Post by levy on Apr 28, 2022 13:52:53 GMT -5
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The scene opens inside an average, every day diner somewhere in Los Angeles.
The scene opens inside an average, every day diner somewhere in Los Angeles.
At one of the numerous booths lining the wall sits Slade Castle (played by Ryan Gosling with a really cringe military cut) and Julius Foulweather (played by Donald Glover wearing age makeup), sipping on coffee and enjoying their breakfasts.
Wait, he’s back to Fairweather now? What the fuck is this slap-shod character development?
Indy Darling is likely to blame. Or the man pulling the strings behind him.
Wink, wink.
They’re both wearing black suits and ties, with white dress shirts. Almost like those two goons from Pulp Fiction. Hey, the diner even looks like the one from the movie!
What are the odds?
“Damn Slade, this Hired Goon shit is the best idea you’ve ever had. It’s been a long-ass time since I’ve been able to afford a full breakfast at such a classy establishment,” says Julius between mouthfuls of grits and pig’s feet.
Again, I have to reiterate this is not a classy establishment. It’s the fucking greasy spoon from Pulp Fiction, Julius just has zero class or taste. Except for his appreciation of Billy Bennett's fat ass, of course. That crackhead is absolutely caked up.
“Hey, I told you this shit would work out. By the way, you know what they call a Big Mac in England?” responds Slade, before he starts to guzzle a 2 liter plastic bottle filled with Monster Energy Drink.
Specifically, the white kind that all the boomers drink, because Slade Castle is a 50 year old suburban dad at heart.
“No, what?”
“A Tiddly Winker.”
“What the fuck, you for real?”
“Yeah, you know how they talk on that goddamn island. Bunch of gibberish. I mean, just look at how inbred their Royal Family is.”
Julius pauses to consider this, picking up a 40oz. bottle of Olde English malt liquor and pouring a healthy serving into his coffee cup, stirring it to mix the liquids together.
Guess it’s his version of creamer or milk, I guess.
No further questions, okay? I’m not pausing this promo every five fucking minutes to explain shit to the judges, who are the only people who should bother reading any of this.
Seriously, if you’re not a judge, please go read something else. I recommend Henry Lee Hyde or Swindle Shelldrake promos, personally. Those two are certified GOATs.
The door to the diner is suddenly swung open, the bell ringing as two individuals come rushing into the establishment.
Johnny ‘SUPERSTAR’ Levy (played by Johnny ‘SUPERSTAR’ Levy) and Billy Bennett (played by NXT-era Nikki Cr-... errr, played by Billy Bennett, I mean).
“ALRIGHT EVERYBODY THIS IS A ROBBERY! NOBODY MOVE! ESPECIALLY YOU TWO OVER THERE!” shouts Levy, pointing across the diner at Slade and Julius who look stunned at this development.
Billy leans in and drops her voice, though it’s still audible throughout the diner.
“Hey, isn’t that the dude from Drive? Fuckin’ loved that movie.”
“Yes and no. By the transitive properties of movie magic, that’s actually Slade Castle, not Gosling. The other dude is Julius Fairweather, though he may look like a shitty actor and rapper to your mortal, non-Jewish eyes.”
This comment brings a furious scowl to Billy’s face, no doubt remember how much of a fucking jerk Slade was to her.
All she ever did was win the title he wasn’t good enough to defend!
Typical Marines. Bunch of low-IQ goons with no marketable skills beyond ‘running really far with a heavy backpack’ and ‘pointless body weight exercises’. Oooh, you know how to fire a gun. So does literally everyone else who isn’t a beta cuck. Nobody is impressed, Ryan Gosling as Slade Castle.
NOBODY.
Anyway, Billy - having been informed who the two actors are meant to represent, and apparently being so out of it they’ve actually morphed into Julius and Slade in her head - stomps over to the table, pulling her Beretta out of the holster hanging off her shoulder and shooting them both in the face.
Johnny Levy’s eyes widen in surprise and horror, as he yells:
“CUT! CUT! CUT!”
Rushing over to Billy, he grabs her by the arms and shakes her vigorously, her cute, thicc little body rattling back and forth as Levy manhandles.
“Billy, what the fuck was that? You just killed Ryan Gosling and Donald Glover! I mean, deserved, but still!”
Shoving Levy away from her, Billy shrugs her shoulders and reholsters her pistol.
“Well shit, I thought this was a prop gun! This is a movie set, right?”
“Bitch, you brought that gun! That is not a Screen Actors Guild-approved firearm!”
“Damn, dude. Ya think I’ll get in trouble for this?”
“Should be fine, we’ll just blame it on the person handling the props. Worked for Alec Baldwin, anyway. You’re a Democrat voter, right? It would help a lot, trust me.”
“Naw. Anarchist. Who the fuck votes these days?”
“Shit. Well, that’s close enough to a Democrat, anyway.”
“Alright, great.”
“Anyway, rest in piss bozos. I know Indy Darling hired the Motor City Madmen t-”
Levy is cut off by a whisper from off-screen.
“Motor City Psychos? What, like they’re insane? That’s dumb, we already have the best psychopath in the business, Billy Bennett. There’s no need to oversaturate the market.”
The screen fades to black, transitioning into the next scene
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The scene opens back up in the hallway of some upper-middle-class high school. Betsy Gallagher (played by Martha Stewart) and Lexi Gold (played by Maw Johnson, RIP to a real one) are holding court near a set of lockers, dressed in all pink and absolutely slathered in make up.
They’re both holding a tag team Championship belt, with a bunch of lipstick marks and blush on the faceplates. It even looks like they spray-tanned the leather strap and bleached the sideplates to a platinum blonde colour.
“Oh my, like, gaaaaawd Betsy, can you believe we, like, won the tag team title belts from BFG Division after, like, winning the top contender spot in a completely fucked, like, poorly booked match set up by the mentally, like, ill General Manager of Proving Ground?”
“GG literally everyone who isn’t us. GG.”
Before this segment gets any more ridiculous, Johnny Levy comes rushing in from off-screen, leveling Betsy with a lariat that would make Stan ‘Fuck Your Face’ Hansen proud.
“MOVE, BITCH, GET OUT THE WAY!” he shouts triumphantly as the blonde lay unconscious on the ground.
He immediately turns to Lexi, who lifts her hands up in the air and begins to beg for mercy.
“Oh my gaaaawd Levy, I, like, absolutely, like, positively, like, cannot believe that you just knocked out my friend! That’s, like, not very cash money at al-”
She is cut off by Levy, who knocks her head back with an overhead haymaker that would make Michael ‘Benoit’ Bishop proud. The back of her skull hits the locker directly behind her, knocking her the fuck out as she drops to the floor.
“EQUAL RIGHTS, EQUAL FIGHTS!”
The make-believe tag team Champions successfully taken out the game, Levy turns to the camera and starts throwing DOA gang-signs, stepping up right to the lens as he continues to shout.
“AYO INDY! YOU WANT A PIECE?! WE OUTSIDE, BOY! DON’T RUN DON’T TRIP!”
The screen fades to black again, transitioning into a commercial!
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Johnny Levy is standing in the middle of a ring in what appears to be the gym from the first Rocky movie (the only good one aside from 3, fight me, I don’t care, I said what I said).
He’s wearing the tightest black trunks imaginable, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. His torso is bare and oiled up so much it’s practically mirrored. He has some fake abs drawn on with what appears to have been a heavily-smudged Sharpie.
Smiling at the camera, he begins his sales pitch.
“Howdy, y’all. Welcome to Johnny Levy’s School of Side Headlocks, endorsed by Mark Hunter and Steve... well, I don’t really know his last name, so I’ll just call him Steve, okay?”
“Hi Steve.”
“Anyway, I’m sure you all saw me manhandle those two giant who were foolish enough to face Giovanni and myself in the ring. Winning a match with a Side Headlock? That’s so fucking GOATed that I can barely believe it myself.”
“Well now, I’m going to be teaching my unbeatable technique to a few lucky, paying customers. With only 12 monthly installments of $9,999.99 dollars - a bargain, by the way, you ungrateful pricks - you too can learn how to defeat large, hulking, masked men with basic chain wrestling moves!”
He is interrupted as two giant individuals step into view of the camera, rubbing their fingers together in the classic, universally understood ‘pay me, fool’ gesture.
Levy glances at them, before turning back to the camera to grin sheepishly.
“One moment.”
Reaching down the front of his trunks, he reveals that the bulge in his pants was - in fact - a giant envelope full of cash that spills out into the ring as he pulls it out of his wrestling gear.
Tossing the envelope dismissively at the two mammoth men - neither of which seem capable of speaking or understanding English - he proceeds to ignore them as they collect the scattered bills that fell out of the envelope.
“I had more to say, but those two STATUS QUO fucks interr-”
He begins to sweat as he realizes he was about to reveal a plot twist that - I guess - is going to be covered at the next Proving Ground PPV.
“Errr... nothing. I said nothing."
"WE OUT.”
"WE OUT.”
The screen fades to black, transitioning - again - to the next scene.
No, I’m not going to put any thought or creativity into these segment transitions. This is not a Billy Bennett promo, and it never will be. You just need to accept that your brand will never command the same level of effort and care that Ratman’s does, Indy.
Maybe try fixing your booking, and then we can talk.
Five tag teams in a single match? Fuck outta here with that nonsense.
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The scene opens up to Johnny Levy, sitting in front of a computer as he proceeds to spam the Project: Honor Google Review page with 1-star reviews, using an almost infinite amount of burner accounts to crash their rating.
They generally follow this theme:
‘THE GENERAL MANAGER OF PROVING GROUND IS AN ANTI SEMITE’
‘CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS DUMBASS MATCH? 10 FUCKING PEOPLE IN A TAG TEAM ELIMINATION BOUT?! WHO BOOKED THIS SHIT, VINCE RUSSO?!?!?!?!?!’
‘CATERING SUCKS, NOT ENOUGH BAGELS AND CREAM CHEESE’
‘PRETTY SURE CHRISTIAN DEMARCO ISN’T EVEN CIRCUMSIZED. IT’S 2022, PEOPLE!!!’
‘MID’
And so on. Listen, he’s got a lot of time on his hands. More than his handler, which is why I won’t be transcribing all these theoretical reviews.
Turning his head to face the camera, Levy cracks a smile - his pearly white teeth almost blinding the viewer - and spinning in his chair to address the audience.
“Oh, hey. Didn’t see you there. I mean, I did, because I set this whole scene up specifically with that line in mind, but let’s not get too pedantic here, okay?”
He is handed a script from off-screen, and he begins to leaf through it.
“First off, I just have to say, the booking on Proving Ground continues its slide down into absolute lunacy.”
“They have once again booked me into a match where I’m expected to cut a promo on like eight other people. To that I say the following: shan’t.”
“However, I had a lot of good lines for the other teams that I haven’t covered already, so let me just summarize.”
He begins to hum as he continues to go through the script, nodding his head thoughtfully as he does so.
“Let’s see... doot doot doot... ‘call Indy a racist’, I must have already done that... hmm... ah, here we are. Phantom Troupe.”
“Okay, get this, I was going to do a skit called ‘Being The Troupe’ where they go around buying collector’s sneakers at above-retail price, and generally make a nuisance of themselves backstage. Perhaps I would even include other roster members as delightfully amusing cameos.”
There’s some muttered words from off-screen, and Levy slaps his forehead.
“I forgot about that other YouTube show. Goddamnit. Well, it should be fine, I’ve been to a few cocaine parties with TK and he’s generally a calm, understandable fellow who definitely knows how to book feuds, angles, and matches that aren’t just lame, heatless six-versus-six shitfests.”
“Anyway, I’m sure I should be impressed by the Young Bu- errr, I mean the Phantom Troupe, and their super brief, charity tag team title reign. However, I’m not. Mainly because I’ve never made it through an entire match they were in. Too much flippy shit and Canadian Destroyers. Give me a 60-minute chain wrestling, five star, Meltzer-approved banger any day.”
“Your Mark Hunter vs. Shooter Landell, if you will.”
More muttering from off-stage, as Levy suddenly looks incredibly disappointed and hurt.
“The fuck you mean ‘he quit’?!? Man, I liked that dude too. What the fuck? Why do all the hosses quit this company without cutting more than a single promo or two?”
“I’m sure he found out how reprehensible Indy Darling was, and made the wise decision to find greener, more accepting, less hateful pastures. Can’t rightly blame him; I would do the same, if it were not my sole mission in life to topple all monuments to bias and discrimination.”
“Anyway, just one more thing to add to the ‘Fuck You Indy Darling: A Grievance Industry Special’ episode of The Levy Factor. Coming soon, airing directly after the F’n Edge, as soon as I get permission to post it in Announcements.”
Levy glances back down at the script and continues to turn pages, looking for something in particular. He seems somewhat confused when he finds it, but looks back to the camera to speak regardless.
“There’s not much here for TJ Thompson and Cadillac James or Jones or Johnathon, whatever his name is. I mean, how am I supposed to insult two men of such highly fashionable tastes? Those men are drippin fr fr ong no cap, as the kids like to say.”
He looks at someone off-screen, tossing the script over his shoulder and crossing his arms over his chest.
“Who were the last ones again? Di ‘Best Chest’ Ana and who? Mikey Hero? Like superhero? Like those shitty Marvel movies?!?!”
His eyes glittering with glee, Levy actually throws his head back to cackle up at the ceiling. It goes on for, like, twenty to twenty-five minutes, no shit.
“Oh man, that takes me back to... what was it, four months ago? Five? I’ve really been in this shithole company for that long?”
Shaking his head as he stares directly into the camera, he is suddenly wearing a full body spandex suit adorned with yellow polka dots on black fabric.
“That’s hard times, daddy.”
And just as quickly as it appeared, the polka dots are gone, replaced by the grey three-piece suit he was previously wearing.
“So, I was going to phone all this in and generally sandbag my good friend Giovanni, as I am wont to do. But then two things hit me. Two primary motivations to do well in this match and win the top contender spot for the tag team titles currently held by BFG Division. I was going to make a clever joke using the ‘BFG’ acronym, but those two have sustained so much head trauma I doubt they have enough brain cells left to appreciate it, so fuck them.”
“Motivation #1: Double-belt Giovanni. You see how good he looks with the Warrior Rising Championship?”
He pauses to chef’s kiss his fingers.
“Now imagine that hot, sweaty, talented, sexy motherfucker with a tag team belt, too.”
Pausing to do that Obama forehead-wipe :whew: emoji, he quickly carries on.
“Motivation #2: Spite. You see, I’ve come to a conclusion about how I can best fuck up Indy Darling’s entire life, since he’s too much of a bitch-made coward to step up and face me in a Buried Alive match at the next Proving Ground PPV. I’m sure he’s already booked for another pointless match against developmental talent and edgy goth shitter Cuntis Stayne.”
“Gee, I wonder how someone so inexperienced is constantly handed slots on main brand shows? Probably not nepotism, couldn’t possibly be.”
Snorting loudly, Levy spits a gob of phlegm on the ground directly beside his chair. Never mind that he’s spitting on the floor of his own home office; that’s the sort of thing he pays that big, goofy Barlon Mando (secret: it’s just ‘Marlon Brando’ with the letters kind of switched around) dude $5.00/hour to clean up, after all.
“I figure he wants to bury me and my boy, Big Dimes Gio, in yet another clusterfuck match straight out of Holt-era Fallout. Well, I’m not letting it happen. I’m going to go into that ring, and start putting all y’all fools in Side Headlocks. Oh, what, you got a problem with that? Call the cops, I don’t give a fuck.”
“AND WE OUT.”
The screen fades to black, forever, because Levy will surely kill himself if he doesn’t go over in this coming match.
Hint: he will not be going over. Sorry, Giovanni.
Blame Indy Darling.
Always blame Indy.
In fact, let’s make that an acronym: ABBI.
Always Be Blaming Indy.
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