Post by levy on Nov 23, 2021 16:53:31 GMT -5
HOLLYWOOD BABYLON
The scene opens with an aerial view of an expensive, beautiful property in the Hollywood Hills; the famous sign is visible in the background, to give some indication of the value of the prime real estate on display. The home of Superstar Johnny Levy, whose voice begins speaking over the video; he calmly narrates a day in the life of a Hollywood Box Office King, as pre-recorded footage of him going about his morning routine accompanies the monologue.
"I live in a modest $28 million home on Wild Oak Drive in the Hollywood Hills. My name is Johnny Levy. I'm 32 years old. I believe in taking care of myself, with a balanced diet and rigorous exercise routine. In the morning if my face is a little puffy, I'll put on an ice pack while doing stomach crunches. I can do 1000 now. After I remove the ice pack, I use a deep pore cleanser lotion. In the shower I use a water activated gel cleanser, then a honey almond body scrub, and on my face I use an exfoliating gel scrub. Then, I apply an herb-mint facial mask which I leave on for 10 minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an after shave lotion with little or no alcohol, because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye balm followed by a final moisturizing protective lotion."
Throughout the entirety of voice-over, the footage has been of him eating a light breakfast, exercising, showering (complete with gratuitous, totally unnecessary ass-shot), then applying a variety of creams and lotions to his upper body and face. By this point, he is staring into his steamy bathroom mirror as he waits for the applied face mask to dry on his skin. After a few seconds, he reaches up with both hands to pinch the very top of it, peeling it from his forehead down to his chin as the narration continues. His ice cold blue eyes stare blankly at his reflection as he does so, no hint of emotion - or even humanity - on his face.
"There is an idea of a Johnny Levy. Some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me, only an entity: something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable (not really, mine is much, much better than yours)... I simply... am not... there."
"Hey, hey, stop, stop."
The camera cuts away to Johnny Levy standing in a sound booth, where he has been recording the voiceover playing over the previous scene. He holds up a copy of the script in his hand as he waves it at someone off-camera.
"Larry, who wrote this dialogue? It makes me sound like... I don't know... some kind of American Psycho (tm) or something!"
"Did you not read the script before filming, Mr. Levy?"
"Did I read the script?! What kind of question is that?! Isn't that what I pay you people for? You know, if you keep this up, I'm going to fire every one of you and replace you all with day laborers. Maybe then I could at least get my lawn mowed while I'm being screwed over."
From off-screen, another voice: this time, a woman's. It's Quinlan Kennedy, Johnny's loyal agent and childhood friend.
"Johnny, it's me. Listen, we've got a problem. Looks like the script got leaked; we're being sued by Bret Easton Ellis for copyright infringement. Did you not notice that this was an exact, word-for-word rip-off of that Christian Bale movie?"
"What, you think I watch other peoples' movies? Why would I do that, when I could re-watch one of my own, superior films? Jesus H... where's the proofreader?!"
"We got rid of him last week. Budget cuts to pay your lawyers for the... let me check... right, thirty-five current or pending lawsuits that have been filed against you in the past year and a half."
With a weary sigh and a pained expression, Johnny Levy rubs the bridge of his nose with two fingers as he mutters under his breath. He looks like he's got the mother of all headaches; but hey, nobody said it would be easy at the top!
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Jump cut to the outdoor pool on Johnny's estate, where he lay - fully reclined and shirtless - on a outdoor lounging chair. In one hand, he holds his gold-plated, gemstone-encrusted iPhone (probably some kind of prototype edition the plebs won't have access to for another 3 or 4 years). In the other, a sun reflector to make full use of every single UV ray beaming down on him from above.
He's currently logged into his Twitter account, typing up a message with one thumb. After completing the tweet, he pauses the check his reflection in the phone's screen - smiling at the perfection staring back at him - before sending it.
From behind him, there is a faint beep. Lifting his sun reflector up a bit higher, he uses the foil surface as a makeshift mirror to locate the source of the noise. It's his agent, Quinlan Kennedy, walking up to him from behind. Seems like she has notifications set up for all his tweets, as she leans over his shoulder to show him her phone screen. Yep, it's his Twitter account.
"Johnny, what's this? Did you forget that you're openly Jewish? I mean, you've been on the leadership committee of the California AJC for years. Everyone knows this. Nobody is going to buy that you've suddenly found Jesus and decided to start going to Church... and on a Tuesday morning, no less. And 'y'all'? You're from California, not Texas."
With a scoff and a smug shake of his head, he waves off these very valid points. Classic Quinlan, always trying to rain on his parade. He knows how to market himself, damnit!
"Come on Quin, church is all the rage these days with those sissy NBA players and the actual athletes in the NFL. I'd be a damn sucker not to get in on it and score some easy social media points! Anyw- hey, what's this?"
Taking a sheet of paper which has been handed to him by his agent, Johnny puts down the sun reflector and holds the list in front of him with both hands. Lifting his sunglasses up to rest on top of his head, he squints in the bright Los Angeles sun to read the names on the paper.
"It's a list of the entrants for this 'Black Friday' event Project: Honor is putting on. I thought you might want to know who you're up against. Maybe do a little preparation, hm?"
"Well, let's see..."
"Archimedes? GARBAGE."
"Guy? JOBBER."
"Poblano? MID."
"Shelldrake? TRASH."
"L'il Petey? Well, that guy seems alright."
"Jason Long? HAHAHAHA..."
"Didn't that loser get his ass beat by Noah Hope?"
"Didn't that loser get his ass beat by Noah Hope?"
Levy allows himself a brief moment to chuckle at the memory of the most recent Fallout show; knowing him, he only watched the first match before being distracted by the nearest reflective surface... but he definitely remembers the 'Emperor of Project Honor' getting pinned - clean - by one the brand's eternal undercarders.
And then he moves on.
"Ozymandias? LITERALLY WHO."
He pauses, eyes widening as he reaches the next name on the list of entrants. Mouth slackening and fallen open into an 'O' of shock, as his hands actually start to tremble ever-so slightly before he turns his stunned gaze onto Quinlan Kennedy.
"John... Blade...? Big Match John? The Doctor of Thuganomics? The Best There Is, The Best There Was, and The Best There Ever Will Be? The Greatest of All Time? The Excellence of Execution? The King of the Ring? The Whole F'ing Show? The Man Who Defined an Era? The Innovator? The Authentic? The Original? The Crown Jewel of Wrestling?"
"That John Blade?!?!"
"That John Blade?!?!"
"...I mean, it just says 'John Blade', not the rest of that stuff. But yes... why, do you know him?"
"Oh gee, I wonder! Do I know who John Blade is?!?!" he says, incredulously, before dismissing the ridiculous, almost insulting question from Quinlan with an overly dramatic scoff, "Jesus, Quin, you should have warned me sooner, instead of letting me sit on my finely sculpted, perfectly tanned ass for the past week! This is more serious than I thought..."
Practically rocketing out of his deck chair and to his feet, Johnny Levy brusquely pushes past his agent as he moves away from the pool and towards the house. Before disappearing through the patio door, he pauses to look back at Quinlan and shout.
"Well...? We don't have a second to waste, damnit!"
With a sigh, Levy's ever-loyal, ever-suffering agent follows him back into his sprawling estate. Walking through the luxurious living room into his study (aka book display room), Johnny stops in front of a marble bust of Tom Cruise - one of his heroes, although Levy is unquestionable the superior actor - before turning to face Quinlan.
"I'm going to show you something. Something special. Something personal. I trust you understand the value of discretion, and won't repeat anything you're about to see or hear."
"...sure, Johnny. Lay it on me."
Nodding at this confirmation of secrecy, he grabs the bust around the neck before flipping the head back to reveal a large, red button. Pressing down on it with his index finger, Johnny closes the upper half of the marble bust over the hidden button before walking to one wall; as if on cue, it begins to open up, revealing a large, circular staircase that descends into the darkness.
The expression on Quinlan's face is one of stunned disbelief. She'd known Johnny for decades and had been in this home more times than she cares to remember; but she'd never even seen him use this study, let alone seeing or hearing any hint of some sort of hidden secret beneath the property.
"...what the...?"
Ignoring her, Levy turns directly to the camera, lifting one hand in a big thumbs-up as the scene dissolves away.
What, you thought they were going to shoot the entire trip down the stairs? Film isn't cheap!
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The scene resumes deep below the Levy estate, in a cavernous sub-basement of sorts. The roof itself is so high, that the room must be 30 or 40 feet underground. Spread around the bare stone floor is a variety of exercise equipment. Benches, squat racks, exercise bikes, treadmills, massive tires near a large sledgehammer, humongous lengths of chain, all alongside more free weights than the average commercial gym.
Who even dragged all this shit down here in the first place? Maybe it came with the house, and Bruce Wayne was the last owner or something.
But the 'home' gym isn't the truly impressive part. Plastering every inch of wall surrounding his Temple of Steel is what might well be the most extensive collection of John Blade memorabilia ever assembled. Posters from PPVs and shows spanning Big Match John's entire wrestling career, multiple copies of every piece of merchandise he's ever released, even a fifteen foot tall granite statue of a shirtless, flexing John Blade in the exact center of the room... he has it ALL.
And, predictably, Quinlan has her face buried in her hands; completely in disbelief that her client and friend has been hiding a shrine to some professional wrestler under his multi-million dollar home for... well, who knows how long this has all been down here?
"Yes, Quinlan, to answer your earlier question: I know John Blade. I know him, I respect him, and more than all... I fear him. Because I am a smart man, and only a fool would disregard someone possessing John's titanic strength and immeasurable skill."
"I still remember the first time I saw him practice his craft in the ring. It was beautiful, like seeing the face of God. I was just a young man flipping through the channels, looking for something to entertain myself after a long day of being perfect. I stumbled upon an old wrestling show, completely at random... John Blade against some midcarder whose name is obviously unimportant."
"On that day, my eyes were opened. I witnessed a man who was capable of doing what others could only dream of: conducting a symphony with every movement of his body. Writing a poem with every quirk of his head; every uppercut and bodyslam, a new stanza in a Shakespearean epic. Finally, I knew what others meant when they cl- hey, where are you going?"
The camera pulls back, to reveal that Quinlan has walked back to the staircase during her client's lengthy monologue. She waves at him, not even bothering to look back in his direction as she begins to ascend the stairs. Clearly, she's had enough of this nonsense... a lifetime, in fact.
"I've got work to do, Johnny. Have fun with... all this."
Completely undeterred by this turn of events, Johnny turns back to the camera and snaps his fingers, causing another cut.
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'Eye of the Tiger' by Survivor serves as the soundtrack to the next scene, as a very Rocky-esque training montage unfolds on the screen. First, Johnny Levy jogs on his treadmill, pressing a button to make the track move faster and faster and faster... then, he is on one side of the gym, holding the end of a length of thick metal chain as he pulls the rest of it towards himself... then, he is sweating and breathing heavily as he unloads a combination of jabs, hooks and haymakers on a heavy bag anchored into the ceiling... then, a man is laying on the weight bench with a barbell that looks like it's holding 350+ pounds on it - at minimum.
Only this time, the individual working out very clearly isn't Johnny Levy. For starters, this person obviously has about half a foot and one hundred or so pounds on the famous actor. Anyone with a good memory and eye for body language might be able to discern that it's his bodyguard and driver, Barlon Mando, wearing a rather poor quality Johnny Levy Halloween mask. Couldn't even spring for Hollywood level prosthetics; those numerous lawsuits must really be eating into his bank accounts.
As the worst body double of all time benches the massive amount of weight, the camera pulls back to reveal the Real Johnny Levy - sitting on a leather recliner a few feet away from Barlon. He flips through the monthly issue of 'Rich Bastard' magazine, wearing sunglasses despite the fact that there are only a few dim lights illuminating the underground gym, as he sips on some variety of fruity cocktail; plastic umbrella and all.
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One last jump cut! This time, Johnny Levy is dressed respectably - and down to earth - in a white button-up shirt, wool cardigan, no sunglasses, and regular black trousers. He is seated on a wooden stool, one leg crossed over the other as he looks directly into the camera with a fake smile on his face.
"You know, kids, we like to joke around here a little bit. But I'd like to discuss something seriously, if I may. You see, I'm going to be making my debut on Proving Grounds this week, and it's going to be something of a historic moment. The first time that a wrestling ring - anywhere in the world - has played host to a truly larger-than-life name such as myself."
"No, no. You don't need to congratulate me, boys and girls. You see, I don't do it for myself. I do it for all of you out there, looking up to me like a role model, cheering me on, and buying multiple tickets for my upcoming movies using your parents' credit cards."
He winks, nodding directly at the camera as if to say 'yes, please do that thing I just said', before he continues.
"Now, I know what you might be saying. 'But Johnny, we love you so much, even more than our own families, aren't you afraid of getting hurt?' And I don't blame you for thinking that! After all, my face is my meal ticket, and I'm going to be going up against a pack of poverty-stricken, hideous goons with literally nothing to lose. I'm almost positive that they see a man like me and feel nothing but jealousy bubbling up within their disgusting, unphotogenic, talentless bodies. And sure, maybe it makes me a hero to take my chances against these thugs who dare to call themselves 'athletes'..."
"I mean, it does. Make me a hero, that is. But you know what?"
"You're the real heroes. I'm just here to do what I do best: everything. And I hope that, one day, maybe a few of you will be able to reach the heights that I have so effortlessly conquered. Because there's more to this life than being poor and low-class. There's a better way. You just need to have a bit of faith in yourself; along with flawless good looks, perfect teeth, a well-chiseled physique, and a famous last name. That's right, any one of you - if you have all those things - can desperately strive for the top, clawing at my heels as I stay one step ahead of those who try to follow in my footsteps."
"I guess this is my way of saying that I appreciate you all, just as much as you appreciate me. Because without all my little Levymaniacs out there sticking up for me, supporting the Levy brand, and purchasing my Levy-O's cereal, Levidas athletic wear, Levtendo video game consoles, and all my other merchandise... well, I'd probably still be rich and successful, but maybe a little bit less than I am now!"
"And remember, children: if you believe you can do it, then you can! Just not as good as me, of course!"
As Levy flashes the camera a pearly-white, cheesy, over-the-top smile, a shooting star appears just above his head accompanied by the words 'The More You Know'. As if on cue, Quinlan once again cuts in from off-screen to deliver yet another piece of bad news.
"Yeah... yeah... I'll tell him. Johnny? I just got a call from your lawyers, NBC is suing you for - you guessed it - copyright infringement."
"...those motherf-"
The camera cuts out before SUPERSTAR JOHNNY LEVY can finish uttering that expletive, replaced by a brief burst of static, followed by a set of closing credits which roll down a black screen.
A JOHNNY LEVY PRODUCTION
DIRECTED BY
JOHNNY LEVY
CINEMATOGRAPHY BY
JOHNNY LEVY
EXECUTIVE PRODUCER
JOHNNY LEVY
WRITTEN & EDITED BY
JOHNNY LEVY
STARRING
JOHNNY LEVY
TRADEMARKS AND COPYRIGHTS HELD BY
JOHNNY LEVY
A JOHNNY LEVY PRODUCTION
DIRECTED BY
JOHNNY LEVY
CINEMATOGRAPHY BY
JOHNNY LEVY
EXECUTIVE PRODUCER
JOHNNY LEVY
WRITTEN & EDITED BY
JOHNNY LEVY
STARRING
JOHNNY LEVY
TRADEMARKS AND COPYRIGHTS HELD BY
JOHNNY LEVY