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"I’m fairly confident that the next version of laboratory-made plague will do me in,"

James, 

You won't get out of this circus that easy, not until you can unicycle on an elephant's back while juggling knives.

Take care,

Don Quotays

…

That is quite the curse, Young Man!

This article will not post until late December.

I just returned from being best man at my brother’s wedding, which was reduced in numbers by a Brovid Jiveteen outbreak. This outbreak was similar to the one I experienced in Baltimore a month earlier:

Most people are getting the vid.

It is being spread by jaxxed and boosted people.

Those jaxxed and boosted people are sicker and more symptomatic than the unjaxxed afflicted.

Jaxxed and boosted folks get the vid over and over again.

A family meeting was held while I was writing chapter 2 of Writ Hate, the novel, and I was asked if I wanted to be tested, since the doll that I was drinking with and playing cards with as closely as possible the other night was down with the vid and testing positive. These people have travel cases with test kits and antibody testing kits. One of the men at the table makes a good living running a Brovid test Lab.

I said, “I am not a Covidian. Science is a superstition. I believe in devils and angels and the return of the Old Ones.”

“Ooookay,” agreed one voice, that I was beyond redemption.

The close group that remained, had numerous people made sick with a kind of summer cold unknown in earlier times in my life. The jaxxed folk had high fevers for a few day.

I ate little food and drank much whiskey and light beer, even ordering three courses at a restaurant that offered $20 salads as the cheapest item: beer, beer, and another beer for desert please. I drank a bottle of whiskey and 75 beers and did not get sick. The Covidians think that the alcohol coursing through my veins protected me.

When I returned to Baltimore, Megan told me that her sister was recently diagnosed with a fast acting brain cancer, and that she and four of her friends, who all have brain cancer now, think it was the jaxx and the boost.

I asked Doc Dread at dinner last night about this, prefacing it with a story that a nurse told me in June that when new boosters come out on the rehabilitation ward where the old folks are, that they lose a patient by stroke on a daily basis.

This is what he said:

“The American people have bought a false bill of goods and have thrown all reason out the window. Cancer, newly diagnosed cancer, is up 37% this year. Thirty-seven percent—new cases! It’s the vaxx, which is not a vaϲϲine. It does not work like a vaϲϲine. We have twisted the language to achieve this public health disaster.

“I get calls from nurses all the time, telling me about the strokes in the hospital and old age home settings. I’m focusing on private practice as much as possible. But even then, the insanity finds its way into my office, with patients who have gotten Covid over and over again still believing that they are lucky that they got the vaϲϲine because otherwise they would have been sicker.

“The most deluded people—the most insane people—are the members of my own profession. Currently, the primary focus of the medical establishment, is gender reassignment—child abuse, surgical and chemical child abuse. I have a general practitioner bring in his 12-year-old daughter to my office, who he is transitioning. He is convinced she has hip pain. I examine her and determine that she is suffering from severe ovarian pain and I inform him of this. He takes offense to me calling her “your daughter” and insists that I call her his “son” and I refuse. I wanted to kick this man in the throat. I told him, ‘Your daughter, is female and you are subjecting her to child abuse, injecting her with hormones at the same time her body is trying to go the other way and she is suffering, suffering because you are subjecting her to torture.’

“Well, this asshole threatens to report me to the AMA and I laugh and tell him that I’m a sovereign physician and the AMA can kiss my ass. I have my own practice, my own facility, I’m still working 110 hours a week and I’m joining a surgical association that supports this. I’m ready to flush half my certifications down the toilet. The medical profession has sold out and I am ashamed to be a part of it—I am a member of a disgraced profession whose members cannot break their oath to do no harm fast enough or often enough to satisfy their desire to bow to the collective master.”

…

Oh Don, I am barely keeping bronchitis at bay through these summer months. By the time this posts I expect to be sick in bed for another season, and will strive to survive, to spit in the face of the evil world for another summer. I want to make it to 60 so that I can have my last bare knuckle fight next spring. Although I am a quitter by nature, I am not trying to quit. My lungs are really shitty. I had bronchitis October, November, December, January, February and March last year, and got the vid in there in a bad way.

I have three chapters left to write in Writ Hate, a novel based on the fact that I experience a constant, loud ringing in the foreground and soft waterfall sound in the inner background, in my head—all the time, every day. I afflict the protagonist, Brit Johnson, with this, doubly cursing him to be a young man in postmodern America and to share my affliction. The novel postulates that this is either a symptom of a psychic break or an old god calling.

So, bad health has served my as a rotten-headed muse and hence I will not complain, writing being my reason to remain.