Post by levy on Jan 7, 2022 19:25:16 GMT -5
Levymania
A disclaimer fills the screen, white text on a dark background.
DISCLAIMER: The opinions, beliefs and statements of Johnny Levy are not shared by anyone involved in the production of this promo.
His handler cannot be held personally responsible, due to the transitory and illusory nature of the written word in an RP-only setting.
Anyone who is easily upset should go read something less offensive; perhaps the latest episode of Fallout.
#BabyFace #HeelWithIt #Uncancellable
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The scene opens up looking like a grainy, old, black and white film. It’s a smoky, cramped room. Behind a small desk - cluttered with papers, a table lamp, a bottle of scotch with a glass beside it, and a typewriter along with an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts - is Ace Private Eye, Johnny Max 'SUPERSTAR' Sampson Levy. A former detective with the LAPD who has fallen on hard times, after being fired due to a small misunderstanding… when he opened fire inside a Children’s Hospital last summer; an honest mistake, really.
He was trying to hit a jaywalker.
Listen, if these kids don’t want to catch any strays they need to stay indoors, where it’s safe.
What do you mean a children’s hospital is technically indoors?
BITCH IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT MOVE OUT OF LOS ANGELES, SHIT IS REAL ON THESE STREETS. TUPAC WAS FROM HERE, THIS AIN’T NO GAME SON.
Levy is sweating in the confines of the hot, humid, stuffy room. He’s holding a magnifying glass up to his eye as he inspects a piece of paper held in front of him. When suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. With a sigh, he places the lens and paper back onto the table, before pausing to dab away sweat with a silk handkerchief.
“Come in.”
The door opens, revealing his wife Mary Jo Hastings, the former adult film actress who Johnny rescued from the depths of that slimy, perverted industry, before helping her get her start in that other slimy, perverted industry known as Hollywood. She’s wearing a red dress that shows off her cleavage in a way that probably pushes this promo into PG-13 territory.
Sashaying towards the desk as Johnny stands at attention - in more ways than one - she takes off her ridiculously oversized straw hat and begins to fan herself in the dimly lit, sweaty room. Johnny gestures at the chair on the other side of the desk, and waits for his wife to take a seat before he does.
“So, toots, what are you here for? Think your husband’s cheating on you? Panties going missing in the middle of the night? I know you can’t be looking to investigate your plastic surgeon, because those things are PERFECT.”
“Toots? Well I never!” she gasps, though the coy smile and blushing cheeks tell a different story. She flips her hair theatrically, looking directly at the camera and winking before she continues in hushed, breathy tones.
“It’s not THAT, Mr. Levy. It’s just… well… I’ve been collecting a bunch of old bacon grease in my kitchen after cooking breakfast every morning, and when I woke up today, the entire thing was gone! All that was left in its place was THIS.”
She reaches down into her cleavage, fishing about for an unnecessarily long time before pulling out a small rectangular card. She places it face down on the table and slides it towards Levy, knocking aside stacks of paper as she does so.
Johnny doesn’t seem to mind. The view is nice enough to make up for any mess she’s causing.
He extends one hand, grabbing hold of the card before picking it up and glancing at the other side of it.
Swindle ‘The Kraken’ Shelldrake
Professional Creep & Slimy Bastard
1-800-NEED-GREASE-BAD-BABY
He stares quizzically at the card for a few minutes - surreptitiously shooting several glances at his wife’s heaving bosom while he does so - before he finally sighs and tosses it back onto the table.
“What kind of a devious son of a bitch uses a phone number with SIXTEEN digits? This is the 1950’s, we’re still using five digit numbers for Moses’ sake!”
“That’s not even the worst part, you should see the mess he tracked into my apartment! I’ll be steam cleaning that place for weeks before I get the smell out!”
The Private Detective rubs his chin thoughtfully, staring directly at his wife/client’s chest for several minutes as he slowly starts to become cross-eyed, mouth hanging open and all. Eventually, Mary Jo clears her throat loudly to get his attention.
“Oh. Right. I’LL TAKE THE CASE! As far as payment goes… maybe a pair of used socks? Unwashed? Perhaps? Please?”
=====================================================
The famous P.I. is standing in the middle of a busy police station, the same one he used to work at. Despite his disgraceful exit from the LAPD, he still has friends on the inside; they feed him information, and he pays well for it.
A simple exchange between lawmen.
Speaking to him is a fat, slovenly piece of shit cop (not Officer Greyfield) in plainclothes; straight out of the auditions for L.A. Confidential.
“Yeah, we’ve been hearing about this guy. Stealing from restaurant grease traps, squeezing the oil out of Italians' hair, even hitting up septic tanks. We don’t know what he’s after, but it’s something big. They call him ‘The Kraken’.”
“Yeah I know, genius, I got his business card last scene. Didn’t you read the fucking script you dumb rube?”
=====================================================
Johnny Levy, Private Dick is pressing a trench coat wearing hoodlum up against the wall of a darkened alley. He screams in the man’s face, sounding suspiciously like a certain terrible actor playing Batman in a certain terrible trilogy that could never hope to match Zack Snyder’s magnum opus Batman vs Superman.
BUT THAT’S NONE OF MY BUSINESS.
“WHERE IS HE?!?!?! WHERE’S THE KRAKEN?!?!”
“Myeah, see, I’ll never tell you a thing, copper, myeaaaah!” responds the thug, in the most ridiculous Dick Tracey villain delivery imaginable.
“...WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOUR VOICE?!?!”
“I had a stroke, myeaaaaaaaah, seeeeeee?!?!”
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Due to budgetary restrictions, most of the investigation has been cut short!
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Johnny stands in front of a defeated man, tied to a chair and wearing a Swindle Shelldrake mask that looks more like Nixon or something. At least it has stubble painted on, grease smeared on the rubber face, and its tongue out; all which helps to make it look like Johnny’s upcoming opponent.
“So, Mr. Snailmace, your plan was to cover yourself in grease - which it looks like you’ve already done - and then ruin the city’s water supply by immersing yourself in the reservoir?”
“Yes! I admit it! I'm a dirty, dirty boy and I deserve to be punished!”
“...what?”
The Private Eye looks entirely confused by this weird turn, but before he can press the issue his previously unseen sidekick steps up to him and tugs on his sleeve.
“Forget it, Levy. It’s Chinatown.”
“No it isn’t! We’re in the Hollywood Hills, for fuc-”
=====================================================
The black and white film clips are replaced with a full color shot of Johnny Levy sitting, partially covered in shadows, as he reclines in a large, plush chair of red velvet fabric. He smokes contemplatively on a cigar, looking so, so cash as he stares into the lens of the camera.
A giant exhalation of smoke that clouds the entire scene, before he begins to speak - not even giving the smoke time to dissipate.
“Shingles Greaseface. My old nemesis.”
“You were there on that day, right? The day my Uncle Be-errr-Noah died of an allergic reaction to shellfish during my childhood trip to New York City.”
“I KNOW it was you who slipped shrimp into his halva, and I haven’t forgotten what my Uncle said with his dying breath, as he lay on the pavement looking up at his young nephew.”
“‘With great power comes great responsibility.’”
“I can’t be sued because that is a statement a lot of people make! No way Disney can possibly copyright that shit, I refuse to believe it.”
“Moving on.”
“The point is, I can’t just stand back and do nothing. All my gifts. My talents. My money. My good looks. My decidedly Jewish heritage and upbringing that makes me - objectively - one of God’s Chosen People.”
“These are things I cannot take for granted. And I have. Taken them for granted, I mean.”
“But no longer. Those days are done. It’s time to rise up, and accept my place in the halls of heroes past. Mel Brooks. Larry David. Jerry Seinfeld. Ross from Friends.”
“The Mount Rushmore of Judaism. And soon, Johnny Levy will be added to those titans of the industry. Once I make my mark on this so-called ‘sport’, of course. Once I begin my reign of terror. Perhaps I will even construct a really cheap looking Iron Cross throne, who’s to say? But guess what? It all starts with YOU, Hellbrace.”
“Your nefarious schemes to poison Los Angeles have been foiled, and you will soon join your plans in the dustbin of history. I know my career in Project: Honor hasn’t been everything my fans might have hoped it would be, but things are going to CHANGE around here.”
“I’ve been giving it some thought, Dingles. I realize I haven’t been taking this whole thing SERIOUSLY enough. A man like me: beautiful wife, millions of dollars, a name enshrined in Hollywood royalty - I thought I could coast on all that.”
“Apparently, this whole wrestling thing has more to it than I thought. You’re not all a bunch of steroid addicts, overcompensating manlets, insane Japanese nationalists, pathetic simps and mentally ill BPD cases. There are a few of you that could be considered deserving of a CRUMB of my respect.”
“Oh. You’re not one of them, though.”
“Didn’t mean for you to misunderstand. You’re not on the level of a Johnny Levy, or a Giovanni, or a Sonya Benson. See, us? We have style. Class. The smell of aristocracy and a love for finer things that a mere...”
He scoffs.
“PROFESSIONAL WRESTLER like yourself could never appreciate, or even understand.”
“Plus my research says you’re British. My sympathies.”
“And residing from WALES? Literally WHY? Not even the Welsh want to be billed as being from Wales. That’s INSANE.”
“Moving on. Again.”
“Hell, you’re not even equal to Savannah Sunshine, and that girl ‘stay taking Ls’ as the kids say.”
“Sure, you’re a damn fine technical wrestler. Nobody is disputing that. Pretty sure you’ve even got a few 5 out of 5 matches according to my man Dave. But you know what you’re lacking?”
“IT.”
“STAR power, to put it in a way y’all following along at home can understand.”
“‘Oh gee, my hecking yummy flips! What a great workrate! He sure is an indie darling!’”
“Nobody cares that you can pump out 60 minute bangers on demand, if you can’t cut a promo to save your life or draw any heat from the crowd.”
“That’s just the business, Pringles. I’m the whole damn show, and you’re just another dimeless shitter with no personality, same as you’d find working the circuit in Japan for a penny-a-dozen.”
“Sawdusting yourself in half-empty gymnasiums to the roaring approval of 20 whole fans, all for a hot dog and a pat on the back.”
“But enough about that. I’m not here to tear you down, Greaseface. You’ve done a pretty good job of that yourself, haven’t you? Didn’t you use to be a main eventer, or thereabouts? And now look at you, you’re stuck in the undercard fighting some washed-up child actor wh-...”
“Hey wait a second…”
“No…”
“No, not like this.”
“I'm in Match #4. There's 9 matches overall. 9 minus 4 is 5. 5 is greater than 4."
"THAT MEANS I'M IN THE UNDERCARD TOO!!!"
Johnny stands up suddenly, tossing his cigar behind him as he grabs his shirt with two hands - tearing it apart as buttons pop loose to reveal an oiled-up torso, complete with airbrushed pecs and abs.
“WELL LEMME TELL YOU SOMETHING BROTHER, JOHNNY LEVY ISN’T HERE TO TALK. I’M NOT HERE TO WORK THE UNDERCARD, EITHER. JOHNNY LEVY IS A GODDAMN MAIN EVENTER IF THERE EVER WAS ONE, BROTHER. INDY DARLING - THAT CRIPPLED BITCH - OUGHT TO KNOW WHO DRAWS THE HOUSE! AND IT SURE AS HELL AIN’T EMPEROR HIROHITO OR SQUIDMANDIAS, ALRIGHT?!”
Pointing directly at the camera as he begins to shake with fury, Levy breathes heavily out of his possibly cocaine-clogged nostrils as he continues to seethe.
“IT’S TIME FOR THIS COMPANY TO FEEL THE WRATH OF LEVYMANIA! CONSEQUENCES WILL NEVER BE THE SAME!!!”
“STAY IN TEMPLE! EAT YOUR MATZAH! AND ALWAYS REMEMBER THIS:”
“WHATCHA GONNA DO BR-”
He cuts himself off as a piece of paper is handed to him from off-screen. Composing himself suddenly, he reads it calmly before narrowing his eyes at some unseen person to the side.
“Cease and desist? Really? Didn’t this racist idiot get cancelled years ago? What’s he doing filing lawsuits?”
Shaking his head and rubbing his eyes wearily, Johnny crumples up the ball of paper and tosses it over his shoulder, where it lands on the discarded - but still-burning - cigar, soon growing into a small fire that begins to rage in the background as he takes some time to breathe before addressing the camera again.
“Listen. The point is, you think you know Johnny Levy? Well you haven’t seen anything yet, boys and girls. I’m going to take Smelly McNasty and show him a thing or two about how we do it here in AMERICA, the land of the FREE and the home of the BRAVE.”
“Stay tuned! We got one of those mid-credits scenes you Marvel-loving marks love so much! FORESHADOWING!”
He winks, and the scene fades to black… slowly… as the fire keeps growing behind the seemingly oblivious actor.
================================================
A JOHNNY LEVY PRODUCTION
DIRECTED BY
JOHNNY LEVY
CINEMATOGRAPHY BY
JOHNNY LEVY
The credits stop.
A darkened room.
Johnny Levy stands with his back to the camera.
Some distance in front of him is a large, almost throne-like chair.
The chair is turned to face away, concealing the individual sitting in it.
“I cannot do this alone, and neither can you.”
“If we wish to enact change - to improve this fledgling organization and remake it in our, frankly, superior image - we must work together.”
“We may both be proud men, unwilling to bend to others or share power, but we have a common vision.”
“Unity is the only path to our goal.”
“So… do we have an agreement?”
Slowly, the chair spins around to face Levy. But the face of the person remains shrouded in the shadows. The only thing visible is a set of perfect white teeth, which appears on the darkened face with an almost unrealistic brightness.
STAY TUNED FOR JOHNNY LEVY XIII: ANOTHER DUMBASS SEQUEL, PREMIERING THIS YEAR!
CONSUME PRODUCT THEN GET EXCITED FOR NEW PRODUCT!
A darkened room.
Johnny Levy stands with his back to the camera.
Some distance in front of him is a large, almost throne-like chair.
The chair is turned to face away, concealing the individual sitting in it.
“I cannot do this alone, and neither can you.”
“If we wish to enact change - to improve this fledgling organization and remake it in our, frankly, superior image - we must work together.”
“We may both be proud men, unwilling to bend to others or share power, but we have a common vision.”
“Unity is the only path to our goal.”
“So… do we have an agreement?”
Slowly, the chair spins around to face Levy. But the face of the person remains shrouded in the shadows. The only thing visible is a set of perfect white teeth, which appears on the darkened face with an almost unrealistic brightness.
STAY TUNED FOR JOHNNY LEVY XIII: ANOTHER DUMBASS SEQUEL, PREMIERING THIS YEAR!
CONSUME PRODUCT THEN GET EXCITED FOR NEW PRODUCT!
EXECUTIVE PRODUCER
JOHNNY LEVY
WRITTEN & EDITED BY
JOHNNY LEVY
STARRING
JOHNNY LEVY
TRADEMARKS AND COPYRIGHTS HELD BY
JOHNNY LEVY