Giovanni

         Paulo Giovanni is sort of hanging around in my closet while I write this.
         Well, actually, he’s just sort of sitting there between the shoe rack and the Armani suits. We met in Italy over ten years ago, but due to an unfortunate misunderstanding last night, he’s currently in a rather silent state of rigor mortis. Pity he had never had an Armani of his own, but then some must lead while others rot, I guess. Ultimately, it was Paulo’s selfishness that had brought about his demise, as following The Promise requires some severe discipline, and that takes balls, believe me. Myself? I just look after my own, so I can’t blame him.
         My midtown apartment offers a great view of the UN building below where Paulo and I are supposed to begin the final act of The Covenant tonight. Wait, I know this is kind of messy, so just bear with me. As I referred to before, the Promise was crafted over fifty years ago. It's simply a way of taking control over humanity's future, which ain't so bright. To this end, a group called The Covenant was chosen to carry out certain activities that led to this one particular night, and lucky me, I’m one of these sick fucks.
         But it really is all about tonight.
         You have to bear with me as I write this down; they don’t give us cell phones or computers anymore; we’re too close to the end game. You see, I’m just an interpreter like Paulo was. It was our doorway to the elite below in the UN, and that’s why they chose us. I have about an hour left before we leave, so I figured I’d leave something behind for the next generation of conspiracy theorists to argue about. All two of you, if we're lucky I guess. Anyways, you all had no idea what was coming.
         So this is what I know; take it for what it’s worth.
         The Promise began as an understanding of sorts shared by a small group of eggheads. This overblown boy's club then developed into what we now call The Covenant, or the Big C. You see, the Big C believes that humanity has a shelf life, meaning that we're surrounded by a bunch of enemies that want us all dead. Think MIB meets Dante's Inferno or some shit, maybe even a collection agency or two. So, anyway, for some inside of The Big C, our continued existence rests with some kind of god or the dance of chance. Either way, our extinction is only a matter of time, gambling away within the grandest poker game in our little part of the universe. If you was to look around, you'd see our chips are almost gone. Since the Big C realized that humanity’s only real power lies in how we adapt, they thought up this shit. So while the world has become clogged with stupidity, the Big C had the foresight to prepare for these idiots and began a way of leading them off a cliff.
         Thus, we have the Crimson Road, or the final plague. I told you we were sick fucks.
         This is where I finally come in. I was selected to find a new Trojan horse for the Crimson Road. Our initial candidate burned to death in a fiery crash on his way to New York two days ago. It didn’t help matters that our second candidate went AWOL upon hearing this news. Considering the time constraints, there weren’t many potential candidates available near us. But then we found out about Paulo, one of our own, who was ultimately the best choice we had left due to his genes I guess.
         You see, all of us in the Big C are supposed to meet certain criteria if we're going to be immune to the Crimson Road. We have to be if we’re herding the rest of the cattle to the slaughter. Go ahead and hate me; at least I’m sure I’ll make it past the first wave.
         So, as it turned out, Paulo wasn’t immune after all; the little Italian schmuck had paid someone off in a lab somewhere to skew his results. I can’t blame him, I guess.
         Lucky me, I ended up being tasked with asking him to be our new Trojan horse, an honor if there ever was one, according to my boss. So last night, I asked Paulo up to my apartment for pizza and some poker.
         Before you say anything, I’m not a monster, alright? But I got kids to think about, and yeah, they are a part of this fucking nightmare right along with me.
         So, after a few drinks, I briefed him on the Big C’s new promotion for him. It was an unfortunate encounter, I have to admit. To make a long story short, I pulled my gun faster than he did, and that was that. I thought I had fucked it all up then, but the tech guys assured me that it was still game on. Even dead, Paulo would be working out just fine. I guess we were forced to adapt, and after all, that is what we do best.
         So now I’m just waiting for the tech guys. They told me that the body has to be prepared carefully, and I can hardly keep myself from shaking thinking about this shit.
         So what’s the end game you’re asking?
         Well, many of the world’s elite are going to show up tonight when Paulo is supposed to rise somewhere in the back of the UN kitchen. I guarantee you that the dinner for the former US President will be one for the history books if they ever get written. Covid, schmovid; a brain buffet should trump all of that shit. No pun intended.
         At least all of this should make everyone forget about that JFK crap. Oswald wasn’t a zombie, you know.
         As for little old me? All they’ve told us to do is make sure that Paulo makes it to the podium.
         And if you’re reading this, he sure did, the schmuck.