A Match Made In Beautiful, Sexy Heaven

The camera flickers on, but, it's shaky. As if it is being held in someone's hand. Whoever is behind the camera does a full rotation, showing off the luxurious apartment that he/she is in. The walls were painted a deep purple, one wall being entirely made of glass. It was clearly a penthouse suite, showing off the skyline of Miami, Florida. The buildings were like vibrant stars in the dark of the night. The camera continues to show off their surroundings, as the person behind the person starts to walk around.

First, the kitchen. It was huge, the size of a common man's apartment. Behind a stainless steel, 18 burner stove, was a chef. He had a long, brown, frenchman mustache, with grey hairs peppered in it. He had long, bushy eyebrows, and was delightfully plump. One might describe him as jolly. The chef looked up, giving a brief wave to the person behind the camera, shouting out, "Bonjour, Monsieur Mars!" Though, he quickly returned to his work, applying spices to whatever he was cooking in the pan below. The camera looked up, to rows upon rows of polished oak cabinets. This was clearly one of the most posh kitchens money could buy.

The man behind the camera, now identified as The Most Beautiful Man Alive, Apollo Mars, stepped into a bathroom, the walls lined with shining white porcelain tiles. The bathroom itself was the size of a living room, and in one corner, a hot tub sized bath, with jets on the walls of it. In the other, a shower the size of a walk-in closet. The camera spun to the gold plated sink, with a plethora of hair products and supplements on the shining granite counter. A mirror lined the entire wall on that side - showing the ultra handsome Apollo Mars. He wore a raven black, cashmere suit. The coat wasn't buttoned up - to reveal a well fitted Calvin Klein white undershirt, with the top two buttons unbuttoned. His belt was made of black leather, with a shining silver buckle. The camera panned back up to show of his handsome features, a clean shaven face, his hair done up into an undercut. He had a fresh cut - the sides and back of his hair trimmed down to a 4. Though, the top remained at least 3 inches in length. He had a pair of shining white Oakley sunglasses.

The camera panned back down, and Apollo stepped into his living room. It was monstrous, with an 80 inch flat screen television mounted on the wall. He took a seat in a comfy looking brown recliner, grabbing a remote controller. He set the camera on an end table, focusing on the television. Apollo surfed through his dvr, scrolling through classics like "Apollo Mars Runway show 2014" and "Calvin Klein Fashion Show featuring Apollo Mars". He clicked on "CWA 05-15-15", fast forwarding to his match. Specifically, right when he was getting pinned. This was the first time he made a noise through ought the entirety of the video so far. "See that!" He tapped pause quickly, his voice showing frustration. He zoomed into the screen, more specifically, his hair.

Apollo: Look at that! LOOK AT THAT! My hair is horrible in this. I can't believe they put this on television, without my consent. I look like garbage. No, worse than garbage. I look like Hillary Clinton and Mascara's ugly love child!

Apollo lowered his head for the camera to see the clear disdain on his face, shaking his head.

Apollo: I just can't believe it.

Apollo zoomed in further, showing a few strand hairs on his forehead.

Apollo: I look like a damn ogre.

Apollo grunted in frustration, grabbing the camera, flipping it around, selfie-style.

Apollo: Can you believe thi-

Suddenly, Apollo's attention shot up, flipping the camera around. Now in the room, an exotic looking, petite woman in a french maid's costume. She had thick, pouty lips, covered in a crimson red lipstick, with light brown hair.

Maid: Bonjour, Monsieur Mars. Y at-il quelque chose que je peux obtenir pour vous ?

Apollo: No, I'm fine.

The maid shrugged, spinning around, pulling out a feather duster, leaning over in a provocative manner to clean the shelf beneath the tv, her head getting in the way.

Apollo: Madeline, get out of the way! I'm trying to look at the TV!

The maid, now identified, turned around, tilting her head. She pushed a few strands of hair behind her hair, batting her eyelashes at Apollo.

Apollo: I'm sorry, did I stutter? MOVE!

Madeline frowned, making a "Hmph!" sound, spinning around and walking out of the room from the same entrance she came in. Apollo grabbed the camera, having it face him again, shaking his head in anger. He got out of the recliner, muttering angrily to himself.

Soon, he arrived at a shiny silver elevator. He clicked the down button, waiting for a few seconds, before stepping inside. He tapped the "garage" button, and elevator music came on. But this wasn't on ordinary music - it was the classic Soulja Boy's "Pretty Boy Swag". After a moment or so, the doors opened, showing his garage, which was filled with lamborghinis, mustangs, porches, cadillacs, and even more. He stepped into a neon green lambo, setting the camera on the dashboard to face him while he drove. Starting the engine and driving out, he seemed to put more attention into the camera, rather than the road.

Apollo: Can you believe the nerve of some people? I'm sitting there, watching something on my tv, and she gets in the way..Anyways. I'm not here to discuss why I am better than you. Or why I'm better than that stupid David Gandy at British Vogue...I'm here to talk about how I'm better than that little taco jockey. He came at me while I was fixing my hair. So much cowardice is with him. I felt it in the ring. While the cameras were flashing on me, the sass was flashing at him. Last match was just a stroke of luck - much like how he got across the boarder without getting caught.

Suddenly, Apollo honked his horn - which, sounded like a french horn, as he swerved out of the way. He rolled down his window, looking back to the offending car.

Apollo: Uncultured swine!

Apollo then looked back to the camera, shaking his head in frustration, a few strands of his hair resting on his forehead. A few beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face.

Apollo: World's Strongest will be the night I teach the alien how wrestling is done. And once I win that match, I will do the same to the next. And then the next - in only a few weeks, the High Voltage Champion will be Apollo Mars.

Apollo continued to drive, before the car came to a slow stop. Apollo stepped out, grabbing the camera with him. The view was spectacular - a bright white moon, shining in the dark night, reflecting off the crystal clear light in front of him. He laid the camera on the hood, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket, as well as a silver lighter. He lit it the cigarette, taking a slow, dramatic drag.

Apollo: Come World's Strongest, Mascara's world will be rocked. It'll be a batte of brain, brawn, and beauty. Which, I will win every time. Especially the third.

Apollo laughed quietly, looking into the camera. He had his shades down - at night.

Apollo: A bien tot, Mascara. A bien tot.