The lights suddenly went out, and the whole venue fell into darkness.
A second later, the spotlight fell on the fighter aisle synchronously, but it was not the fighter who appeared.
Leon walked together with UFC President Dana White, chatting happily along the way.
They were surrounded by a group of Mexican tough guys, and on the other side were bodyguards in red suits.
Every UFC fighter has their own exclusive background music when entering, and Leon also has his own entrance BGM.
The background music he chose for tonight was the just-recorded Heathens.
According to the plan, the song performed tonight would have been Demons, but Tim thought this song did not fit the live atmosphere of an MMA match, while Heathens was very suitable.
Might as well take advantage of this big event to complete the first public performance, killing two birds with one stone.
"Leon!"
"OMG, I simply love this guy!"
"The BMF belt should be awarded directly to him; this is the worst scum in America in my heart!"
Leon lowered his head, raising his hand from time to time to high-five the reveling audience on both sides of the aisle.
He walked to the center of the octagon and adjusted his breathing. This was his first time performing on such a strange stage.
"Ready, Las Vegas?"
"Yeah!!!"
Leon put in his in-ear monitor and shook his head with the accompaniment.
The lights dimmed, and the audience turned on their phone flashlights, converging into a sea of stars.
Welcome to the room of people
Who have rooms of people that they loved one day
Docked away
Just because we check the guns at the door
Doesn't mean our brains will change from hand grenades
You'll never know the psychopath sitting next to you
You'll never know the murderer sitting next to you
The rhythm of the whole song is gentle and easy to hum along with, very suitable for mobilizing the live atmosphere.
The audience was fully mobilized, waving their arms, shouting along with Leon's singing even though hearing it for the first time.
Five minutes later, the music stopped, and Leon's last note fell.
Cheers and screams drowned the whole venue.
Leon buried his head low, grabbed the microphone, and said in a deep voice: "Leave the cage to those guys. Show me, who deserves the title of BMF."
"Too fcking wonderful!" Dana White patted his shoulder and grinned, "Just your performance is worth half the ticket price."
"I'm not the protagonist tonight." Leon wiped his sweat, sat back in his seat, and took a sip of beer.
Commentator Joe Rogan leaned over, his eyes shining: "Your new work is amazing. This new style suits you very well. I have a hunch this song will top the Billboard."
Taking advantage of the gap when fighters entered, he bragged for three minutes straight, finally dropping a sentence: "When will you come to my podcast to chat again? Listeners miss you very much."
With the first fighter entering, tonight's first match officially started.
Originally, the audience didn't have much hope for the lesser-known prelims, but tonight's prelim fighters seemed to be influenced by Conor, fighting with extraordinary passion.
Three out of four prelims ended in KO, leaving a large patch of mottled blood in the center of the ring, making people's blood boil.
Conor appeared in the finale of the prelims. He started performing the moment he walked out of the fighter tunnel.
While raising his arm pretending to check his watch, he clamored: "Within one minute, I will finish that Brazilian bastard within one minute!"
"Conor! Conor! Conor!"
The Irish audience at the scene stood up one after another, chanting Conor's name.
He climbed onto the ring, stood in the center, squinted his eyes, and opened his arms, enjoying the cheers of the whole venue.
The opponent was a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu master, muttering in Portuguese while pacing, "I will strangle you bastard!"
As soon as the bell rang, Conor jumped to the center of the ring. He didn't rush to attack.
Instead, he posed in a Bruce Lee Jeet Kune Do stance, using his wingspan advantage to measure distance, jumping back and forth to probe.
Instead, the Brazilian fighter opposite showed much more initiative, but several attempts to punch actively were dodged.
"Boo..."
Huge boos erupted from the audience. As arrogant as Conor was when spraying trash talk before the match, that's how wretchedly he fought now. "It seems this kid's fighting level is less than half of his trash-talking skills." Dana looked at Leon beside him, a trace of mockery on his lips.
As soon as the voice fell, huge cheers erupted from the whole venue, as if to lift the roof of the stadium.
"What the hell..." Dana moved his gaze to the ring. Conor was swinging his arms like a crab, rampaging in the ring.
His opponent was lying motionless on the ground like a dead dog.
He raised his arm again, pretending to check his watch. "I said one minute means one minute! Look, only twenty seconds have passed! My time is very valuable!"
"What happened just now?" Dana looked confused.
Leon also didn't see the KO process. He was chatting happily with Megan Fox sitting behind him just now.
He didn't understand what happened until he saw the replay on the big screen above the arena.
Taking advantage of the gap when the opponent pressed forward, Conor seized the opportunity to hit the chin with a left hand counter, knocking him out.
Only one punch was thrown in the whole match, and one punch killed the match.
"KO! The winner is Conor McGregor!" Host Bruce Buffer shouted hoarsely, announcing the winner.
The post-match interview that followed was the heavyweight part. Conor's trash talk performance was even more exciting than the KO just now.
Before Joe Rogan asked questions, he snatched the microphone and shouted pointing at Dana below the stage: "Dana! Did you see my performance? I made that Brazilian bastard dream of his grandma with just one punch!"
"Congratulations Dana, your event got the biggest star in this industry. I will become a great man! Tell your wife to wear the brightest red panties tonight; tonight is worth celebrating properly!"
Conor's "Red Panty Night" speech made the audience roar with laughter.
Dana's face flushed red, the corners of his mouth twitching as he tried hard to squeeze out a smile, looking helplessly at Leon beside him.
Conor's speech wasn't over yet. "I want to thank my boss, 'Street Jesus' Leon! Without him bringing me to America, you wouldn't have the chance to witness the greatest athlete of this century with your own eyes!"
"Leon, don't forget your promise! Excellent warriors need matching rewards! Throw the keys to the Lamborghini and Ferrari over quickly!"
In the front row audience seats, old action superstars like Stallone and Van Damme unconsciously locked their eyes on Leon. They just learned that Leon, a popular singer, was Conor's boss.
"Many people criticized me, saying my pre-match remarks were too intense. I shouldn't have compared Rio de Janeiro to a garbage dump and Brazilian fans to garbage..."
"They want me to apologize. Here I want to apologize sincerely..."
The whole audience held their breath in silence, expecting this madman's apology declaration.
Conor suddenly picked up the microphone and shoved his face into the camera: "Apologize? That's impossible! The winner does whatever the fck he wants!"
"Just like my boss Leon said at the Grammy Awards—'I will never apologize to anyone'!"
After speaking, he threw the microphone directly on the ground and walked back backstage with a crab walk swagger.
"This guy is a genius at trash talking." Leon smiled while clapping.
Conor controlled the whole venue as a prelim fighter tonight, performing even better than he expected.
Behind him, Megan Fox rested her chin on his shoulder, her red lips almost touching his earlobe. "Do you like red? I'm wearing red tonight..."