The next day, McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas.
As soon as Leon walked into the airport lobby, a group of burly men in black suits surrounded him attentively. They were the welcoming committee arranged by UFC President Dana White.
UFC 135 had been an unprecedented success. The creation of the "Baddest Motherfcker" (BMF) title had single-handedly saved the company's slumping PPV sales. Now, whenever Leon came to Las Vegas, Dana would arrange everything in advance.
The moment they stepped into the commercial van, Phil started chattering excitedly. "Jordan, Bruno Mars, Tiger Woods... every one of them is a juicy whale waiting to be slaughtered. And LeBron James? Does that simple-minded gorilla even understand poker?"
He rubbed his hands together in excitement, regretting that he wasn't the one sitting at the table tonight.
The convoy stopped in front of the world-famous Venetian Resort, owned by the Las Vegas Sands Corporation. This was the venue for tonight's poker tournament.
"Mr. Leon! Welcome to the Miracle in the Desert, the unparalleled Venetian Resort!"
The reception staff swarmed around them. Leading the group of muscular men in suits was a tall, slender blonde woman.
"Although I'm no stranger to Las Vegas, I have to say, the Venetian is truly a miracle," Leon praised, looking up at the massive structure.
This hotel covered nearly 63 acres and had over 3,000 rooms. Before 2007, it held the title of the largest comprehensive entertainment hotel investment in the world.
Before he could exchange more than a few words with the reception team, several small, wretched figures darted out from the crowd, cameras clicking wildly.
It was noon, still seven hours before the tournament officially started, but the entrance to the Venetian was already packed with paparazzi disguised as tourists.
"Beat it!"
Leon merely frowned, but the blonde receptionist walked straight up to the paparazzi and issued a stern warning.
These paparazzi, usually stickier than flies, instantly stopped what they were doing. They hid in the crowd with their heads down; not a single one dared to lift a camera again.
This gave Leon a strange feeling. Usually, even facing the notoriety of "Street Jesus," paparazzi would always press forward, never easily putting down the cameras they relied on for a living.
But this woman accomplished it effortlessly. In front of her, the paparazzi were more obedient than trained house pets.
Phil whispered in his ear, "See that? That's Adelson's juice in Las Vegas. That old guy is one of the three most powerful people in this city."
The three most powerful people referred to Sands founder Sheldon Adelson, Caesars Palace boss Steve Wynn, and current mayor Carolyn Goodman. In terms of influence within Las Vegas, even the President of the United States couldn't compare to them.
Led by the reception staff, Leon, Phil, Bonnie, and Jorge's security team walked into the hotel interior together.
The Grand Canal, the Bridge of Sighs, St. Mark's Square, the Campanile, and the gondolas... All the scenery of Venice could be found here.
"I can totally understand why this hotel cost $1.8 billion now," Bonnie exclaimed, taking photos with her phone to check in.
"Of course, Las Vegas is a capitalist utopia," Phil sneered. "Money can buy everything here! Luxury cars, luxury goods from all over the world, top Michelin restaurants... and of course, women! Except for the tourists, the whole of Las Vegas is full of hookers! There isn't a woman here you can't handle with money!"
"Sounds like this city is perfect for your retirement," Leon joked.
"Fck, I can't accept such a high premium. Do these bitches really think their parts are diamond-encrusted?"
The old lecher was very disciplined when it came to streetwalkers—if it cost more than $150, he'd tell her to get lost, even if it was Angelina Jolie herself!
There was still some time before the competition started. The Sands reception staff suggested that Leon and his team take a tour of this palace built of dollars on their own, and just arrive at the dressing room three hours before the start.
Aside from the dazzling array of luxury stores, the hotel was filled with high-end restaurants featuring cuisine from all over the world.
"Let's find a place to eat first." Since leaving New York at 8:30 AM, he had only eaten a simple meal on the plane in the last four hours. Airline food had no quality to speak of, even in first class.
Bonnie immediately raised both hands in favor of the proposal, silently chanting in her heart, "Please, no more burgers and fries..."
Fortunately, inside the Venetian, finding a fast-food joint was actually harder than finding a Michelin restaurant.
"How about this one? I heard it's a restaurant under top chef José Andrés, specializing in molecular gastronomy. President Barack has tasted his cooking." Bonnie quickly locked onto a two-star Michelin Spanish restaurant.
"You decide."
Leon shrugged. Although he knew nothing about molecular gastronomy, he didn't want to be a wet blanket.
Two minutes after the group walked into the restaurant, the head chef walked out of the kitchen to greet them personally.
He stood with the restaurant manager in front of a group of waiters, looking as respectful as if they were serving an emperor.
Hotel security separated Leon's team from other diners, ensuring a safe distance of about five meters.
Even so, this didn't stop the diners' enthusiasm for taking photos. They put down their knives and forks, focusing only on snapping pictures, leaving the exquisite food on their plates tasteless.
Most people tried molecular gastronomy just to take photos and show off their "quality of life." What could provide a greater sense of superiority than bumping into a top-tier male star?
Of the more than 30 million visitors to Las Vegas annually, only a small portion came primarily for gambling; most were tourists from all over the world.
After the millennium, the city gradually shed the "Sin City" gambling label, moving toward becoming a tourist destination and shopping paradise. In terms of gambling volume alone, it had long been left behind by another gambling city across the Pacific.
The restaurant manager respectfully presented the menu. "This restaurant is created by the founder of [World Central Kitchen], José Andrés. Our chef team participated in the 2008 campaign dinner and has hosted many important foreign heads of state..."
He introduced the restaurant's history, food characteristics, and prestige in rapid-fire Spanish-accented English, occasionally throwing in a few rolled R's.
Leon didn't listen to a single word, focusing his energy on the menu.
"The lowest tier set menu is $250 per person?"
"Huh?" The restaurant manager almost thought there was something wrong with his ears.
The young man in front of him was recognized as one of the top earners among celebrities this year, yet he cared about a $250 meal cost. This didn't look like a young singer who spent money without blinking.
Leon saw Bonnie rolling her eyes and smiled. "Let's go with the highest standard. The $400 per person set. By the way, please arrange seats for the Mexican gentlemen behind me and serve them the same standard."
"Ooh... that's rare." Jorge reached out his massive hand, roughly grabbed a chair, and sat down.
The group of little brothers behind him, showing off tattoos and sporting mustaches, also took their seats one after another.
"Mr. Leon, given your distinguished status, we would be very happy to waive all meal costs for you and your team!" The manager bowed, smiling fawningly. "We just need you to..."
"No need, just serve the food quickly." Leon threw the menu on the table, rarely refusing the temptation of a free meal.
The manager wanted to say something else, but swallowed the words and walked away hugging the menu.
"We've known each other for so long, this is the first time I've seen you so generous." Bonnie leaned close to his ear, smiling. "You're acting more and more like a gentleman."
Leon shrugged, grinning without replying.
He had long guessed what the restaurant manager would say next—requesting a photo to prove this was a restaurant "liked" by Street Jesus. Compared to having his photo hanging in the shop to attract customers, he preferred not to save those few thousand bucks.
After waiting for more than ten minutes, not even the appetizers had been served, but more and more tourists were gathering to watch.
The news that Leon was dining here spread through the Venetian, and a large number of tourists poured into the restaurant. The manager didn't stop them for publicity purposes.
Soon, screams drowned out the originally quiet dining environment. He was like a monkey in a zoo for people to watch.
"Leon! OMG, that's really Leon!"
"We love you, Leon! Fck Lil Wayne! Fck Jay-Z! Fck Will Smith!"
Leon waved calmly at the fans, silently praying that no female fans would do anything too outrageous.
Just as he was getting impatient, the appetizer was served—a blob of sticky gray substance that looked completely unappetizing.
"What the fck is this? It looks like a pile of dog sht." Phil held his knife and fork, not knowing where to start.
"Shut up!" Hearing the old geezer say that, Bonnie instantly lost her appetite. She froze, looking at the food on her fork, unsure whether to eat it.
The chef hurriedly explained, "This is the restaurant's signature molecular dish, 'Exploding Foie Gras.' First, fresh foie gras is mashed into a paste, then an aeration bottle is used to create foie gras mousse. Isomalt is added, and metal tubes are used to semi-solidify the sugar substitute. Finally, the foie gras mousse is added and cooled to crystallization using liquid nitrogen..."
The production process, as tedious as a scientific experiment, sounded full of gimmicks.
Leon crossed his arms, shaking his head with a smile. "I'm guessing the chefs in this restaurant all watched Breaking Bad."
Facing this group of rough men who didn't understand fine dining, Bonnie was the first to pick up the foie gras and stuff it into her mouth. "You guys try it quickly. Although it really doesn't look like much, the texture is very unique, as smooth as chocolate mousse."
Saying that, she took out her phone, switched to video mode, and rested her head on Leon's shoulder to record. "I'm here exploring José Andrés' restaurant, fam! This is Leon—you guys should all know him, right?"
"Look at the camera, Leon. Give me a peace sign!"
On this trip to Las Vegas, she had been snapping photos with her phone from the moment she boarded the plane. Not to show off on social media, but to create a Vlog for her YouTube channel.
Bonnie's path as an influencer was becoming increasingly successful, steadily marching toward the 500,000 subscriber mark. She was currently a top player in the fashion/lifestyle section of YouTube.
Rihanna's personal channel only had 1.7 million followers, and that was already in the top ten on YouTube.
Leon shook his head helplessly. Although reluctant, he still flashed a peace sign as requested.
"Awesome! With your face in the shot, the views on this Vlog will at least double!" Bonnie hit pause, excitedly admiring the clip she just shot.
"Why are you working so hard when you've made so much money? Didn't you say you were going to treat this trip as a vacation?"
Others didn't know how much money was in Bonnie's little treasury, but Leon knew very well. She was a hidden little rich lady within Apocalypse Music.
Between the ad revenue from managing the official Apocalypse Music channel and selling private photo books and used G-strings in fan groups, she had made a fortune.
"Compared to you, I'm as poor as a homeless guy waiting for a relief meal." Bonnie spread her hands while laughing. "Men are all liars. As someone who doesn't believe in marriage, I have to consider my future."
Just as the two were chatting happily, Leon felt someone tap his back.
He turned around to see a middle-aged woman, estimated to weigh over 200 pounds, who had somehow breached the security cordon. She was looking at him with heart-eyes.
The woman carried an Hermès bag, and every inch of her exposed skin was draped in blinding jewelry.
"Can you give me an autograph, handsome? You don't know how much I love you!"
Leon took the marker and reluctantly scribbled his signature. "Alright, don't disturb our meal, bitch ass."
"Oh my God! He actually cursed at me! Did you guys hear that?! I'm so happy!"
The rich lady who got the autograph almost jumped for joy. It took the hotel security's persuasion to get her to leave unwillingly.
"How did that stupid woman get in?" Leon looked helpless.
"Can't you tell? That fatty practically had the word 'RICH' carved on her forehead," Phil snorted. "This is Las Vegas. Money can do anything."
---
After the meal, Leon led his team to the dressing room on the third floor of the hotel as planned. The entire floor was VIP gambling rooms reserved for high rollers.
He wasn't the earliest arrival. Bruno Mars, a gambling addict, had finished his hair and makeup early, rubbing his hands in excitement for the big game tonight.
"Leon, Bro~ We finally get to battle at the same table tonight! I can't wait!"
Bruno Mars was wearing a green suit from head to toe, even his leather shoes and socks were green. The most ridiculous part was the hat with green environmental slogans written on it.
With his short stature, he looked like a shiny green goblin.
"Who designed this outfit for you, man? It looks completely stupid."
"How could it?! I think it's awesome!" Mars looked down, assessed himself, and said, "This outfit is to support environmental organizations! I'm a hardcore environmentalist!"
"Alright."
Since Mars himself didn't say anything, Leon didn't bother to explain the implication of a "green hat" in Eastern culture (which implies being a cuckold).
The funds raised by this event were mainly donated to left-wing organizations like environmental groups and "woke" organizations. As a staunch supporter of the Republican Party (Elephant), this event was seen as Adelson hedging his bets—the Democrats (Donkey) were showing a trend of completely overwhelming the Republicans.
Except for Mars' green hat suit, the organizers prepared unique costumes for each player. Jordan's polo shirt with the letters "GOAT" printed on the chest was particularly conspicuous.
Leon pointed to a rainbow-colored hoodie on the rack, turned his head, and complained to the styling director, "I don't want to wear this stupid outfit on TV."
"No, that's not for you!" The styling director revealed a mysterious smile. "Let me tell you a secret, I'm also your fan, so I designed an unparalleled outfit for you! I guarantee when the show airs on GSN, you'll be the most dazzling one!"
Having witnessed this stylist's bizarre aesthetic, Leon's heart sank. "I'd prefer to be a bit low-key."
"No, some people are born unable to be low-key!" Saying that, the styling director walked toward the clothing rack.
"WTF..."
When he saw the clothes the other party brought over, Leon was so shocked he didn't know what to say, and could only express his inner shock with a string of F-words.
It was a white suit printed all over with poker patterns.
"How about it? I drew inspiration for this outfit from an Eastern movie!" The styling director looked proud. "It's really cool, right? Mars loved it at first sight! But I had to save the best for you. Wear it, and you'll definitely kill it tonight!"
"You're a fcking genius..." Leon laughed out loud, shocked by the stupid design. This avant-garde style didn't seem much better than Mars' green hat suit.
Five minutes later, a noise came from the dressing room entrance.
Leon looked over to see Drake cursing and saying something to his assistant.
"I don't know how many chips that bastard Leon is bringing to the table tonight, but I'm going to make him lose his underwear!"
"It's better to play steady. That white trash is much richer than you; the chips you push out won't scare him at all," the assistant whispered to dissuade him.
"Sht bro! You think having more money means everything in poker? Winning depends on strategy!" Drake pointed to his head. "For this day, I specifically hired the greatest professional player, Tom Dwan, as my coach! I have completely mastered the winning strategy!"
Looking at his boss's confident appearance, the assistant could only shut his mouth obediently.
Cough.
Leon covered his mouth and pretended to cough.
The sound wasn't loud, but it instantly stopped the noise coming from Drake.
He and his assistant looked at each other, their mouths and bodies freezing simultaneously.
On Twitter, Drake posted several tweets attacking Kendrick every day, sometimes dragging Leon into it.
But when the two actually met, he completely lost his online gangster arrogance, looking like a small dog off its leash.