Post by levy on Mar 7, 2022 22:12:15 GMT -5
or ‘The Adventures of Johnny Levy & the Golden Shovel'
or ‘I AM JOHNNY FUCKING LEVY!’
or ‘No Push For You’
Back at his fantastic home in the Hollywood Hills, Levy sits in his smoking room, a cigar resting in an ashtray as it fills the air with its fragrant aroma. He reclines on a leather chaise, one hand rubbing his forehead wearily as he stares up at the ceiling high overhead.
This whole ‘professional wrestling’ thing hadn’t really worked out for him. He’s big enough to admit to himself - if not anyone else, ever - that he had clearly gotten lost somewhere along the way.
He remembers his motives when he signed the contract and posted it on the forums; he was here to get some free advertising for his upcoming softcore adult film ‘Wrestling With The Plot’... but when he got to Proving Ground and saw the state of the place, he knew what he had to do.
Fix all the problems.
Terrible, illogical booking. Start and stop pushes that went nowhere. Heatless feuds. Overwritten technical matches heavily reliant on chain wrestling and roll-up victories. Not a single goddamn draw anywhere on the brand...
...and worst of all, a legitimate racist running the entire show.
He wasn’t in the company for two weeks before he knew that man was a hateful bigot; it was obvious every time he opened his mouth, or even looked at Levy. Those piercing blue eyes - so similar to the last sight many of his people probably saw over their lengthy, tragic history - haunted him in his dreams. That blonde hair, the pride of 1939 Germany, ruffling in the slightest breeze to taunt Johnny Levy and his beloved religion.
Never mind the fact that he didn’t really practice Judaism or follow its tenets, it was too good a crutch to pass up when he needed a shield against backlash for the dumb shit he said or did.
Shit, even his best friend in the company - Giovanni - seems to have changed. Some kind of haircut or something, or perhaps full-on Jason Long style plastic surgery. Whatever it was, Levy is sure the change was done to impress some girl.
He wonders what Calliope would have to say about all that.
It’s this mournful, spiritually exhausting ennui that Levy finds himself immersed in... until his meditation is broken by his stunt double/bodyguard/butler bitch Barlon Mando. The massive man steps into the room with an odd grace, considering his size; in one hand, he clutches a telegram.
“Mr. Levy, sir, there has been a recent attack by the racist terrorist cell led by Indy Darling.”
“I sleep.”
Barlon leaves, then returns some undefined amount of time later.
“Mr. Levy, sir, Giovanni can’t find his second shoe and he needs you to come help him find it.”
“Tragic, and I pray for him. But I sleep.”
Once again, the bulky butler exits, only to return again; Levy still in the same position.
Doesn’t he have to use the bathroom at some point? Jesus, his bladder must be gargantuan.
Just like deez n- anyway.
“Mr. Levy, sir, North Korea has sworn to use their nuclear weapons on the South unless you personally perform a one-man rendition of ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ in Pyongyang.”
“Very nice of them to ask, and definitely the role I was born to play. However...”
“I sleep.”
With a deep sigh and a worried look at his employer, Barlon retreats out of the room yet again. This time, we follow him as he wanders the halls. His mind is consumed with concern about Mr. Levy; he’d seen him get into these depressive moods on occasion, but it wasn’t long before some imagined slight brought out a righteous fury within him.
Not this time. This time, it seems like the Superstar of David had finally been beaten down by the seemingly inevitable, undefeatable forces of hatred and bias that have been arrayed against him.
If only there was something to snap him out of this.
If only th-
His musing is interrupted, as the estate’s alarm system goes off. A telegram is spit out of a slot in the wall nearest to his right side. He grabs it and reads the message, mouthing the words as he does... and what he reads is enough to widen his eyes, and set him running back down the hall towards Levy.
Barlon busts the double doors to the smoking room wide open with a single kick, stepping in and holding the paper aloft triumphantly.
Levy simply quirks an eyebrow, mildly intrigued by this behaviour from his usually reserved and stoic valet.
“Mr. Levy! Good news! There’s a new up-and-comer who is set to receive a big push from the lower undercard all the way up to the lower midcard!”
The actor jerks up out of his reclined position on the chaise and to his feet, eyes snapping wide open out of his depressed funk, as he begins to shake with anticipation. And suddenly, his eyes start to glow, bright-red starbursts appearing deep within the orbs.
“REAL SHIT.”
The glowing stops as quickly as it began, Levy turning to face the camera and smiling as he gives one simple announcement.
“The protest is on break. We on them real burial hours now, boys.”
====================
Deep inside the Jewish Defense Force Headquarters - coincidentally located just down the road from his home in the Hollywood Hills - Johnny Levy is surveying a massive chart that spans several stories in height, and takes up the entirety of one wall within the command center.
It tracks the relative quality, drawing power and recorded ratings boosts of each member of the Project: Honor roster. It starts at ‘Below Trash’ with the likes of ‘Jason Long’ and ‘Guy’, then rises to ‘Trash’ with ‘Angelo Caito’ and ‘Syndicate’, then ‘Midcard’ with the likes of ‘MYOJIN’ and ‘El Puma’, and so on.
At the very top, is the category labeled ‘Legitimate Draws’. There are only three pictures and names listed up at the very peak of the company.
Noah ‘Kingslayer’ Hope.
‘Big Business’ Billy Bennett.
‘Main Event’ Havoc.
So true, everyone else in the company are ratings poison.
But his eyes aren’t focused on the Holy Trinity of Project: Honor.
They’re focused on one name only, a name that starts in ‘Trash’ but seemingly has an arrow projecting it to rise up to ‘Lower Midcard’.
It is Brandon Hendrix. The ‘whatever his nickname is’. Don Dada I think? Or was that two gimmicks ago?
He scowls, as his eyes move to look at his own portrait tracked on the computerized wall chart. Somewhere between ‘Trash’ and ‘Lower Midcard’, with a projected path that is completely flat. No push. No burial.
Nothing.
Forgotten and shoved into the shadows by the anti-semitic schemes of Indy Darling.
He is approached by one of the many ex-IDF and Mossad officers that staff this behemoth, underground facility. The man hands over a file full of reports on the man Johnny Levy is scheduled to bury at the next Proving Ground event. The manila folder contains his professional records, breakdowns of his fighting style, relevant tweets, all available information on family members, friends, acquaintances (particularly Stella Jade), and so on.
As he thumbs through the papers within, he thinks about how much more deserving he is than this talent vacuum who is - for some unknown reason, probably related to his membership in Indy Darling’s chapter of racism enthusiasts - set to get pushed up dangerously close to Levy’s position near the midcard.
There’s already one person filling the niche of low-level top babyface. Brandon Hendrix - regardless of his inability to display any charisma or achieve any heat whatsoever - is a threat; if only because Proving Ground management has decided to get behind him in this continued war against the Jewish people.
“Hmmm. This file is missing one important piece of information,” mumbles Levy as he finishes flipping through it, “What’s his gimmick? I mean, we fought once and everything, but he always struck me as kind of just... there, if you get my drift?”
Nodding in affirmation, the Mossad agent pulls out his smartphone and scrolls through something for a few seconds before sunglass-covered eyes move back up towards Levy.
“Well, after several failed concepts earlier in his career, he managed to find something that works.”
“Oh? Do tell,” says Levy, suddenly sipping from an oversized cup of scalding-hot tip with an exaggerated slurping noise.
“It’s depression. His gimmick is just depression.”
Tossing the half-full tea cup over his shoulder to shatter against the back of another intelligence agent’s head - complete with screams as his scalp is soaked with the boiling-hot tea - Levy rubs his chin thoughtfully.
“Ah. Angling for those sympathy points, huh? Very clever, Mr. Hendrix.”
Removing the hand from his chin, he cracks the knuckles of both hands theatrically as he shoos the Mossad agent away.
“However, I am medically incapable of empathy.”
“Sorry.”
Shrugging, he shouts to someone just off-screen:
“Hey Larry, can you pass me that shovel? No, the golden one. YES, I MEAN THE ONE MADE OF GOLD, DAMNIT.”
====================
Johnny Levy is half-obscured, as he toils away digging a grave in some sleepy cemetery (or a set done up to look like one, anyway). He stabs the end of a golden shovel into the ground, tossing the loose dirt over his shoulder into a large pile a foot or two away.
At the head of the grave is a grand, ornate tombstone; likely paid for by Johnny Levy himself, since Brandon’s broke ass probably isn’t able to afford something so extravagant and beautiful.
In the fine marble are chiseled the following words:
BRADNONE HEDNRIX
SOME YEAR - 2022
DIED OF A BURIED CAREER
HE NEVER DREW A DIME
Stopping his work to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of one arm, Levy places the shovel on the grass that sits beside him at chest level, then climbs out of the grave and dusts his hands off as he begins to address the camera.
“Well, Brandon. Here we are.”
"Your final resting place."
“Bet you regret running out and stealing my spotlight on your pathetic little return to this company, huh? Trying to leech my heat and steal it for yourself? Nononono, we don’t do that to Johnny fucking Levy, okay?”
“You know what I have to do, but maybe you don’t know why. So let me explain to you what it was like growing up as a talented young gentleman of Jewish faith, in this hateful, just... so hateful - that really is the only word for it - nation torn apart by internal strife.”
“My first brush with anti-semitism came as a young man, at my highly respected, highly exclusive, highly expensive private school here in Hollywood, California.”
—------------
A soft dissolve to a flashback of a young Johnny Levy walking through the hallways of an obviously posh, lavish private school. As he makes his way, swaggering cockily through the halls and shoving people aside as he does so, he makes his way around a blind corner.
Only to walk face-first into someone coming the other way. They both fall backwards, landing on the floor. The person he ran into is a girl of the same age; his crush, in fact. A beautiful redheaded girl who had been nothing but nice to him since the beginning of the school year. They’d shared laughs, helped each other with homework, and ate lunch together almost every day.
“Oops, sorry Johnny!” she says sincerely, standing up and brushing off her legs and offering her hand to help Levy up. He accepts it, smiling sweetly at her as she continues to offer him apologies for what was - honestly - nobody’s mistake.
She turns around to go off about her business, leaving Johnny standing there. As soon as she’s turned and disappeared around the corner, his smile turns into a scowl as darkness begins to manifest itself within his gaze. He stares at his hands, clenching them into fists as he imagines them running red with the blood of all those who have wronged him in such a way.
The flashback skips ahead, to Johnny Levy pointing at the young girl - fake tears running down his cheeks - as she is ushered out of class by two teachers.
“That’s her! She’s the one who called me a dirty little Jewboy!” he says, sniffling as she is led away, looking at Johnny - her friend, or so she thought - with hurt, confused eyes.
“It’s okay, Johnny. We’ll make sure she’s expelled. There’s no room for anti-semitism in this school! And anyway, your dad is one of the biggest donors we have,” says the principal, who stands at Levy’s side, shaking his head in disappointment at the young student who spat such hateful words at a star pupil like Johnny Levy.
It was Johnny’s first real experience with the power of false grievances.
The very same weapon he would use to begin the destruction of Indy Darling’s brand, decades later.
—------------
“Horrible stuff. And I still suffer, to this day. This is just me trying to one-up you on eliciting sympathy from the audience, of course, but it doesn’t make these stories any less true.”
“And that young girl grew up to be a crack addict by the way. My father made sure no other schools in Los Angeles would accept her, so she had to go to a school in,” he pauses to wince, spitting out the words that follow, “San Diego.”
“There’s simply no recovering from that kind of thing. Anyway, fuck her, the little bitch.”
—------------
Another soft dissolve, to Johnny Levy - this time not much younger than he is now - sitting in a hospital room, looking down at the floor between his feet. Looks like he just got some bad news from the Doctor, who stands in front of him looking at a chart with a small frown on his face.
“That bad, huh, Doc?” he whispers, his voice barely audible and hoarse from choking back sobs.
“I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you, Levy, but the sooner we get the treatment started the better chance you have,” says the Doctor solemnly, unable to even make eye contact with his stricken patient.
“...this is horrible.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I don’t... I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to carry on.”
“I believe in you, Johnny. And you know who else does? The patients in our children’s ward; you should visit them before you go.”
“I’ll... I’ll do that, Doctor. Leave behind a bit of joy before I’m gone, that might be just the thing to help me carry on these last few, dark days...”
“Anyway, here’s the prescription for the fungal cream. That Athlete’s foot problem should clear up in about a week,” says the physician as he scribbles on a prescription pad and tears a sheet of paper off, handing it to Levy who hops to his feet and leaps into the air, clicking his heels as he does so.
He snatches the paper out of the Doctor’s hand, does a quick spin on his heels and moonwalks out of the hospital room on his way to visit those dying kids... or whatever it is that he has to do next, to make the audience feel bad and cheer for him.
A quick time lapse, as Johnny now stands in front of a child in a hospital bed, looking down at a kid hooked up to all sorts of IVs and machines. He looks sad that such a pure and innocent soul is forced to suffer such a fate, but let’s be honest; he’s probably mourning the fact that the candy machine was out of Reese’s Kosher Peanut Butter Cups
“Damn, that's hard times. Well, good luck with that Jacob!”
“My name... is... Jack...” wheezes the child.
Johnny merely winks and points an index finger down at the terminal patient.
“Don’t care, didn’t ask, better luck next time!”
He moonwalks out of this room as well; in fact, he moonwalks all the way down the hallway leading to the exit, pondering his next step as he does so.
“You know what? I think I’ll buy this hospital and turn it into a parking lot.”
—------------
“And I did, even though there was already ample parking in the area? You know why? Because I stubbed my toe going around a corner, and felt like taking it out on the entire neighbourhood.”
“Now they have to drive 30 minutes to the next-nearest hospital, and the already fragile medical system of the city is one step closer to collapse.”
“Kind of like how I want to collapse this monolith to hatred that Indy Darling has twisted and perverted the once-noble brand of Proving Ground into. What started as an opportunity for me to get some hype around my new professional wrestling feature film has evolved into something else.”
“Something nobler. More pure. God’s work.”
“Shattering the specter of racism and addiction and all that other bad shit, no matter the cost to this idiotic company.”
“I mean it’ I’ll crash the entire thing, I don’t give a fuck.”
“Don’t believe me? Alright. Have a taste of this stupidity coming up riiiiiight...”
“...”
“Is the footage ready yet? Okay, perfect.”
“RIGHTNOW!”
====================
The famous actor and infamous wrestler - dressed in all white with gold-and-diamond rimmed sunglasses - stands on the deck of his expensive boat, surrounded by scantily-clad models, bodyguards toting Uzi submachine guns, and...
...BILLY BENNETT?!?!
Don't worry, it'll probably be explained why she's here in her promo. I'm sure.
Surely.
But yes, she’s there, dressed in a blue plaid-print button up shirt with only the top bottom secured; fortunately she's got a white undershirt underneath. Shoved down the front of her baggy army-green khakis is a bejeweled Desert Eagle handgun, the handle encrusted with a number of diamonds and sapphires placed in the shape of a large Star of David.
Obviously Levy’s gun, Billy’s just borrowing it for a while. Maybe forever, we’ll see how pushy he gets about it being returned; it does look awfully expensive, after all.
The camera travels up and down the ship, showing the full scope of the party that rages on-board, as Levy speaks over the beat, his voice dripping swagger. Basically he makes Lil Petey look like the punk-ass bitch that he is.
“Yeah, you know we love the blow...
More than you know, baby...
We out here, doing cocaine and shit...”
As the beat hits a crescendo, the camera swoops around Levy, who begins to rap as Billy - in the background - whispers something in the DJ’s ear and sneaks up behind the artist-turned-hip-hop-artist-for-one-promo-scene.
“We snort the finest keys, sniff it fast,
Through the city like Monopoly, droppin’ cash
Me and Billy and the models b-”
Before he can even finish the first verse, Billy screams in his ear from inches behind him.
“GRRRT! BAOW!”
The moment those shouts leave her lips, the beat changes to a hard, UK-style drill beat, as she pulls the iced-out Desert Eagle from its place down the front of her pants, waving it at the camera as she violently shoves Levy to the side to begin her own verse.
Compared to Levy’s chill delivery, her tone is angry, unhinged, some real Bronx style shit. Fuck all that soft Brooklyn garbage.
“L-E-V, WE GOT THE CITY ON LOCK
IT'S BURIAL SEASON, BETTER HAVE YOUR GLOCKS
GAT ON HIP
STILL GET SHOT WITH STELLA IF YOU LIKE IT OR NOT, LIKE
LACE YOUR KICKS
DON’T RUN, DON’T TRIP ON YOUR WAY TO THE TOP, LIKE
GOT THE DROP
Y’ALL GET SLAPPED FOR THINKIN’ THAT YA HOT, LIKE
I’M WITH SAVVY, AYO LEVY, WHERE THE WETTIES?
HE TRIED TO HIT THE DAMN FLOOR, I AIN’T SHOWIN’ REMORSE
HE GET SHOT IN THE BELLY...”
She continues to spit these lunatic, borderline non-rhymes at the camera, as Levy stares from behind her with wide eyes that seem focused on something just below the small of her back.
“Hmm. Very interesting indeed,” he muses, as Billy continues to bop, twirl and Crip walk around, continuing onto a second verse that shan’t be transcribed here.
It’s her ass. He’s staring at her ass.
There, I said it.
—------------
The music video fades away, and is replaced by Johnny and Billy sitting on opposite sides of a large, rectangular table with a shining, mirrored top. Sitting on the surface are Levy’s glitzy Desert Eagle and Billy’s family heirloom Colt SAA with the state flag of Florida stamped on the handle.
And two piles of cocaine, of course. The one nearer to Levy is white as snow, looking light and fluffy and shining in the sunlight that bears down on it from the sky above. Proper fishscale, good quality, real Hollywood shit.
Closer to Billy is something of an entirely different caliber. Still cocaine, but almost yellowish in colour, and rather than light and fluffy it looks denser, richer, almost oily... moving it around seems to leave small streaks on the table’s surface. The kind of shit you just can’t get for sale in the United States; at least, not in volumes lower than several dozen kilograms.
Levy takes a small amount from his pile and spreads a line in front of Billy, who bends down to snort it up. She quirks her head slightly as the effects start to take hold, eventually clicking her tongue and shrugging.
“Not bad, big fella. But go ‘head and try some of this...” she hisses, taking some of the yellowish-white powder from her pile and pushing it - with a razor blade - in front of Levy.
He leans in to snort it, and the effects are immediate; he doesn’t even finish the line before the numbness hits him, drool dripping out of the side of his mouth as he leans back in the deck chair and stares blankly - through sunglasses worth several thousand dollars - up at the sun overhead. Levy tries to open his mouth to speak several times, but it sounds like someone under the effects of dental numbing; nothing but meaningless, slurred babble.
Finally, after a few minutes, the drip wears off enough for him to actually form words.
“Hoooooly… shiiiiiiit… giiiiiiirrrrrlllll…”
“Yea, well... I’m in the business, y’know? What would it look like if some stuck-up rich boy came through with better shit than a Bennett? We’d prolly have to close up shop behind that kinda thing.”
As Levy continues to work through the icy, all-consuming dopamine rush of the ridiculously pure cocaine, Billy begins to divvy up more lines as she speaks, seemingly continuing a conversation they were having before the scene started.
“It’s like I said, Johnny boy, y’all gotta realize ain’t nobody ‘round here gives a fuck ‘bout where ya come from, what movies ya been in, none of that. Ain’t no shortcuts to success in this company, ya gotta put the work in, actually sweat and bleed a bit... ‘cause boy, ain’t nothin’ here for free. Take it from me, y’know? Always used to hear a lotta shit ‘bout how I wasn’t good enough, didn’t deserve the shots others did, but I broke enough of these loudmouthed fuckers here that - eventually - people had to respect me for what I’m capable of.”
The cocaine is still going strong, but the rush has worn off, and Levy takes a moment to consider those words. He had been coasting - or trying to and failing - off his name alone ever since he came here; when he could be doing so much more, if he only put in the slightest bit of effort.
It’s possible that this whole crusade against Indy Darling is misguided at best and delusional libel at worst; that the real reason he’s being ignored and slighted at every turn is because of his inflammatory, passive-aggressive style... and, perhaps, the constant, obnoxious, arrogant insistence that he deserves chances he has put in zero work to receive.
Could it be...? That he had been going about this incorrectly the whole time? That he was responsible for his poor performance on Proving Ground?
No.
It’s the General Manager who is wrong.
“Alright, that kind of makes sense... I’ll think about that; bless up, Triple B,” he says, brushing off this important life lesson - delivered by a psychotic crack addict who seemed to be more in touch with reality than he was - completely.
“Bless up, J-LEV,” says Billy casually, clearly not giving a fuck whether he took her words to heart or not.
“Blessed,” says Levy, pressing his palms together in prayer hands.
“So blessed,” responds Billy, returning the gesture and even including a slight bow of respect.
“Anyway.”
“Yeah, do your promo thing, I’m gonna keep myself busy with this...”
That said, Billy’s attention returns to the large mirrored surface of the table sitting between herself and the actor; a razor blade in one hand deftly piling and dividing the two separate piles of cocaine.
Meanwhile, Levy turns to face the camera, even scooting his chair around at an angle to better give it his sole focus.
“Imagine thinking you deserve anything for beating that washed-up, broken-down old bitch Elena DeDraca on a technicality, thanks to that - coincidentally also - washed-up, broken-down old bitch Mark Hunter.”
“Sure, a win is a win, I’ve always said this. But you can’t really expect the fans to respect this as any kind of serious achievement, and while I’m always happy to see a representative of Proving Ground beat the living shit out of some jerk-off from Fallout, even I - Team Hendrix since day one - can’t really count this as a proper victory, you know?”
“I mean, she shouldn’t have even been cleared to fight in the first place; just another example of the reckless management decisions by alt-right spokesperson Indy Darling. And you went and took this injured person, and tore their stitches open, leaking blood onto the sacred ground of... well... Proving Ground, and soiling the brand for all time with violence best left to the white trash, outlaw mudshow brand that we shall not be naming again.”
“And you’re supposed to replace me as the top babyface on the midcard? Fuck outta here with that.”
Pausing to walk over to the mirrored table that Billy is still seated near and hovering over, he takes a golden straw from inside his suit pocket and snorts a massive line, his face twitching as he stretches his jaw before wandering back over to the camera.
“It’s fake, of course. Fake drugs. Movie magic. Isn’t that right, Billy?”
“Yea, whatever the fuck ever, ya fuckin’ rube.”
“Did you just call me a rube?!”
“Sure did. What ya plannin’ on doin’ about it, boy?” she snaps back quickly, a dangerous edge to her voice that quickly shuts Levy up and stops him from offering any snarky reply of his own. He even inches a few steps further away from her, before continuing.
“So, I’ve given this all some serious thought, for the first time in my career as a professional wrestler. Getting under your skin, that is.”
“My first idea was paying Billy here to steal your little wannabe girlfriend Stella; after all, she already cucked Arik Holt, and he’s legitimately crazy, so Big Softie Hendrix should pose no problems for her.”
Billy’s eyes go wide midway through the line of cocaine she’s snorting; she starts coughing loudly, scattering powder off the mirror as she hacks and wheezes. It seems like she’s trying to say something, probably hoping to play off the wild shit Levy just said on camera as a joke... but she can’t catch her breath in time, and he carries on.
“But I decided against that one. Mainly because I didn’t want that psycho bitch Savannah to find out about it and do something horrible to me.”
In the background, Billy - having just recovered from the shock of Levy’s statement - just nods along in agreement with this last point. Then she begins to busy herself with gathering the powder spread over the mirror into a pile again.
“Listen up, because this doesn’t come from a place of malice against you as a human being. It comes from what you represent as a non-Jewish wrestler, getting a push that - by all rights - belongs to my people.”
“After everything we’ve been through over centuries, I have to sit back and watch some greasy, oversized vanilla shitter with zero heat or charisma come gunning for my spot as top babyface on the brand?”
“Naw, son.”
“Anyway, you should be honoured. You’ve successfully forced me - Johnny Levy, the laziest man on Proving Ground - to cut a real, honest-to-god promo in an attempt to win a match. This is honestly historic, so take a moment to soak it all in. Maybe go back and start from the beginning again, keeping the significance of this moment in mind as you do.”
“Yeah. Enjoy it.”
“Because that honour? That’s all you’re going to get in Project: Honor.”
He pauses to chuckle to himself, his already unnaturally wide smile growing even larger.
“Do you see what I did there?! Seinfeld wrote that one for me, only cost me a cool $10 million.”
“But I digress; you’re not getting past me, Hendrix. Look at me like a midboss in a role-playing game, and you’re just not a high enough level to beat me. You can’t do any real damage, and you have no chance in hell of winning... not unless I let you go over, like I have in every previous match against every opponent I’ve had here.”
“Which, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not doing this time.”
“To continue the metaphor... allegory...? Anyway, it’s hopeless, you still got that straw hat and bronze sword from the starting village, and I’m out here all jacked up on strength potions, rocking a diamond chestplate and wielding some kind of... I don’t know... magic staff or something?”
“I don’t really play that lame shit. Waste of time.”
“Moving on.”
“Let’s talk about the match itself; is it really surprising to anyone that Indy Darling - the fascist - is once again advocating for putting my people in cages for his own sick, twisted amusement?”
“Now I know Brandon has a lot of experience with cages, since that crazy thot Stella has him wearing one 24/7,” he says, winking at the camera as the younger, more innocent members of the audience probably wonder what the hell he’s talking about.
“But my people have a bad history with being put behind bars, and though I will go through with this match for the sheer, sick thrill of ending this shitter’s career before it even gets going, rest assured I will be filing a complaint with the ACLU. But I suppose that’s neither here nor there.”
“I’m not stepping aside just because I feel sorry for you and your pathetic, dimeless, aimless mess of a career. That might work on some people, but you’re dealing with - honestly - a genuine sociopath here. Mercy is not something I’m big on, and I don’t really give a fuck about any of your problems, your little Twitter girlfriend, the chip on your shoulder, or the fact that you beat Elena on a technicality.”
“All that matters to me is putting this dumbass push in the ground. Where it belongs.”
“Once I’ve done that, I’ll have shown Indy Darling that nobody is getting any traction on his shitheap brand until Levy gets what he wants.”
“We’re done negotiating. Nothing aside from full surrender will do now.”
“You pushed me to this, Indy. What happens to Brandon in that cage is your fault. Another bright talent, snuffed out because you couldn’t swallow your goddamn pride, let light into your heart, and accept me as a poor, downtrodden wrestler of Jewish heritage.”
“For shame.”
“Anyway, I’m going to absolutely destroy this kid, el em ay oh.”
“Bet on that.”
“Listen Brandon, I like you. I do. So just know this is nothing personal.”
“Just business.”
“Because I’m in this for one reason, and one reason alone; no matter what I might say in my other promos about discrimination or ending hate or becoming first Jewish champion of this anti-semitic company... I just don't actually care about any of that. Just part of the gimmick.”
“Let me make it real simple for you, meathead.”
“Fuck a title shot, you see how little effort I put in against Casanova English for the Warrior Rising match? What does Johnny Levy need a belt for, anyway? I got like 5,000 Louis Vuitton belts, I’m good bruh.”
“Fuck making a positive impression, you see that bullshit I spit on the microphone for 30 minutes every goddamn show? Why would Johnny Levy need friends or allies, since I’ve already got Giovanni the GOAT on my side?”
“Fuck trying to get ahead with management, you see how inflammatory I am to every single GM and staff member in this company? Why would I try to schmooze, when I’m so clearly superior to every single member of this pathetic, utterly mid roster?”
“Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke, you know?”
“As I was saying, though, this game is about one thing and one thing only for me.”
“Stopping every young upstart with fire in their eyes, who thinks they can get ahead and succeed with hard work, integrity, and excellent character development.”
“Standing in between them and the championship opportunities that they so desperately crave.”
“Crushing their spirit, and showing them that they will only reach the peak if I allow them to.”
“Burying them so deep that the bookers will never, ever take another shot at giving them a push, ever again. Because why would they want to put the strap on someone who Johnny fucking Levy so thoroughly outdid and embarrassed?”
“After all, I’m nothing more than a low-tier comedy act/guest commentator,” Levy says, a devious smile spreading over his previously innocent features.
For a second, there is a shadow deep in his eyes, a hint of the darkness that exists just under the well-polished, glad-handing surface. A shadow that hides within it a hatred for everything beautiful, pure and innocent in the world. A shadow that wants nothing more than to destroy Brandon Hendrix’s entire career, and put an end to this ill-conceived push before it has a chance to really get going.
And just like that, the evil look in his eyes is gone, and his smile is replaced by the usual blank, overly friendly, cheesy grin he typically wears in these promos.
“So yeah, don’t worry, we’re still cool, right?”
“Still gotta bury you, though.”
Billy shoves her way up in front of Levy to deliver one final insult, before the scene cuts away.
“Ooops! Poor Brandon thinks he’s gettin’ a push ‘cause he beat some trash 40-year old edgelord? Not if my man J LEV got shit to say with it, motherfucker!”
—------------
Inside the engineering studio on his yacht, Levy finishes re-watching the promo he just finished filming; the very first time he ever bothered to double-check this shit before sending it along to Project: Honor. Billy is sitting behind Levy and the lead sound guy, lazily puffing away at a joint as she dangles her feet over the arm of the chair.
While his guest relaxes, Levy nods in approval as the credits roll. The lead engineer pauses the tape and turns to face his boss.
“Any idea what you want to call this one, Mr. Levy?” he asks politely, tapping his pen on the desk in front of him.
“Yeah. Call it ‘The Burial’,” he says, his voice stern and serious... he knows that this is the title that will wrap up this entire package perfectly and secure him the dub he deserves.
The engineer visibly sweats, glancing over at Billy - who isn’t paying any attention at all - for assistance, before swallowing and breaking the bad news to Johnny.
“Well, you see... that title has already been used this cycle. Scar.”
“WHO?!?!”
“That dude from Project Underground.”
Johnny smashes his fist down into a waiting palm, face twisting with fury as he stares daggers at the sound engineer, Billy perking up slightly in the background as she glances at the pair for the first time during this scene.
“...Savannah Sunshine, you’ve fucked with my game for the last time. After I finish spinning the block on that up-jumped loser Brandon Hendrix, I will make it my life’s duty to destroy your shitty little developmental brand, you freckled little bitc-..."
This is enough to get Billy to sit up properly in the chair, spitting on the floor before shouting angrily at Levy.
“HEY!!! What the fuck did you say ‘bout my girl?!?!”
Before the actor can turn and offer an apology, Billy is already leaping out of her seat and charging towards him, taking him down to the shag-carpeted floor with a tackle that knocks the wind out of him. She begins to rain forearms down on him, as the engineer quickly leaves the room and the scene fades to black...
And yes...
...this time...
...you get credits!!!!
====================
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
or ‘I AM JOHNNY FUCKING LEVY!’
or ‘No Push For You’
====================
Backstage at the decidedly low-class Dunkin Donuts Center in Providence, Rhode Island, the crew are busy rushing to and fro; making sure everything is in place for the night’s episode of Fallout. This likely involves a lot of unnecessary weapons being moved underneath the ring to be ‘discovered’ by the wrestlers during their matches, at least 10 members dedicated to stroking Tyrant Havoc’s ego prior to his main event match, and a few dedicated crack-pipe fillers to keep Billy Bennett nice and high.
Wait, what do you mean she got sober before Wargames? That’s stupid; good thing it won’t last, huh?
And among this collection of white trash, underpaid crew members and CTE cases, mental patients, and drug addicts masquerading as wrestlers is one man who stands firm against the tide of hate and discrimination.
Johnny 'SUPERSTAR' Levy.
The moment he saw that he had been scheduled to wrestle with Sonya on Fallout against two steroid-filled goons, he knew that Indy Darling was responsible. Clearly the protest hadn’t worked; perhaps it only served to anger Proving Ground management, forcing them to escalate the struggle by sending their one legitimate draw to the opposing brand.
Levy knows this is a mistake on the part of his mortal, anti-semitic enemy Mr. Darling; if he thought he was sending Johnny to the slaughterhouse, he would find himself sorely mistaken. Levy had no intention of taking part in this joke of a match; though he felt some attachment to Sonya Benson as a fellow aristocrat and enemy of racism, he would have to abandon her to be destroyed by Karlson and Bishop and possibly killed in the process.
Nothing personal of course, but Levy’s face is his meal ticket, and he’s not about to let two 60 IQ Neanderthals break his nose - or worse - just to get some meaningless tag team title shot that he has zero interest in. He’ll get his push the good old fashioned way: airing grievances, leading Twitter campaigns, and pure scumbag heel shit/cheating.
Ah well. At least the catering table is inexplicably better stocked than the ones backstage at Proving Ground. Maybe everyone here is too amped-up on Trenboline and Cocaine to have much of an appetite at the show?
Whatever the reason for this bounty of food that lay in front of him, Levy isn’t overly interested in the 'why's; he is content to shovels cream cheese, smoked salmon and mini-bagels into his mouth at an alarming rate... it's as if something about his character, heritage or upbringing just can’t let him pass up free food of this quality.
He’s just about to jam another bagel bite into his gaping maw, when he sees something that takes his breath away.
Billy Bennett, walking into the massive catering area with that dumb bitch Savannah Sunshine (Levy does not respect gimmick changes so there will be no use of the name ‘Savannah Andrews’ now or ever) hanging off her arm, playing with the Floridian’s tangled, unwashed hair as they make their way through the area.
His beloved. The woman he had been dangerously obsessed with ever since he made the mistake of tuning into an episode of Fallout. From the moment he saw her from the back, it was over; and he refuses to elaborate on this point, so let’s move on.
It takes him a moment to catch his breath, swallowing hard as he blinks his eyes to confirm that this isn’t simply some fantastical vision brought on by the overwhelming pressure he feels as an endlessly wealthy, famous Jewish man in a world that hates such things.
And then, he drops his paper plate of salmon and cheese onto the floor, pointing at a (potentially underaged and not permitted to work in this country) janitor, spit flying out of his mouth as he shouts at them.
“CLEAN IT UP!!!”
Before he knows it, he’s made his way in front of the pair of young, seemingly oddly close (they must be really good friends or something) women. They stop as the sweaty, nervous, lip-licking Jewish actor steps in front of them; Billy looks at the man with some mild amusement at discomfort obvious on his face, with Savannah’s resting bitch face dripping some mixture of disdain and barely-restrained anger at the interruption.
A deep breath steadies Levy, as his heart flutters in his chest being so close to the object of his affection. He can’t recall the last time he’d actually felt anxious about approaching anyone; after all, he’s Johnny Levy, the Jewish God of Hollywood and Project: Honor. He’s so far above 99.999999% of the population of this country that he’d forgotten how to cope with being face-to-face with a star of equal caliber.
Clearing his throat loudly, he shakily extends one hand towards Billy, holding it out for a handshake as he begins to speak.
“H-h-hi, Billy, uhhh, my name is Johnny ‘SUPERSTAR’ Levy, and I uhhh... well, I mean, I’ve been trying t-”
His clumsy attempt at getting a phone number - or even a verbal response - is cut off as Savannah steps in between Billy and Levy with a look of pure rage in her eyes.
Before Levy even knows what’s happening, his right foot has been stomped on by Savannah, followed by a full-force punch in the kidney, and then a shove back into the nearest wall followed by a very small hand grabbing his throat… and pressing too tight to even scream for assistance in stopping this unprovoked hate crime.
Savannah leans in, her eyes wild and teeth exposed in an angry scowl as she hisses at Levy.
“Did I say you could talk to Billy? Huh?!”
Naturally, he can’t respond at present. Being choked, and all that.
“She’s mine, so you just stay the fuck away, you piece of sh-”
Before she can finish spitting the curse in Levy’s wincing face, Billy’s hand falls on her shoulder; the effect is immediate, as Savannah lets out a deep exhale that seems to bleed some of the fury out of her face. She still scowls at the poor, abused millionaire actor, but she allows her friend to pull her away from Levy before she causes any more physical harm.
Oh, but not before dropping him to his knees with a single, well-aimed kick.
“Ugh, fine. Let’s get out of here before this scumbag opens his mouth again.”
Taking one last look at the cringing, cowering Johnny Levy, Savannah scoffs and stomps off, leaving Billy behind for the time being. Her gaze meets Levy’s, and she offers him a half-hearted smirk and shrug of her shoulders, seemingly having no malice towards the man herself. She starts to walk, stopping as she passes by him to lean over and whisper.
“Sorry, big guy. Y’know how some women can get. Possessive, and all that.”
That said, she moves to follow Savannah away from the still-recovering body of Johnny Levy, pausing to ruffle his hair and slap him lightly on the cheek with a smug grin - and a suggestive wink - before she carries on past him.
And as he kneels on the filthy concrete floor of the venue’s backstage area, he can’t help but think of one thing…
…namely, that he was lucky enough to get touched by Billy Bennett.
“Okay,” he whispers to himself, voice still hoarse and squeaky from the combination of Savannah’s hand around his throat and the mortal terror that she inflicted in him with her vicious, uncalled-for reaction to his simple greeting.
“She touched me. This is progress.”
He’ll just have to wait until Billy is on her own to make his move. It’s fine.
Totally fine.
Ow.
====================
Back at his fantastic home in the Hollywood Hills, Levy sits in his smoking room, a cigar resting in an ashtray as it fills the air with its fragrant aroma. He reclines on a leather chaise, one hand rubbing his forehead wearily as he stares up at the ceiling high overhead.
This whole ‘professional wrestling’ thing hadn’t really worked out for him. He’s big enough to admit to himself - if not anyone else, ever - that he had clearly gotten lost somewhere along the way.
He remembers his motives when he signed the contract and posted it on the forums; he was here to get some free advertising for his upcoming softcore adult film ‘Wrestling With The Plot’... but when he got to Proving Ground and saw the state of the place, he knew what he had to do.
Fix all the problems.
Terrible, illogical booking. Start and stop pushes that went nowhere. Heatless feuds. Overwritten technical matches heavily reliant on chain wrestling and roll-up victories. Not a single goddamn draw anywhere on the brand...
...and worst of all, a legitimate racist running the entire show.
He wasn’t in the company for two weeks before he knew that man was a hateful bigot; it was obvious every time he opened his mouth, or even looked at Levy. Those piercing blue eyes - so similar to the last sight many of his people probably saw over their lengthy, tragic history - haunted him in his dreams. That blonde hair, the pride of 1939 Germany, ruffling in the slightest breeze to taunt Johnny Levy and his beloved religion.
Never mind the fact that he didn’t really practice Judaism or follow its tenets, it was too good a crutch to pass up when he needed a shield against backlash for the dumb shit he said or did.
Shit, even his best friend in the company - Giovanni - seems to have changed. Some kind of haircut or something, or perhaps full-on Jason Long style plastic surgery. Whatever it was, Levy is sure the change was done to impress some girl.
He wonders what Calliope would have to say about all that.
It’s this mournful, spiritually exhausting ennui that Levy finds himself immersed in... until his meditation is broken by his stunt double/bodyguard/butler bitch Barlon Mando. The massive man steps into the room with an odd grace, considering his size; in one hand, he clutches a telegram.
“Mr. Levy, sir, there has been a recent attack by the racist terrorist cell led by Indy Darling.”
“I sleep.”
Barlon leaves, then returns some undefined amount of time later.
“Mr. Levy, sir, Giovanni can’t find his second shoe and he needs you to come help him find it.”
“Tragic, and I pray for him. But I sleep.”
Once again, the bulky butler exits, only to return again; Levy still in the same position.
Doesn’t he have to use the bathroom at some point? Jesus, his bladder must be gargantuan.
Just like deez n- anyway.
“Mr. Levy, sir, North Korea has sworn to use their nuclear weapons on the South unless you personally perform a one-man rendition of ‘Fiddler on the Roof’ in Pyongyang.”
“Very nice of them to ask, and definitely the role I was born to play. However...”
“I sleep.”
With a deep sigh and a worried look at his employer, Barlon retreats out of the room yet again. This time, we follow him as he wanders the halls. His mind is consumed with concern about Mr. Levy; he’d seen him get into these depressive moods on occasion, but it wasn’t long before some imagined slight brought out a righteous fury within him.
Not this time. This time, it seems like the Superstar of David had finally been beaten down by the seemingly inevitable, undefeatable forces of hatred and bias that have been arrayed against him.
If only there was something to snap him out of this.
If only th-
His musing is interrupted, as the estate’s alarm system goes off. A telegram is spit out of a slot in the wall nearest to his right side. He grabs it and reads the message, mouthing the words as he does... and what he reads is enough to widen his eyes, and set him running back down the hall towards Levy.
Barlon busts the double doors to the smoking room wide open with a single kick, stepping in and holding the paper aloft triumphantly.
Levy simply quirks an eyebrow, mildly intrigued by this behaviour from his usually reserved and stoic valet.
“Mr. Levy! Good news! There’s a new up-and-comer who is set to receive a big push from the lower undercard all the way up to the lower midcard!”
The actor jerks up out of his reclined position on the chaise and to his feet, eyes snapping wide open out of his depressed funk, as he begins to shake with anticipation. And suddenly, his eyes start to glow, bright-red starbursts appearing deep within the orbs.
“REAL SHIT.”
The glowing stops as quickly as it began, Levy turning to face the camera and smiling as he gives one simple announcement.
“The protest is on break. We on them real burial hours now, boys.”
====================
Deep inside the Jewish Defense Force Headquarters - coincidentally located just down the road from his home in the Hollywood Hills - Johnny Levy is surveying a massive chart that spans several stories in height, and takes up the entirety of one wall within the command center.
It tracks the relative quality, drawing power and recorded ratings boosts of each member of the Project: Honor roster. It starts at ‘Below Trash’ with the likes of ‘Jason Long’ and ‘Guy’, then rises to ‘Trash’ with ‘Angelo Caito’ and ‘Syndicate’, then ‘Midcard’ with the likes of ‘MYOJIN’ and ‘El Puma’, and so on.
At the very top, is the category labeled ‘Legitimate Draws’. There are only three pictures and names listed up at the very peak of the company.
Noah ‘Kingslayer’ Hope.
‘Big Business’ Billy Bennett.
‘Main Event’ Havoc.
So true, everyone else in the company are ratings poison.
But his eyes aren’t focused on the Holy Trinity of Project: Honor.
They’re focused on one name only, a name that starts in ‘Trash’ but seemingly has an arrow projecting it to rise up to ‘Lower Midcard’.
It is Brandon Hendrix. The ‘whatever his nickname is’. Don Dada I think? Or was that two gimmicks ago?
He scowls, as his eyes move to look at his own portrait tracked on the computerized wall chart. Somewhere between ‘Trash’ and ‘Lower Midcard’, with a projected path that is completely flat. No push. No burial.
Nothing.
Forgotten and shoved into the shadows by the anti-semitic schemes of Indy Darling.
He is approached by one of the many ex-IDF and Mossad officers that staff this behemoth, underground facility. The man hands over a file full of reports on the man Johnny Levy is scheduled to bury at the next Proving Ground event. The manila folder contains his professional records, breakdowns of his fighting style, relevant tweets, all available information on family members, friends, acquaintances (particularly Stella Jade), and so on.
As he thumbs through the papers within, he thinks about how much more deserving he is than this talent vacuum who is - for some unknown reason, probably related to his membership in Indy Darling’s chapter of racism enthusiasts - set to get pushed up dangerously close to Levy’s position near the midcard.
There’s already one person filling the niche of low-level top babyface. Brandon Hendrix - regardless of his inability to display any charisma or achieve any heat whatsoever - is a threat; if only because Proving Ground management has decided to get behind him in this continued war against the Jewish people.
“Hmmm. This file is missing one important piece of information,” mumbles Levy as he finishes flipping through it, “What’s his gimmick? I mean, we fought once and everything, but he always struck me as kind of just... there, if you get my drift?”
Nodding in affirmation, the Mossad agent pulls out his smartphone and scrolls through something for a few seconds before sunglass-covered eyes move back up towards Levy.
“Well, after several failed concepts earlier in his career, he managed to find something that works.”
“Oh? Do tell,” says Levy, suddenly sipping from an oversized cup of scalding-hot tip with an exaggerated slurping noise.
“It’s depression. His gimmick is just depression.”
Tossing the half-full tea cup over his shoulder to shatter against the back of another intelligence agent’s head - complete with screams as his scalp is soaked with the boiling-hot tea - Levy rubs his chin thoughtfully.
“Ah. Angling for those sympathy points, huh? Very clever, Mr. Hendrix.”
Removing the hand from his chin, he cracks the knuckles of both hands theatrically as he shoos the Mossad agent away.
“However, I am medically incapable of empathy.”
“Sorry.”
Shrugging, he shouts to someone just off-screen:
“Hey Larry, can you pass me that shovel? No, the golden one. YES, I MEAN THE ONE MADE OF GOLD, DAMNIT.”
====================
Johnny Levy is half-obscured, as he toils away digging a grave in some sleepy cemetery (or a set done up to look like one, anyway). He stabs the end of a golden shovel into the ground, tossing the loose dirt over his shoulder into a large pile a foot or two away.
At the head of the grave is a grand, ornate tombstone; likely paid for by Johnny Levy himself, since Brandon’s broke ass probably isn’t able to afford something so extravagant and beautiful.
In the fine marble are chiseled the following words:
BRADNONE HEDNRIX
SOME YEAR - 2022
DIED OF A BURIED CAREER
HE NEVER DREW A DIME
Stopping his work to wipe the sweat from his brow with the back of one arm, Levy places the shovel on the grass that sits beside him at chest level, then climbs out of the grave and dusts his hands off as he begins to address the camera.
“Well, Brandon. Here we are.”
"Your final resting place."
“Bet you regret running out and stealing my spotlight on your pathetic little return to this company, huh? Trying to leech my heat and steal it for yourself? Nononono, we don’t do that to Johnny fucking Levy, okay?”
“You know what I have to do, but maybe you don’t know why. So let me explain to you what it was like growing up as a talented young gentleman of Jewish faith, in this hateful, just... so hateful - that really is the only word for it - nation torn apart by internal strife.”
“My first brush with anti-semitism came as a young man, at my highly respected, highly exclusive, highly expensive private school here in Hollywood, California.”
—------------
A soft dissolve to a flashback of a young Johnny Levy walking through the hallways of an obviously posh, lavish private school. As he makes his way, swaggering cockily through the halls and shoving people aside as he does so, he makes his way around a blind corner.
Only to walk face-first into someone coming the other way. They both fall backwards, landing on the floor. The person he ran into is a girl of the same age; his crush, in fact. A beautiful redheaded girl who had been nothing but nice to him since the beginning of the school year. They’d shared laughs, helped each other with homework, and ate lunch together almost every day.
“Oops, sorry Johnny!” she says sincerely, standing up and brushing off her legs and offering her hand to help Levy up. He accepts it, smiling sweetly at her as she continues to offer him apologies for what was - honestly - nobody’s mistake.
She turns around to go off about her business, leaving Johnny standing there. As soon as she’s turned and disappeared around the corner, his smile turns into a scowl as darkness begins to manifest itself within his gaze. He stares at his hands, clenching them into fists as he imagines them running red with the blood of all those who have wronged him in such a way.
The flashback skips ahead, to Johnny Levy pointing at the young girl - fake tears running down his cheeks - as she is ushered out of class by two teachers.
“That’s her! She’s the one who called me a dirty little Jewboy!” he says, sniffling as she is led away, looking at Johnny - her friend, or so she thought - with hurt, confused eyes.
“It’s okay, Johnny. We’ll make sure she’s expelled. There’s no room for anti-semitism in this school! And anyway, your dad is one of the biggest donors we have,” says the principal, who stands at Levy’s side, shaking his head in disappointment at the young student who spat such hateful words at a star pupil like Johnny Levy.
It was Johnny’s first real experience with the power of false grievances.
The very same weapon he would use to begin the destruction of Indy Darling’s brand, decades later.
—------------
“Horrible stuff. And I still suffer, to this day. This is just me trying to one-up you on eliciting sympathy from the audience, of course, but it doesn’t make these stories any less true.”
“And that young girl grew up to be a crack addict by the way. My father made sure no other schools in Los Angeles would accept her, so she had to go to a school in,” he pauses to wince, spitting out the words that follow, “San Diego.”
“There’s simply no recovering from that kind of thing. Anyway, fuck her, the little bitch.”
—------------
Another soft dissolve, to Johnny Levy - this time not much younger than he is now - sitting in a hospital room, looking down at the floor between his feet. Looks like he just got some bad news from the Doctor, who stands in front of him looking at a chart with a small frown on his face.
“That bad, huh, Doc?” he whispers, his voice barely audible and hoarse from choking back sobs.
“I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you, Levy, but the sooner we get the treatment started the better chance you have,” says the Doctor solemnly, unable to even make eye contact with his stricken patient.
“...this is horrible.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I don’t... I just don’t know if I’m strong enough to carry on.”
“I believe in you, Johnny. And you know who else does? The patients in our children’s ward; you should visit them before you go.”
“I’ll... I’ll do that, Doctor. Leave behind a bit of joy before I’m gone, that might be just the thing to help me carry on these last few, dark days...”
“Anyway, here’s the prescription for the fungal cream. That Athlete’s foot problem should clear up in about a week,” says the physician as he scribbles on a prescription pad and tears a sheet of paper off, handing it to Levy who hops to his feet and leaps into the air, clicking his heels as he does so.
He snatches the paper out of the Doctor’s hand, does a quick spin on his heels and moonwalks out of the hospital room on his way to visit those dying kids... or whatever it is that he has to do next, to make the audience feel bad and cheer for him.
A quick time lapse, as Johnny now stands in front of a child in a hospital bed, looking down at a kid hooked up to all sorts of IVs and machines. He looks sad that such a pure and innocent soul is forced to suffer such a fate, but let’s be honest; he’s probably mourning the fact that the candy machine was out of Reese’s Kosher Peanut Butter Cups
“Damn, that's hard times. Well, good luck with that Jacob!”
“My name... is... Jack...” wheezes the child.
Johnny merely winks and points an index finger down at the terminal patient.
“Don’t care, didn’t ask, better luck next time!”
He moonwalks out of this room as well; in fact, he moonwalks all the way down the hallway leading to the exit, pondering his next step as he does so.
“You know what? I think I’ll buy this hospital and turn it into a parking lot.”
—------------
“And I did, even though there was already ample parking in the area? You know why? Because I stubbed my toe going around a corner, and felt like taking it out on the entire neighbourhood.”
“Now they have to drive 30 minutes to the next-nearest hospital, and the already fragile medical system of the city is one step closer to collapse.”
“Kind of like how I want to collapse this monolith to hatred that Indy Darling has twisted and perverted the once-noble brand of Proving Ground into. What started as an opportunity for me to get some hype around my new professional wrestling feature film has evolved into something else.”
“Something nobler. More pure. God’s work.”
“Shattering the specter of racism and addiction and all that other bad shit, no matter the cost to this idiotic company.”
“I mean it’ I’ll crash the entire thing, I don’t give a fuck.”
“Don’t believe me? Alright. Have a taste of this stupidity coming up riiiiiight...”
“...”
“Is the footage ready yet? Okay, perfect.”
“RIGHTNOW!”
====================
I LOVE THE BLOW
J-LEV ft. BAD BITCH BILLY
BIG JEW PRODUCTIONS, INC
2022
As a smooth mid-90’s east coast hip-hop beat begins, the scene zooms in from above onto the private yacht of Johnny Levy, making its way through the Gulf of Mexico; clearly this is taking place close to the date of the next Proving Ground show.The famous actor and infamous wrestler - dressed in all white with gold-and-diamond rimmed sunglasses - stands on the deck of his expensive boat, surrounded by scantily-clad models, bodyguards toting Uzi submachine guns, and...
...BILLY BENNETT?!?!
Don't worry, it'll probably be explained why she's here in her promo. I'm sure.
Surely.
But yes, she’s there, dressed in a blue plaid-print button up shirt with only the top bottom secured; fortunately she's got a white undershirt underneath. Shoved down the front of her baggy army-green khakis is a bejeweled Desert Eagle handgun, the handle encrusted with a number of diamonds and sapphires placed in the shape of a large Star of David.
Obviously Levy’s gun, Billy’s just borrowing it for a while. Maybe forever, we’ll see how pushy he gets about it being returned; it does look awfully expensive, after all.
The camera travels up and down the ship, showing the full scope of the party that rages on-board, as Levy speaks over the beat, his voice dripping swagger. Basically he makes Lil Petey look like the punk-ass bitch that he is.
“Yeah, you know we love the blow...
More than you know, baby...
We out here, doing cocaine and shit...”
As the beat hits a crescendo, the camera swoops around Levy, who begins to rap as Billy - in the background - whispers something in the DJ’s ear and sneaks up behind the artist-turned-hip-hop-artist-for-one-promo-scene.
“We snort the finest keys, sniff it fast,
Through the city like Monopoly, droppin’ cash
Me and Billy and the models b-”
Before he can even finish the first verse, Billy screams in his ear from inches behind him.
“GRRRT! BAOW!”
The moment those shouts leave her lips, the beat changes to a hard, UK-style drill beat, as she pulls the iced-out Desert Eagle from its place down the front of her pants, waving it at the camera as she violently shoves Levy to the side to begin her own verse.
Compared to Levy’s chill delivery, her tone is angry, unhinged, some real Bronx style shit. Fuck all that soft Brooklyn garbage.
“L-E-V, WE GOT THE CITY ON LOCK
IT'S BURIAL SEASON, BETTER HAVE YOUR GLOCKS
GAT ON HIP
STILL GET SHOT WITH STELLA IF YOU LIKE IT OR NOT, LIKE
LACE YOUR KICKS
DON’T RUN, DON’T TRIP ON YOUR WAY TO THE TOP, LIKE
GOT THE DROP
Y’ALL GET SLAPPED FOR THINKIN’ THAT YA HOT, LIKE
I’M WITH SAVVY, AYO LEVY, WHERE THE WETTIES?
HE TRIED TO HIT THE DAMN FLOOR, I AIN’T SHOWIN’ REMORSE
HE GET SHOT IN THE BELLY...”
She continues to spit these lunatic, borderline non-rhymes at the camera, as Levy stares from behind her with wide eyes that seem focused on something just below the small of her back.
“Hmm. Very interesting indeed,” he muses, as Billy continues to bop, twirl and Crip walk around, continuing onto a second verse that shan’t be transcribed here.
It’s her ass. He’s staring at her ass.
There, I said it.
—------------
The music video fades away, and is replaced by Johnny and Billy sitting on opposite sides of a large, rectangular table with a shining, mirrored top. Sitting on the surface are Levy’s glitzy Desert Eagle and Billy’s family heirloom Colt SAA with the state flag of Florida stamped on the handle.
And two piles of cocaine, of course. The one nearer to Levy is white as snow, looking light and fluffy and shining in the sunlight that bears down on it from the sky above. Proper fishscale, good quality, real Hollywood shit.
Closer to Billy is something of an entirely different caliber. Still cocaine, but almost yellowish in colour, and rather than light and fluffy it looks denser, richer, almost oily... moving it around seems to leave small streaks on the table’s surface. The kind of shit you just can’t get for sale in the United States; at least, not in volumes lower than several dozen kilograms.
Levy takes a small amount from his pile and spreads a line in front of Billy, who bends down to snort it up. She quirks her head slightly as the effects start to take hold, eventually clicking her tongue and shrugging.
“Not bad, big fella. But go ‘head and try some of this...” she hisses, taking some of the yellowish-white powder from her pile and pushing it - with a razor blade - in front of Levy.
He leans in to snort it, and the effects are immediate; he doesn’t even finish the line before the numbness hits him, drool dripping out of the side of his mouth as he leans back in the deck chair and stares blankly - through sunglasses worth several thousand dollars - up at the sun overhead. Levy tries to open his mouth to speak several times, but it sounds like someone under the effects of dental numbing; nothing but meaningless, slurred babble.
Finally, after a few minutes, the drip wears off enough for him to actually form words.
“Hoooooly… shiiiiiiit… giiiiiiirrrrrlllll…”
“Yea, well... I’m in the business, y’know? What would it look like if some stuck-up rich boy came through with better shit than a Bennett? We’d prolly have to close up shop behind that kinda thing.”
As Levy continues to work through the icy, all-consuming dopamine rush of the ridiculously pure cocaine, Billy begins to divvy up more lines as she speaks, seemingly continuing a conversation they were having before the scene started.
“It’s like I said, Johnny boy, y’all gotta realize ain’t nobody ‘round here gives a fuck ‘bout where ya come from, what movies ya been in, none of that. Ain’t no shortcuts to success in this company, ya gotta put the work in, actually sweat and bleed a bit... ‘cause boy, ain’t nothin’ here for free. Take it from me, y’know? Always used to hear a lotta shit ‘bout how I wasn’t good enough, didn’t deserve the shots others did, but I broke enough of these loudmouthed fuckers here that - eventually - people had to respect me for what I’m capable of.”
The cocaine is still going strong, but the rush has worn off, and Levy takes a moment to consider those words. He had been coasting - or trying to and failing - off his name alone ever since he came here; when he could be doing so much more, if he only put in the slightest bit of effort.
It’s possible that this whole crusade against Indy Darling is misguided at best and delusional libel at worst; that the real reason he’s being ignored and slighted at every turn is because of his inflammatory, passive-aggressive style... and, perhaps, the constant, obnoxious, arrogant insistence that he deserves chances he has put in zero work to receive.
Could it be...? That he had been going about this incorrectly the whole time? That he was responsible for his poor performance on Proving Ground?
No.
It’s the General Manager who is wrong.
“Alright, that kind of makes sense... I’ll think about that; bless up, Triple B,” he says, brushing off this important life lesson - delivered by a psychotic crack addict who seemed to be more in touch with reality than he was - completely.
“Bless up, J-LEV,” says Billy casually, clearly not giving a fuck whether he took her words to heart or not.
“Blessed,” says Levy, pressing his palms together in prayer hands.
“So blessed,” responds Billy, returning the gesture and even including a slight bow of respect.
“Anyway.”
“Yeah, do your promo thing, I’m gonna keep myself busy with this...”
That said, Billy’s attention returns to the large mirrored surface of the table sitting between herself and the actor; a razor blade in one hand deftly piling and dividing the two separate piles of cocaine.
Meanwhile, Levy turns to face the camera, even scooting his chair around at an angle to better give it his sole focus.
“Imagine thinking you deserve anything for beating that washed-up, broken-down old bitch Elena DeDraca on a technicality, thanks to that - coincidentally also - washed-up, broken-down old bitch Mark Hunter.”
“Sure, a win is a win, I’ve always said this. But you can’t really expect the fans to respect this as any kind of serious achievement, and while I’m always happy to see a representative of Proving Ground beat the living shit out of some jerk-off from Fallout, even I - Team Hendrix since day one - can’t really count this as a proper victory, you know?”
“I mean, she shouldn’t have even been cleared to fight in the first place; just another example of the reckless management decisions by alt-right spokesperson Indy Darling. And you went and took this injured person, and tore their stitches open, leaking blood onto the sacred ground of... well... Proving Ground, and soiling the brand for all time with violence best left to the white trash, outlaw mudshow brand that we shall not be naming again.”
“And you’re supposed to replace me as the top babyface on the midcard? Fuck outta here with that.”
Pausing to walk over to the mirrored table that Billy is still seated near and hovering over, he takes a golden straw from inside his suit pocket and snorts a massive line, his face twitching as he stretches his jaw before wandering back over to the camera.
“It’s fake, of course. Fake drugs. Movie magic. Isn’t that right, Billy?”
“Yea, whatever the fuck ever, ya fuckin’ rube.”
“Did you just call me a rube?!”
“Sure did. What ya plannin’ on doin’ about it, boy?” she snaps back quickly, a dangerous edge to her voice that quickly shuts Levy up and stops him from offering any snarky reply of his own. He even inches a few steps further away from her, before continuing.
“So, I’ve given this all some serious thought, for the first time in my career as a professional wrestler. Getting under your skin, that is.”
“My first idea was paying Billy here to steal your little wannabe girlfriend Stella; after all, she already cucked Arik Holt, and he’s legitimately crazy, so Big Softie Hendrix should pose no problems for her.”
Billy’s eyes go wide midway through the line of cocaine she’s snorting; she starts coughing loudly, scattering powder off the mirror as she hacks and wheezes. It seems like she’s trying to say something, probably hoping to play off the wild shit Levy just said on camera as a joke... but she can’t catch her breath in time, and he carries on.
“But I decided against that one. Mainly because I didn’t want that psycho bitch Savannah to find out about it and do something horrible to me.”
In the background, Billy - having just recovered from the shock of Levy’s statement - just nods along in agreement with this last point. Then she begins to busy herself with gathering the powder spread over the mirror into a pile again.
“Listen up, because this doesn’t come from a place of malice against you as a human being. It comes from what you represent as a non-Jewish wrestler, getting a push that - by all rights - belongs to my people.”
“After everything we’ve been through over centuries, I have to sit back and watch some greasy, oversized vanilla shitter with zero heat or charisma come gunning for my spot as top babyface on the brand?”
“Naw, son.”
“Anyway, you should be honoured. You’ve successfully forced me - Johnny Levy, the laziest man on Proving Ground - to cut a real, honest-to-god promo in an attempt to win a match. This is honestly historic, so take a moment to soak it all in. Maybe go back and start from the beginning again, keeping the significance of this moment in mind as you do.”
“Yeah. Enjoy it.”
“Because that honour? That’s all you’re going to get in Project: Honor.”
He pauses to chuckle to himself, his already unnaturally wide smile growing even larger.
“Do you see what I did there?! Seinfeld wrote that one for me, only cost me a cool $10 million.”
“But I digress; you’re not getting past me, Hendrix. Look at me like a midboss in a role-playing game, and you’re just not a high enough level to beat me. You can’t do any real damage, and you have no chance in hell of winning... not unless I let you go over, like I have in every previous match against every opponent I’ve had here.”
“Which, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not doing this time.”
“To continue the metaphor... allegory...? Anyway, it’s hopeless, you still got that straw hat and bronze sword from the starting village, and I’m out here all jacked up on strength potions, rocking a diamond chestplate and wielding some kind of... I don’t know... magic staff or something?”
“I don’t really play that lame shit. Waste of time.”
“Moving on.”
“Let’s talk about the match itself; is it really surprising to anyone that Indy Darling - the fascist - is once again advocating for putting my people in cages for his own sick, twisted amusement?”
“Now I know Brandon has a lot of experience with cages, since that crazy thot Stella has him wearing one 24/7,” he says, winking at the camera as the younger, more innocent members of the audience probably wonder what the hell he’s talking about.
“But my people have a bad history with being put behind bars, and though I will go through with this match for the sheer, sick thrill of ending this shitter’s career before it even gets going, rest assured I will be filing a complaint with the ACLU. But I suppose that’s neither here nor there.”
“I’m not stepping aside just because I feel sorry for you and your pathetic, dimeless, aimless mess of a career. That might work on some people, but you’re dealing with - honestly - a genuine sociopath here. Mercy is not something I’m big on, and I don’t really give a fuck about any of your problems, your little Twitter girlfriend, the chip on your shoulder, or the fact that you beat Elena on a technicality.”
“All that matters to me is putting this dumbass push in the ground. Where it belongs.”
“Once I’ve done that, I’ll have shown Indy Darling that nobody is getting any traction on his shitheap brand until Levy gets what he wants.”
“We’re done negotiating. Nothing aside from full surrender will do now.”
“You pushed me to this, Indy. What happens to Brandon in that cage is your fault. Another bright talent, snuffed out because you couldn’t swallow your goddamn pride, let light into your heart, and accept me as a poor, downtrodden wrestler of Jewish heritage.”
“For shame.”
“Anyway, I’m going to absolutely destroy this kid, el em ay oh.”
“Bet on that.”
“Listen Brandon, I like you. I do. So just know this is nothing personal.”
“Just business.”
“Because I’m in this for one reason, and one reason alone; no matter what I might say in my other promos about discrimination or ending hate or becoming first Jewish champion of this anti-semitic company... I just don't actually care about any of that. Just part of the gimmick.”
“Let me make it real simple for you, meathead.”
“Fuck a title shot, you see how little effort I put in against Casanova English for the Warrior Rising match? What does Johnny Levy need a belt for, anyway? I got like 5,000 Louis Vuitton belts, I’m good bruh.”
“Fuck making a positive impression, you see that bullshit I spit on the microphone for 30 minutes every goddamn show? Why would Johnny Levy need friends or allies, since I’ve already got Giovanni the GOAT on my side?”
“Fuck trying to get ahead with management, you see how inflammatory I am to every single GM and staff member in this company? Why would I try to schmooze, when I’m so clearly superior to every single member of this pathetic, utterly mid roster?”
“Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke, you know?”
“As I was saying, though, this game is about one thing and one thing only for me.”
“Stopping every young upstart with fire in their eyes, who thinks they can get ahead and succeed with hard work, integrity, and excellent character development.”
“Standing in between them and the championship opportunities that they so desperately crave.”
“Crushing their spirit, and showing them that they will only reach the peak if I allow them to.”
“Burying them so deep that the bookers will never, ever take another shot at giving them a push, ever again. Because why would they want to put the strap on someone who Johnny fucking Levy so thoroughly outdid and embarrassed?”
“After all, I’m nothing more than a low-tier comedy act/guest commentator,” Levy says, a devious smile spreading over his previously innocent features.
For a second, there is a shadow deep in his eyes, a hint of the darkness that exists just under the well-polished, glad-handing surface. A shadow that hides within it a hatred for everything beautiful, pure and innocent in the world. A shadow that wants nothing more than to destroy Brandon Hendrix’s entire career, and put an end to this ill-conceived push before it has a chance to really get going.
And just like that, the evil look in his eyes is gone, and his smile is replaced by the usual blank, overly friendly, cheesy grin he typically wears in these promos.
“So yeah, don’t worry, we’re still cool, right?”
“Still gotta bury you, though.”
Billy shoves her way up in front of Levy to deliver one final insult, before the scene cuts away.
“Ooops! Poor Brandon thinks he’s gettin’ a push ‘cause he beat some trash 40-year old edgelord? Not if my man J LEV got shit to say with it, motherfucker!”
—------------
Inside the engineering studio on his yacht, Levy finishes re-watching the promo he just finished filming; the very first time he ever bothered to double-check this shit before sending it along to Project: Honor. Billy is sitting behind Levy and the lead sound guy, lazily puffing away at a joint as she dangles her feet over the arm of the chair.
While his guest relaxes, Levy nods in approval as the credits roll. The lead engineer pauses the tape and turns to face his boss.
“Any idea what you want to call this one, Mr. Levy?” he asks politely, tapping his pen on the desk in front of him.
“Yeah. Call it ‘The Burial’,” he says, his voice stern and serious... he knows that this is the title that will wrap up this entire package perfectly and secure him the dub he deserves.
The engineer visibly sweats, glancing over at Billy - who isn’t paying any attention at all - for assistance, before swallowing and breaking the bad news to Johnny.
“Well, you see... that title has already been used this cycle. Scar.”
“WHO?!?!”
“That dude from Project Underground.”
Johnny smashes his fist down into a waiting palm, face twisting with fury as he stares daggers at the sound engineer, Billy perking up slightly in the background as she glances at the pair for the first time during this scene.
“...Savannah Sunshine, you’ve fucked with my game for the last time. After I finish spinning the block on that up-jumped loser Brandon Hendrix, I will make it my life’s duty to destroy your shitty little developmental brand, you freckled little bitc-..."
This is enough to get Billy to sit up properly in the chair, spitting on the floor before shouting angrily at Levy.
“HEY!!! What the fuck did you say ‘bout my girl?!?!”
Before the actor can turn and offer an apology, Billy is already leaping out of her seat and charging towards him, taking him down to the shag-carpeted floor with a tackle that knocks the wind out of him. She begins to rain forearms down on him, as the engineer quickly leaves the room and the scene fades to black...
And yes...
...this time...
...you get credits!!!!
====================
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