[Interestingly, Flop soon died and I lost this new contact, Allen, and contacts of all who I was texted or called by in June, July and August.]

Allen, I think it no accident that you share the name of Allen Hoyt, a man I wrote about as Stick, a white trash Thomas Hearnes from East Baltimore who I lost contact with 20 years gone. Then, while having dinner with two old East Baltimore girls, they informed me that Allen had just passed. Allen was one of my heroes, bold, cunning, hard-working, smart-fighting a flawed man who was kind to children, cruel to management and indifferent about women—our collective Achilles heel.

My health plan, since I coached for Doc Dread, who still gives me free care, was setting aside $20 a week out of my $140 income, for dentistry and perscriptions.

When Obama got his health care passed and I was taxed for not having health insurance, my $20 a week disappeared. My youngest son was tasked with an intervention, to get me on the Obama Care train. Since it had been my choice to quit making good money and having insurance, so that I could write, I did not think it moral to dip into the public coffers for my health care. He made me promise to at least get my heart checked, since I was putting on weight and over 50.

I saw him the next Saturday and he asked me how my EKG had gone. I declared, that I had not slept in two days, had sparred with the Captain yesterday, then had sex with Ms. Ezz, got drunk on wine, had sex with Lily, then ran to the bus stop a mile away and worked freight overnight for 10 hours and walked 5 miles to his apartment that morning. I declared my heart fit for duty. He scoffed and sat me down and signed me up for Obama Care, which turned out to be Medicare.

This remained unused, because I could not use Doc Dread and had to settle for third rate Pakistani doctors who hated me. I continued my care as normal, If I needed medicine for the eye or a muscle relaxer to deal with the hip pain, I called Doc and paid cash for the drugs.

Then there was the previously related demon attack in Hallucinations While Awake. While in the hospital, getting checked, this Medicare kicked in and took care of my surgery and such. I decided to keep this Medicare current. There was a problem. My son, a successful young consultant, did not have the time to resign me. Lily spent 8 hours helping me get started on the re-enrollment. You see, one must return to the Medicare sight every November and grovel again, begging, as the web site foils my techtarded brain and I am bombarded with images of who this insurance is intended for, with none of those human images looking anything like me. I had budgeted 16 writing hours to sign back up, and failed to register. I would not sacrifice another article, chapter or even paragraph for this grovelling cause.

A year later I was rolling in the cottony hay with Lily when I thought I was having a heart attack, pain in the left chest and arm, numbness in the hand. She gave me a speech, and I declared that we would finish our tryst, in hopes of my dying on her, and if I survived we would have dinner with Doc. She did not end up pinned under my lifeless body and Doc declared, on the TGI Friday’s parking lot that my heart was fine but I had torn rib muscles and carpel tunnel.

My EKG has ever after been administered by the lusty ladies in my life, with me hopeful of dying on the examination table.

The point is, to me, living is something opposite of passively trying not to die by bowing before the priesthood of medicine who in fact run death factories and specialize in poisoning us with their witchery.

At Ocean City, while the spheres sang in my head, as I prepped to be my brother’s best man at his wedding, it occurred that his darling mother-in-law to be, quite the doll who I spent as much time drinking with and playing cards with as possible, had come down with the Dread Minus. She had been vaxxed and boosted, just like my other family members who had been vaxxed and boosted and were still catching The Vid.

I sat on the couch writing Writ Hate as Tony called a meeting and decided to close the wedding to people who had not yet arrived and been exposed. Exposed vaxxed people and some unvaxxed did come down with the plague. No one died or was hospitalized. Still, we are told that Death stalks us in the breath and touch of our loved ones. For the coven of the Doctors lie, children as they are of The Deceiver. The fine lady felt terrible. Testing kits were pulled out of The Vid survival pack my Brother-in-Law carries. I was asked if I wanted to be tested and responded:

“Science is fake, medicine is fake—I believe in angels and demons.”

“Ookaay!” said my sister, convinced of my endearing insanity.

If I got The Vid, my Guardian Angel ate it. Many of the rest got sick and my brother was really worried about me with my extensive history of lung ailments, and sent me a text on his honeymoon, so I called him back after leaving the ocean as he worried about my health and declared, “Bro, I’m fine, drank a fifth of whiskey and three cases of beer—nothing can survive in my blood stream: and I boxed with the Brick Mouse; I’m good, enjoy that beautiful bride.”

In short, as a novelist and historical inquirer and experiental journalist, I dedicate myself to locating and studying The ever shifting Seat of Evil in the Temporal World and its relationship to the Overworld. The Seat of Evil has varied in Time and Place, from military, to political, to religious and philosophical. Now, over these last three years, personally knowing 7 health care professionals, and knowing scores of people across the country who have been subjected to their care even as I have avoided their clutches, I have observed:

Our Earthly Masters occupy many seats of evil in the Assembly of The Damned. But just now, as I write and ponder my deteriorating health and vigor, I see that the throne among these seats of evil, that the dark pulpit of The Reaper, is in fact Modern Medicine.

I still hope to die embracing a sweet girl or stabbing a man-foe, though in probability will perish alone in a borrowed bed. My hope is that I am not ushered into the uncaring maw of Eternity by the fiendish enemies of humanity, who declare they are our healers but are in truth our masked death dealers. [1]

Write on, Allen. Loose another errant arrow into the Evil Eye of Man’s vile World!

…

Notes

-1. Do note, that the term Doctor is the root word of doctrine, indoctrinate and doctrinaire and that the task of the Doctor in early modern times was first and foremost the control of the mass mind through indoctrination of inflexible beliefs and was only latter generally attached to healing the body.