Green Peace wasn’t born with that name
In fact, he wasn’t born with a name at all.
He was the result of an ego-fueled experiment — one of many — by a Turkish man who considered himself both an artist and a businessman. His canvas was DNA. His business model? Impregnate women, sell the children, and walk away. No strings, no guilt, no paperwork.
Green’s biological mother, a Finnish woman, may have been paid. Or maybe coerced. Maybe she was just a vessel, maybe she was a clone. No one knows — and Green’s never found her face in a single photograph. She died shortly after giving birth. Mysteriously, of course. As if she were never meant to survive him.
He was adopted as a baby by the Colonnas — Olimpia’s family. Rich, elegant, and always in need of a charitable act to flaunt at dinner parties. They never let him in the house. Never called him figlio. But they sent money, lavishly, and told themselves they were generous. That money? Pocketed by a woman who kept him fed and clothed, but never kissed his forehead or asked about his dreams.
Green grew up polite. Too polite. Taught perfect Italian, instructed in etiquette, trained to be invisible and thankful. But beneath the carefully folded napkins and memorized Dante verses, something wild survived. A seed of rebellion. A love for life that even neglect couldn’t kill.
When Ville — his birth name, long since traded in — finally tracked down Olimpia, it wasn’t for revenge. It was for truth. He wanted answers. Maybe even a sister. What he found was something far more complicated.
Letizia sized him up like a gunfighter in a saloon.
Olimpia asked no questions, but made him coffee.
And slowly, bizarrely, they became his home.
Not that Olimpia ever played the sister role. She wasn’t exactly tucking him in for bedtime stories — unless the story ended with no clothes and a very adult plot twist.
They called him Green Peace, half as a joke, half in awe.
He always had a joint tucked behind one ear, a beatific smile, and a kind word for everyone, including cops. He was the calm in their chaos. The cloud in their thunderstorm. The only man who could get away with calling Letizia “bunny.”
He hated his biological father with a calm, relentless rage.
The only emotion he’d never tried to forgive.
Olimpia funded his dream — a cannabis farm in Brazil. He grew his plants like they were poetry. He became CEO of St. Rock Entertainments mostly by accident, and ran it better than anyone expected. Then one day, he picked up a guitar, and it turned out he had music in his fingers and rhythm in his bones.
He wrote a song. A love song.
“Rime baciate, con la lingua.”
It was written in Italian, of course — with perfect rhymes, when his wife, Sophie Punkalot was still alive. He called her Miss Punk a Lot Hot. Their son left for Mars and never came back. Maybe he’ll return. Maybe he’ll time-travel back into his life. Mars is weird like that.
Green? He doesn’t mind. He lights another joint. Sings his song. Tends his plants. And when asked about his past, he just smiles and says:
“I used to wish my biological father went sterile after me.
But honestly?
Family’s who rolls with you — and I mean that literally.”
🎵 "Rime baciate, con la lingua"
Lyrics by Green Peace (Ville)
A classic of the neo-psychedelic agricultural ballad genre.
Verse 1 (Moderato, spoken with flair — ironic but oddly sincere)
La trebbia... mentre rollo —
accelerando assale...
la cannabis matura...
per uso familiare.
(sip, exhale)
Verse 2 (Lento e teatrale — with operatic grandeur)
D’in su la vetta...
della torre antica —
passera solitaria…
’na gran ficaaaa!
(sustain the final note like Pavarotti in sandals)
Verse 3 (Allegro folk-rock — full band, hand claps encouraged)
Big Bang annamo,
tempo di migrare —
le belle levano i pizzi,
e vanno a Rio...
a scopare!
(pause for dramatic eyebrow lift)
Bridge (Theatrical whisper, then sudden cry — echo fx on “noi”)
E noi...?
E noiiiii?!
(Group wail optional — audience encouraged to throw herbs)
Verse 4 (Largo, minor key — brooding and seductive)
All’ombra dei cipressi,
tra lapidi e decessi,
ti seguo a meditare...
e ti strappo le vesti.
(sultry whisper, wink, end on drop D chord)
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