Post by levy on Mar 30, 2022 11:14:10 GMT -5
or ‘Fuck You, Indy Darling'
or ‘Seriously, Fuck Yourself’
or ‘You Think I'm Playing? Try Me, Sunglasses’
or ‘Seriously, Fuck Yourself’
or ‘You Think I'm Playing? Try Me, Sunglasses’
====================
Johnny Levy sits in the smoking room of his mansion in the Hollywood Hills. The shadows running over him are long and deep, as even the usual cherry-red light of his trademark cigar is missing from the scene.
It can be both tragic and edifying to be proven right.
To have his publicly stated beliefs and grievances proven correct, beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Proving once and for all that there is a vast, right-wing conspiracy against not only his people, but him personally.
He’d won. He beat Brandon Hendrix out of the cage; and what’s more than that, he cut a far more entertaining, well-thought out, perfectly executed promo.
But none of that mattered.
How could it, when Indy Darling was keeping his finger on the scale, weighing it down so that Johnny ‘SUPERSTAR’ Levy never, ever went over except in some Mall Madness match with like 25 winners out of 30 entrants?
The SYSTEM was strong.
Too strong.
Impossible to stand against it.
He’d tried once - one single time - to make an honest go of it, to show the corrupt scum running Proving Ground that there would be no more discrimination or anti semitism on Johnny Levy’s brand.
But it was pointless.
A waste of time.
He had been beaten.
The most crushing, irreversible of defeats.
Losing a match to Brandon Hendrix, the perennial jobber of the industry.
There was simply no coming back from this.
Johnny Levy continues to stare in the general direction of the camera, shoulders rising as he inhales deeply, perhaps to begin cutting a promo on his next opponent, the charity scamming Twitter superstar Tara Fenix.
Perhaps if he attempted suicide, he could win this one on sympathy points.
Perhaps if he approached management claiming that his opponent said something mean, he could be handed a pity victory just so he wouldn’t continue making waves in the company.
Perhaps if he used some personal tragedy to appeal to the humanity of the audience, he could win some babyface points... albeit looking like a complete bitch while doing so.
“No.”
He refuses.
Levy may be a scumbag, a delusional sociopath, an all-around terrible person and generally willing to do whatever is necessary - including making false accusations - to get ahead...
.
...but he will not do any of those things. He can't, not while still being able to look at his own beautiful visage in the mirror for several hours every morning.
There is only one way forward.
Not protest. Not genuine effort.
Resignation.
Indy Darling and his racist minions had won.
Johnny Levy was done jumping through hoops. Maybe he shows up for the match, maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he speaks on it at some point, maybe he doesn’t.
It wouldn’t make any difference, with that man running the show.
Exhaling the breath he had just taken, Johnny Levy’s shoulders fall and his head slumps down towards the ground.
One trembling hand reaches out to grab a spoon, lighter, syringe, and tub of cream cheese. Depositing a healthy glob of cream cheese onto the spoon, he lights it from underneath until the delicious spread liquefies. He sucks up the resulting concoction with the syringe, before rolling up his sleeve and slapping the crook of his elbow to raise a vein.
----------
“Mr. Levy, sir? You haven’t requested your daily edition of ‘Terminally Ill Children’, are you al- OH MY GOD!”
Barlon Mando, coming into Levy’s sanctuary, is shocked to find his boss face-down on the ground with a pool of cream cheese, bagel bits and scraps of smoked salmon underneath his head.
Rushing over to assist his employer, Barlon turns Levy over and screams like a little girl as he spots the foaming cream cheese pouring out of the actor’s mouth. His skin is cold and pale, clearly overdosing on intravenous cheese and some lox and bagels he stuffed his face with until his airways were blocked.
“Not like this, Mr. Levy... not like this... you still owe me like three months of back pay...” wails Barlon mournfully, sad that he will never see a paycheck for the months of work he put in pro bono.
Levy’s eyes snap open at this comment, and he finds the strength to shake his head at the very idea of ever paying his help in a timely fashion. Or ever, really. He still hasn’t paid the idiot who had been training him to wrestle; but considering Levy’s subpar W/L record, he probably doesn’t deserve that money in the first place.
“Oh thank Moses, you’re alright!” shouts Barlon when he sees Levy open his eyes.
The actor’s eyes close again, as his head falls back to the floor.
“So... call an ambulance then, or what...?”
Eyes still shut, Levy simply nods his head once before continuing to play dead.
It’s the role he was born to play!
No seriously, kill him, please.
====================
Taken to the nearest hospital - unfortunately not a Jewish one, as that was full after a tragic accident at a nearby bris that left fifty-seven attendees accidentally double-circumsized - Johnny Levy was treated with the most cutting-edge, insanely expensive private healthcare that his Jewish gold could purchase.
Still unconscious and recovering from the near-fatal overdose, Levy is hooked up to a ton of machines and tubes and shit. Inserted into his right wrist is an IV, which leads to a hanging bag filled with liquid, molten gold that is pumped directly into his veins.
An ancient Jewish remedy, probably.
MOVIE MAGIC.
Listen, okay, I’m still recovering from taking that shady loss to Brandon, give me a break.
I don’t expect an apology from Cha- errr... Indy Darling, either.
Anyway, Levy’s hospital room is filled with family; his wife, Mary Jo Hastings, his brothers Abel and Cain, and even his famous director/actor/banker/Mossad spy/rabbi father, Moses Levy (played by Jeff Jarrett I think, but don’t quote me on that).
They are all visibly depressed... and by ‘all’ I mean his wife, who sobs in a rather unattractive fashion from her seat beside Levy’s hospital bed. Abel is scrolling Tweets on his phone, Cain is trying to hide the fact that he’s taking bumps of cocaine from a small spoon, and Moses is watching an old episode of ‘Seinfeld’ on the flatscreen TV attached to the far wall, laughing heartily as Kramer slides into Jerry’s apartment or whatever the fuck happens on that show.
“Johnny baby, why would you do this? You’re not a bad guy like everyone says... if it weren’t for you rescuing me from your pornographer uncle, I’d probably still be getting DP’d on a daily basis for a few hundred bucks a go. Instead, you helped me break into real movies, where I get DP’d backstage by the producers in exchange for a multi-million dollar role!”
“Yeah, Levy, you’re not some delusional heel like everyone - including your contract - says! Hell, I still remember the time I got into that drunk driving accident and you used your connections to intimidate the survivors into not pressing charges! And what about that time the police caught me with those five ounces of cocaine, and you got your Mossad security details to assassinate the cop and his family at his home?”
“Or what about when my rival Cobra O’Connor got the late night slot that was meant for me? I’m not sure what you had your people say to him, but he sure was in a hurry to quit and flee to the Phillipines! Now I’m rich and famous, just like you and dad!”
“I fucking hate you, Abel.”
“Shut up, bitch.”
“Fine speech.”
“Would you boys shut the hell up? Jerry is about to go to Newman’s apartment for something, this shit is gold, baby!”
“Dad, don’t you have anything nice to say about Johnny?”
“Huh? Oh, did something happen to him? Oh shit, he’s all fucked up, huh? Shame. Uhhh, okay I got something. Johnny, I know I pushed you to succeed at all costs when you were a kid, but I only did that because I knew you had greatness in you... and also because I really wanted you to make a shitload of money in case I got sued for that orphanage fire or closing down the children’s hospital or torpedoing that billion-dollar, cutting-edge heart disease research.”
“It’s hard to be an amazing, talented, Jewish man in this world... but you’re strong enough to take the hate. You can rise above it, and leave those stupid goyim behind. Oh, and about that thing with your mother, I just have one thing to say: fuck her, she deserved to get left behind in Palestine during that one family vacation. She said some shit about how she didn’t like halva or something, and that just doesn’t fly in the Levy family.”
“Furthermore...”
“Oh, for fuck’s sakes, this is too much.”
Everyone looks back towards Levy’s hospital bed with shocked expressions, noticing that the previously comatose man is now pulling himself out of the bed. Miraculously, he is already fully dressed in what can only be described as an all-white Kentucky Colonel-style suit. He even has a huge hat, for some reason.
He turns to the camera to speak, despite the fact this was originally intended as an off-camera scene and there was no previous indication that anyone was filming.
“Listen kids, there’s nothing funny about thinking Johnny Levy would ever commit suicide. Why would I? My life is pretty sweet, despite the insane level of bias I have to deal with on a daily basis. I own my house - fully paid off, I should mention - have a big-titted wife with a cute face, pretty feet, and a fat ass - hi, honey - am relatively successful, wealthy and - most importantly - have a healthy, functioning heart that isn’t going to randomly blow up and kill me one day in the near future.”
Leaving his family awe-struck, Levy grabs a tray of hospital food and begins to nibble on a piece of toast as he strolls calmly out of the hospital room and towards the children’s wing.
Because of course he is.
He has unfinished business.
Before long, he is sitting beside another terminally ill child laying in a hospital bed. The kid has their head turned towards Levy, who sits in the shadows, speaking to the actor between wheezing breaths.
“I really... thought... Brandon Hendrix... was a good... person...” he struggles to get the entire sentence out, before a coughing fit interrupts the poor child.
“It’s okay, Brad. We all did. He certainly put the word ‘face’ on his contract, so it’s an understandable mistake to make.”
“Right... but then I saw how... he... brutalized Elena... then won... after Mark Hunter... interfered to throw... in the towel... how he felt so... happy... about winning through... a technicality...”
“Pathetic, isn’t it, Brad?”
“Yeah... and then against you... he only won... because of the racist... system... that opposes you as... a brave, attractive, gainfully employed Jewish... man...”
Levy turns to face the camera which may or may not be actually filming this.
“Yeah, what an anti semitic douchebag.”
“I bet... he makes... Holocaust jokes... in public...”
“Me too, Brad, me too.”
“Anyway...”
“Anyway.”
Reaching out to fist bump the kid hard enough to shatter all the bones in his hand, the dying child doesn’t scream out in pain because morphine is totally awesome and he’s doped to the gills.
Levy stands up and spins in place, beginning to moonwalk out of yet another terminally ill child’s hospital room.
I detect a theme here?
Oh, on the way out he accidentally unplugs all the kid’s machines by tripping over the power cord with his $25,000 shoes.
An honest mistake...
...or is it?!
As soon as he steps back into the main area of the hospital, the nurses, doctors, and patients all turn to face him; standing up out of their chairs and hospital beds, when applicable, to shower him with applause.
The chief surgeon steps into frame to hand him a giant trophy, adorned with an obnoxiously large Star of David made of solid unobtanium, the rarest and most expensive material in the galaxy. And though it weighs as much as the core of a dead sun, Levy hefts the trophy above his head as the hospital - nay, the world - begins to chant.
“LE-VY! LE-VY! LE-VY!”
Levy snaps back awake in his private smoking room, lips and fingers covered with cream cheese and bagel crumbs. The front of his once-pristine white dress shirt is covered in scraps of food.
His belt is unbuckled, the top bottom of his pants undone to accommodate what looks like fifteen or so pounds of weight gain. Groaning as he struggles to sit back up, he rubs his eyes sleepily.
“Damn. Good dream though.”
====================
“Hello ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the inaugural episode of Johnny Levy’s brand-new podcast, DataBattle starring my co-host Adam James.”
“HELLO EVERYONE, TODAY WE WILL BE EXPOSING THE LINK BETWEEN GERMAN F1 DRIVERS AND RECENT SKINWALKER ATTACKS IN THE CONTINENTAL UNITED STATES, GANGSTALKING PERPETRATED BY THE GENERAL MANAGERS OF PROJECT: HONOR, AN-“
“That’s enough out of you, Adam. I’m not feeling up to coding different colours on this dialogue, so I think we’ll save you for a future promo. We’ll see how I feel next cycle, at any rate.”
“ALRIGHT COOL. I’M GOING TO GO INJECT SOME COLLOIDAL SILVER NOW, AVAILABLE FROM DATABATTLE.COM FOR O-”
“I said I didn’t want to code your dialogue, and you’re still fucking talking? Jesus Christ, you’re lucky you know the real truth about the reptilian shape-shifters who control the international banking and softwood lumber cartels. That’s good shit, so I think I’ll keep you around. For a different promo.”
“Now fuck outta heeeeerrrrrreeeeeeee.”
“With that out of the way, let me reveal to you, my dear listening audience, a vast, right-wing conspiracy that lay deep within the heart of Proving Ground, and perhaps even Project: Honor as a whole.”
“Except for Fallout; Ratman seems like the one decent person among all the rubes and racists in management. Bless you, Percival, you are a true mensch.”
“Now, let me say this: you fucked up, Indy Dorkling. I would have been satisfied with ending Hendrix’s fledgling career; and I almost did, until someone from your group of alt right fanatics stepped in to prevent my victory... and with that victory, the end of discrimination and hate around the world.”
“I am not surprised that you took steps to keep the global community divided; for without the many glorious peoples of the earth at each others throats, you would be unable to complete the final steps of your master plan.”
“Yes, I know all the details of this plan, and you at home can too. All you need to do is send a cheque, money order, or cash - totaling $70,000.00 - to P.O. BOX J-LEV, 22222, and I’ll send you a pamphlet explaining everything along with some totally rocking dick pills and water filters.”
“As I was saying, Indy. Now, there’s no satisfying me. You could stand in front of the audience at the next show and admit to your anti semitic leanings, past full of vicious hate crimes, and even the fact that you’re a sitting member on the Board of FOX News, and it still wouldn’t be enough.”
“It won’t ever be enough to make up for the crime of having me lose to... ugh... Brandon Hendrix. I still can’t even believe you would be so cruel, honestly; I’d rather take an L from Poblano, at least he draws a bit of heat from time to time. Good promos, too.”
“In a way, I should thank Brandon Hendrix. If he had played it straight without resorting to heel tactics, I would have won and sunk tight back into phoning it in week after week.”
“That’s just not an option now. That foul, bitch-made villain pretending to be one of the boys backstage has gone too far by going to management for favours. Now it is my goal... nay, my sacred duty to make sure I rise higher than him in this company. That I show him he can’t get ahead with underhanded, dirty tactics and racially motivated promos against young rookies like myself.”
“So, this leaves me to address Tara. Indy Darling’s ringer in this next match, the blue haired Tumblr Queen of Hate, who has returned to active competition in this company in an effort to attack me, a minority.”
“It’s no surprise that the winner of the Clive Darling Memorial Whatever is one of Indy’s goons; I’m sure the tournament itself was rigged, just like every other goddamn match on this pathetic brand.”
“Brandon Hendrix couldn’t beat me clean, and now Indy is sending you, Tara. Well let me tell you one thing...”
“I thought I was the midboss, standing in the way of undercarders on their way to the midcard... turns out I was wrong. I realized after the last show that I am something else entirely.”
“I am the protagonist of this shit.”
“And the first chapter of my story - my TRUE journey - begins in that ring against you.”
“I will not allow THE SYSTEM to continue its reign of terror over every honest athlete and competitor in this company. For us to heal the divide and erase hate, Tara Fenix must be destroyed.”
“Alright, with that lame shit out of the way, let me discuss my political theories about the Middle East, and how they relate to the true identity of the Zodiac Killer...”
====================
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