Post by Giovanni on Jan 7, 2022 16:00:12 GMT -5
[ The Giovanni Penthouse | Christmas Eve 2021 ]
With the weather outside ever so frightful, the fire inside the Giovanni Penthouse crackled and purred ever so delightfully as it shared its warmth with the others around. Which, unsurprisingly, would only be Giovanni and his ever faithful and devoted muse; Calliope.
Whilst Calliope was idly playing on her phone next to the fire, Giovanni was in deep internal deliberation as his eyes stared intently at the fireplace in front of him, the red and yellow licks of flame darting around in their reflection.
They say Christmas is a time of giving, the type of holiday where a fat man living in a frozen wasteland decides to take their frustrations out on the rest of the world by finding little dickheads and giving them a sock full of coal. A time of giving back to the one’s who in the past years have lit a beacon of hope, where future generations will be gratefully running after in the hope of having it just a tiny little bit better than before…
Turning around to face the camera, Giovanni was dressed in his best holiday finery a well-tailored outfit topped off with a jaw that could cut diamonds, and a stare that could draw blood.
But for Project Honor, there is nothing to be thankful about, nor is there a beacon of hope for anybody to chase after. It’s a hopeless wasteland, with no jolly obese fantasy figure to bring joy to neither fan, wrestler or associated hanger-on. We’ve seen a year of pathetic attempts at making a droll and lifeless sport look even less enticing, champions crowned and championships lost, none of it matters in the long run because if you ask me, Giovanni, nobody mattered until that final glimmer of hope appeared in the dying light of a forgettable year.
Giovanni would half-heartedly point towards himself, whilst mouthing a short ‘me’ towards the adoring audience that would be glued to their phones, tablets, monitors, and television sets to watch the only man that could bring colour to a bleached-out world.
Letting out a dry sigh, he’d relent on the intensity and slouched into his seat with cradled fingers.
But it is a time for giving all the same, and a lot of it has to be done to make the rest of these final days worthy of even being remotely regarded as a successful year… For you of course, my dear viewer, for my own years have always been delightful without fail.
Swiveling his head towards his muse Calliope, he’d smile warmly at her as he tenderly took her attention with a soft melodic whistle.
Calliope, my beautiful and unwavering symbol of grace, could you grab the thing I told you about earlier? he’d ask, a small wave of the hand at Calliope.
She would eagerly remove herself from the small telephone screen and bound herself into action, moving towards a big box that was labelled ‘stuff’, Calliope would dig and search through the box of goodies that stood close by and revealed a mistletoe, raising it high above the two of them as she inched agonizingly close to Giovanni’s face.
But her efforts were not reciprocated with a kiss, but a bemused stare instead. …My dear muse, what is that? Giovanni questioned with a dry bluntness.
It’s a mistletoe, Gio. When two people find themselves underneath it they should—
Calliope’s final words were quickly stifled by a sudden bout of near fatal shyness, as she realized how close her lips close were to Giovanni’s, and she had to hold back every fibre in her being to stop her from devouring them without the slightest bit of regret or decorum.
Should… do what, dear? he’d react, soft wrinkles appearing in increasing frustration at the situation unfolding.
Whilst a bead of sweat formed on Calliope’s forehead, her pained expression grew larger and heavier, and eventually she’d relent by quickly throwing the mistletoe into the fireplace, the fire roaring ever so lightly at her yule offering.
…Err, when two people find themselves underneath a mistletoe one of them should throw it into the fire! she’d quickly invent her excuse on the fly, averting her eyes from Giovanni’s and running a lock of hair behind her ear. I’ve read that’s a Christmas tradition. she explained, trying her best to make it sound like anything but a terrible explanation.
Giovanni would blink once, twice, and three times as he raised a hand in confusion before scratching his stubble. My dear, that’s the dumbest tradition I’ve ever heard of. he’d exclaim with an underwhelmed huff.
Now please, search through that box again and get me the thing I asked you earlier about. he’d ask, the patience returning to his features once more.
With Calliope busy digging through ‘stuff’ for whatever Giovanni had requested of her the first time around, the pained artist would take the time to full blank air.
As I was saying, I am a giving man who is spending his greatest artistical years attempting to redefine this awful cretinous sport of wrestling, making it the beautiful impressionistic physical artform it is supposed to be, rather than the five-cent theatre it is now. he’d explain, before trailing off at the end as Calliope was still searching in vain.
Leaning over his chair and ignoring the camera, he’d huff and puff a few stifled frustrations towards Calliope before returning back to his seat with the same beaming and confident smile as before.
And finally, Calliope delivered by putting a festively decorated box on his lap. Giovanni would nod back with a smile, and gave her an affirmative pat on the head before returning his gaze towards the captive audience.
But before I give you my gift, lets look at some of the gifts our ‘brilliant’ merch-monkeys have invented for you to buy these holidays… …Starting with…
Taking the top of the box, he’d throw it over his head and away. Before revealing what was inside, but not without a grimace from the man showing it off.
Ah yes, limited edition Malachite Minj cat-paws that may or may not double as handwarmers or virginity protectors… And if you order them now, you’ll get a one-of-a-kind pair that even has some of the pig-shit that he was dumped into after I left him to fend for himself against those braindead goons called the ‘Phantom Troupe’. he’d exclaim in feigned excitement and unadulterated vitriol.
Taking the paws out of the box, he’d half-heartedly attempted to put one on his hand before quickly thinking better of that plan of attack.
Some will say my departure in that match was as much a loss for me than it was for that fool Minj, but you’d be wrong. In loss I was a victor, knowing that the half-witted-hack-wannabe-pop-idol got a date with destiny in the form of a pig crap mud bath. And at the same time, it immediately showed the only use for the Phantom Troupe in their victory, for the only way they can win is by spending the rest of their careers shovelling crap rather than being crap in a ring.
Now as for the paws of my ‘former ally’ and upcoming bump in the road, there’s only one place for you to belong… he’d add, a sinister grin appearing on his face.
With a casual throw, the paws would end up straight in the fireplace, a green-ish blue flame erupting as it aggressively and eagerly swallowed the gift whole.
What’s next, dear? he’d ask, as Calliope quickly followed up by placing the second box on his lap.
Opening it, he’d squint his eyes as wafts of offensive smells overtook him. Ah yes, an official Project Honour ring-worn shirt from our esteemed malodorous Officer Greyfield himself… Giving the shirt a second look over, a particularly disgusted scowl would form on his face. …Grease and sweat stains included, and from the putrid smell of it was never washed, perfect for when the lump of coal doesn’t get your message across.
Holding it further away from him in an attempt to avoid its fetid existence, Giovanni would physically struggle to scrunch it up in a ball by way of how crusty the shirt was. Eventually he’d give up, and throw it towards Calliope who let out a sharp ‘eep’ and rebounded the shirt into the fireplace.
The fireplace, uncharacteristically, would sputter and create what could only be described as a pained dry heave as it was force-fed the shirt, needing a few seconds to recompose itself back into its calm crackling self.
What can there be said about a man who couldn’t even hack it working in this country’s most profitable industry? Going from dipping his donuts in bacon grease and what other ghastly disgusting dietary habits he might be having, there’s nothing about this ‘Officer’ of the law that even remotely deserve to be standing in the same ring as me, let alone have the honour of facing the artistical genius that is me… But as I’ve been made aware, somehow you have managed to score victories in the past, which can only mean that I have to weep for the level of competitive quality in this Gogh-forsaken company.
Letting out a sigh as he curled a lock of hair, he’d lean back for a second before returning his gaze towards business at hand.
But your past success, or your failures, they don’t matter in the end. Because like the rest of these wannabe ‘OG’s’, you’re past news, you’re last year’s style and it’s all about what’s fashionable today, and you Officer Greyfield wouldn’t have been in style in the garbage container behind a Wyoming Walmart.
Just do everyone else a favour and keep your distance, I’m sure your own team will appreciate that as much as we will! Calliope would add, pinching her nose shut and waving her hand in front of her face.
Well said, my dear muse. he’d say with a slightly amused smile.
Calliope would squeal in joy at the praise levied at her wits, but wouldn’t forget to place the third box on top of Giovanni’s lap.
Once more the top would come off, and this time out appeared a vinyl record. Its title would read “Vanilla Ice is Back! – Hip Hop Classics”.
Before I begin, I must say that I love ‘the hip hops’. The ability to rhyme eloquently with both intelligence and intent is an artform that I will openly admit to not possessing, a skill of only a very select few I do not wish to mess with in respect to the masters of Hip Hop…
Sadly, and I stress the ‘sad’ part, John Blade neither has that same respect or even a modicum of the talent of the people that went before him, or will ever come after him, respectfully. And hence why I chose to not showcase one of his pathetic excuses for an ‘album’ and choose to offer this instead, because even the washed up wailings of a man that was out of his time before time was even invented is preferable to the torture of even listening to a single word uttered by the self-styled ‘Big Match John’. he’d exclaim, showing off the record for the camera with an extra flourish of his hand.
Part of Giovanni would wish that there were children or adults foolish enough to seek it out, knowing that it was yet another very viable replacement for that aforementioned lump of coal.
So from one artist to someone who’ll never even dream of being one, please do us all a favour John, and just stop existing. Do a magical handwave and become invisible, away from the ring and the rest of the world, maybe go join Santa in the north pole looking for children to punish with either your putrescent singing abilities or whatever you dare call wrestling in earshot of honest Gogh-fearing human beings. he’d spit vitriolically with a final scowl.
And in memory of the second song on the album, he’d ‘drop a bomb’ on the unsuspecting and unconsenting fireplace by throwing the record straight into the fire without a shred of remorse.
A second time in a row, the fireplace would struggle to hold itself from completely discombobulating, but like the true trooper it was it soldiered on and dutifully carried out its unholy task of torching the unholy.
And thus came the fourth and final box, laboriously wheeled into frame by Calliope, of whom the recipient would already be known. But despite that, Giovanni would not falter in giving it the same attention as the other ones.
And finally you have Okinawa’s sweetheart, DIANA. The spark plug that has come over all the way from Japan to bring a spark in everyone’s hearts, I have not forgotten to bring something to honor you by, by getting you the biggest gift I could find.
Removing the wrappings, a grandfather clock would appear from underneath it, a crack in its face with the small hand at XII and the big one at III, unmoving and forever static.
After what were undoubtedly the struggles of someone coming to grips in a different place than her own, it has finally seemed that your luck has turned around in the past month with two very impressive victories in the month of December. But as you can see, it’s been fifteen minutes, and your fifteen minutes are up. With eight matches and only two tepid wins behind your belt, is it fair to ask of fans seeking to be enlightened to further tolerate any chances when you’ve done so little with them?
Shrugging, Giovanni would look at the fireplace and then wonder how in earth he was going to fit the entirety of the clock inside of it, but he shrugged as he didn’t think too much on that conundrum.
I’m sure you’re a sweetheart, and as a former Miss Universe contestant you’re certainly sweet on the eyes. But the world needs more than that, fans are hungry for food of the mind, and perhaps if you had put some of your talents towards providing it, maybe you should deserve the chance to go further, but why waste that time when there’s undoubtedly better pursuits you could be following. This ring doesn’t deserve you, these fans don’t, and nobody deserves to continue watching you continue this charade. he’d say almost sweetly and attempting to cushion the blow of his words, but he cared little as he straightened his hair for yet another time.
Letting out a deep breath, Giovanni would finally seem released of his burdens of Christmas givings, and Calliope seemed interested in moving on herself.
But the clap of his hands would have other ideas, as he rubbed his hands eagerly.
Now that the gift giving is over, I would be remiss to not speak of the three delightful young women I shall be forced to work together with for one night only. Sadly, I don’t have gifts for you, but I do have very important advice for all of you, my wisdom to you is a gift all on its own, after all.
Calliope would internally groan a little at the knowledge of more words, but listen intently all the same.
Betsy Gallagher, our little lost soul swimming in a fish bowl, you’re looking to leap out of it and into the deep ocean that is Project Honour. But what has been said about you that hasn’t been said about near every other hopeless case in this company? Because what will you bring in 2022, I hope not more of your ‘Bri’ish’ Wrestling product that has bored these people to tears year in and year out? There’s plenty of ‘proper wrestling’ in this company to begin with, and you’re walking in giving them more. Do 2022 a favour and either reinvent yourself, or go back to your unimaginative fish bowl.
Moving on quickly, it seemed that Giovanni’s own interests were waning equally fast as Calliope’s had.
And then there’s Stella Jade, Project Honour’s very own ‘Witchy Woman’ ready to bedazzle the crowd with her winning smile and her love for everything mystical. But the ways of the Wiccan should’ve been left on the ash heap in Salem, rather than being dug up and brought back to the forefront in our lord Picasso’s year of 2022. Perhaps if this wrestling doesn’t work out, you can find the magical broom and fly to better pastures, because maybe that’d be the best magical trick you could pull off for all our sakes.
And then finally he’d become slightly more sullen and reserved as he prepared to speak of the third name of the bunch.
And finally, I can only have ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ that goes by the name Sonya Benson, a woman admittedly after my own heart. Her beauty and her cunning is matched only by her dislike of the ‘sport’ of wrestling. And I can respect that, and I can sympathize in her plight of being put in that ring against your will because of the foolish delusions of your old man. Whilst we may not agree on the result, I can agree with you that wrestling is disgusting and the way it is now must be destroyed from the root up. But where you wish to merely leave a wasteland, I will hand the people a still life of how it could be, a vibrant spectacle of artistical brilliance that it has been missing for as long as it has existed…
But don’t worry my dear Sonya, I will help you a step along the way to salvation by giving you one of those much-needed wins. And maybe in 2022, you can finally find your prince or princess on a white horse to carry you further, and if your beauty and charms won’t make it happen, I’m sure the lure of your father’s ample fortunes will definitely succeed. he’d finish, with a light wink at the camera.
Calliope in the meantime had been counting her fingers, and somewhat jealously realizing that Giovanni would be sharing the ring with three women that weren’t her. But before she could throw a fit, Giovanni would distract her from her inner thoughts.
Calliope, dear, I think we’re done here. he’d say dryly, gesturing towards the camera because he himself wasn’t going to stand up to shut it off.
But wait, weren’t you going to show everyone YOUR gift? she’d quickly ask, almost on cue and totally not rehearsed.
Putting on an ostentatiously excited face, Giovanni would devilishly look back at the camera. How could I have forgotten, the most important part of everyone’s night, maybe everyone’s Christmas at that. The gift of Giovanni to the rest of the world… is… he’d pause, milking the tension for all its worth.
…Me… he’d softly answer whilst pointing at himself with a self-indulgent smile.
Wait, it’s you? Calliope would react in confusion.
Yes, Calliope. The only gift that I can give the world is my own genius, my brilliant artistical mind that will turn the forsaken wasteland that is pro wrestling into a beautiful canvas worthy of the grand masters themselves. After all, they have wrestlers and corrupt donut-chomping cops and people who couldn’t rap themselves out of a school for the deaf. But what Project Honour and all their fans have been missing, is yours truly.
And that’s my gift to you all, the knowledge that I will make 2022 the greatest year in all of your pathetic existences, the knowledge that for fifty-two weeks I will give my paint, sweat, and tears to make Project Honour the artistical hotbed it has always deserved of being but never was allowed to be.
That’s not just my gift, but my resolution and my promise. Because this ‘Fresh Face’ will make all of you realize what you never had.
Feeling a buzz in his pants, Giovanni would pull out a phone and smile at what he read, before putting it away again.
So I bid every single one of you a Merry Christmas, and a very artistical New year. he’d smil, trailing off towards Calliope. 2022 is already shaping up to be a ‘mega’ year… he’d say, glancing at the camera and giving it a final wink.
3388 Words | This one was an oversized blur…