Help–They Turned My Child into a Vaccie! (a short story by fred fletcher)

“Help—They Turned My Child into a Vaccie!” 

By Fred Fletcher

Prologue

When the so-called measles outbreaks of 2014-2015 began, no one guessed what was to follow.  People had been holding anti-anti-vaxxers group soirees and keg parties previously to the outbreaks, but this was when the “war” actually began against us.

For a long time many of us knew that there were many things about vaccines that were not kosher.  None of us questioned that vaccines had at first been instruments for good things or that they had helped to suppress many communicable diseases.

What many people did not know, however, was the fact that the vaccine program had slowly been turned into something more sinister.  Vaccines, it had dawned on some evil powerful people (most notably, those who believed in depopulating the earth in order to save it) could be used to do more than suppress contagious and infectious diseases.

Vaccines, in fact, could be used for a number of nasty but helpful humanity-control measures.

Heck, there were some among those evil people who were even thinking of vaccines as potential weapons.  Why nuke the enemy when all you had to do was fool them into, say, vaccinating their population against SARS or tuberculosis or whatever other disease was in the news at the time?

Vaccines were instruments for good things.  That was the catch—it was also the strategic gimmick.

When children throughout the world started exhibiting what looked like autoimmune disorders not too long after getting vaccines, many conscientious experts (and concerned parents) started to ask dangerous questions.  They were “dangerous” because they threatened to mess with the humongous (and ever growing) profits of the vaccine cartels; they were also tiny expressions of liberty which simply were not to be tolerated.

People went as far as funding small studies (for big business did not want to fund any studies that threatened the sanctity of vaccine profitability) to see if there were any connections to these apparent side-effects and complications.

Study after study revealed potential dangers lurking in vaccines.  Needless to say, few of these reports made it into the mainstream media publications.  Consequently, small press publications and independent health websites took up the challenge by publishing the damning results.

It was like dropping small pebbles in a giant lake, however.  Mainstream media controlled the airwaves and did everything they could to quell these dissenting voices.

A massive campaign, in fact, was unleashed the purpose of which was to repeatedly extol the merits of vaccines; they also went after any scientific expert that said anything negative against vaccines.  It did not matter what facts were offered, the credentials of the dissenters or how they went about voicing their views.

Anyone that attacked vaccines was himself/herself viciously attacked.  Reputations were ruined; formerly impeccable names were dragged through the mud.

Eventually, most of the people of the world were sold on the idea that vaccines were sacrosanct; furthermore, they were brainwashed into thinking that everyone that said anything negative against vaccines was crazy, misinformed or stupid.  The campaign worked rather well.

It was the children who paid the price—not that the moguls of the great Vaccine Machine cared.  Profits skyrocketed every year as vaccines were made mandatory.

Those who resisted were thrown in jail and, as if that were not enough, children were temporarily or permanently taken away from parents who fought the status quo.

Vaccines were pushed on the population and, in spite of loud, ubiquitous protests, nothing seemed able to stop the onslaught.  More children continued to come down with autism . . . by 2025, 1 out 5 children was being born autistic.

Thousands (perhaps millions) of other children came down with other nasty and irreparable autoimmune disorders and other unexplainable conditions.

The government and Big Pharma, though, still disputed the findings of the few scientists left that had the gumption to question the powers that be.  “There is no connection between vaccines and autism,” they shouted through all means of communication available.  In time, the words were accepted as unassailable “fact.”

What the anti-vaccine crowd did not know, though, was that autism was not the primary goal of the pro-vaccine Mafia . . . it was merely an unforeseen complication.  In fact, they had more creative purpose for vaccines.

It turns out that they had been trying to genetically alter children through vaccines.  It was their intention, in fact, to create vicious young psychotic monsters that could then be unleashed upon a world badly in need of depopulation.

The earth’s resources were being depleted too quickly.  It was time to cut our losses—or so these billionaire manipulators reasoned (if you could call what they were doing “reasoning”).

An all out nuclear confrontation was considered but, considering how messy that might be, other options were ultimately proposed.

In 2014 an Ebola outbreak was intended to start a pandemic that would make global martial law declaration necessary.  The idea was to then come up with a bogus Ebola vaccine that would, rather than protect people, give them Ebola.

As the pandemic raged on (after being literally “injected” into motion), persona non grata (nonwhites, the homeless, gays, the disabled/handicapped, the terminally/chronically ill, political dissidents, members of the press not for sale,  etc.) could then be caught and be hauled in like stray cattle.  They were to be put in concentration camps where, away from public view, they could promptly be experimented upon, tortured into compliance, or eliminated (if necessary).

After most if not all of these unsuspecting “rats” had been infected with Ebola, who was to oppose whatever was done with them? At last, the world’s population could be trimmed to a manageable size.

A smaller global population (especially one that was homogenous) would be easier to control, easier to keep on a steady, centrally decided-upon course.  No more dissension, no more aberrations . . . at least that is what the billionaire madmen (hitherto only secretly in control of the world) were aiming for or expected.

When African journalists, scientists and politicians learned of the plot, however, a huge wrench had been thrown into their plans.  Obama (who was owned and controlled by the same people that had owned and controlled Bush) sent troops to Africa.  Contrary to their publicized intent, they were supposed to help start the massacre on that hot continent.

The global billionaire maniacs that were also trying to force an economic depression in the US finally, surprisingly, decided to back off.  The fact that they did, however, did not mean that they had given up altogether.

They just went back to their macabre drawing board.  They continued to look for another excuse to declare martial law in the US.

What else were all those FEMA concentration camps that were being built all around the country for?  These Nazi-Germany style facilities were now merely waiting for inmates to process and to incarcerate . . . eventually, to execute.

Meanwhile, most Americans were asleep about the whole thing.  Most of them clung on to Uncle Sam’s apron like brain-dead children hang on to their pacifiers.  It was inconceivable to them that the US could surpass the tyranny and abuses of the former Soviet Union, Nazi Germany or communist China.

Those had been “evil empires” . . . the US, on the other hand, was the home of the brave and the free . . . needless to say, these ridiculous, unrealistic views were eventually brought (by force, of course) into proper perspective.

The US was turned into an official Police State and there was no looking back at that point.

When tyranny raged throughout Europe before the Americas were discovered, people were able to escape to another part of the world.  Had there not been these places to escape to, tyranny would have raged on without checks and boundaries.

When the US was finally declared a Police State, it sealed the fate of humanity.  There was no other place to run to. The tyrants and villains were now fully in charge and there was now no room for dissent, for unauthorized freedom or for self-expression.

There was a brief period, though, when people fought, when those persons with a conscience (though they were few in number and possessing little power) stood up to the villains in the government and in Big Pharma.

Once upon a Time (thus our tale begins)

Myrtle lived on the outskirts of Atlanta, Georgia with her three children.  She had been a teacher ever since graduating from college.  Her son Mark was one of the first children to come up with what some were calling the “new disease.”

All throughout Atlanta (as well as throughout the rest of the country), children on a massive scale had been declared autistic or with some other form of autoimmune disorder.  All these kids were, basically, vegetables, little people with very limited prospects for a “normal” life and, to boot, the target of those who wanted to get rid of any human being on earth that could not pull their weight or earn their keep (according to the government’s standards).

Myrtle’s son, though, had been turning into something different.  He was not just withdrawn, engaged in repetitive movements, unable to connect with people emotionally (or through eye contact, for that matter), unable to communicate properly, etc.  That would have merely made him autistic.

Mark could, however, look you in the eye.  The problem was that his eyes were like bottomless sewer pits.  They were shiny, dark oceans of refined petroleum . . . if you were to fall into them, you’d be sucked under, no doubt dragged by the inescapable eddies that forever turned down there.

This description may seem obscenely poetic but, even to a mother that dearly loved her children, there was no other way to put it.

Mark looked at his siblings the way predatory animals look at prey.  At first, you thought it was just a game but the child never smiled or played.  Unlike autistic children, he could communicate.

His utterances, though, were usually full of foul language.  He had no trouble, for example, calling his mother a dirty whore, his little sister a skanky sow, and his younger brother a misshapen penis.

Myrtle took him to her doctor and then to psychologists.  But they kept telling her not to worry.  She couldn’t be sure of it but it seemed as if they had been instructed as to what to say.  She thought this because of the uniform way they were all treating her concerns.

What the heck, she had been branded an anti-vaxxer.  That meant that she was little more than a clown to these government-appointed healthcare providers.  Not that these views mattered anymore.  No one was exempted from vaccines these days.

“Mark, please put down that knife,” Myrtle pleaded.  They were celebrating Mindy’s 8th birthday; it was also, ironically, Halloween.  Every year Myrtle was sort of ecstatic at the idea of “killing two birds with one stone” but, later on, when things got out of control, the very thought sent a nasty chill up her spine . . . why was perhaps better understood as things are further revealed . . .

There were many guests in the house and, all in all, it appeared to be one fine multifaceted celebration.

At least until Mark started doing his “thing” . . .

One of the other mothers had brought her concerns to Myrtle.  Myrtle nodded.  “He’ll be all right—he doesn’t actually attack anyone . . . ” She caught herself from adding the word “yet!”

Myrtle just wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

“He’s just like our Frankie,” Mr. Trope, the assistant vice principal at the George W. Bush Elementary School for Eugenically Superior Children, commented.  You could cut the tension in his voice with a knife.

“There are evil machinations being cooked up in that head but we don’t know what to do about it.  That’s not really our Frankie.  Frankie was taken away from us with that one last vaccine.”

Mr. Trope was careful not to speak too loudly.  It was no secret that the vaccine that was being pushed the most lately was the one that finally accomplished their ultimate goal—whatever that goal was . . .

There were articles being put out by an underground group that mentioned a plan to turn children into monsters of mass destruction.  These vaccine-primed young beasts (according to these masked journalists) were supposed to wake up one morning and, like a battalion of well-trained vicious soldiers, attack family members until all were dead or infected with a virus implanted into these devil-like children.

“If I were a religious man, I would have said that these children were possessed but we know better . . .  don’t we, Myrtle.”

Myrtle just nodded.  “What do we do about our kids, Mr. Trope?  Do we kill them before they come after us?”

Mr. Trope gave Myrtle credit for saying what all the other parents had only thought about. Kill one’s one children?

It was a dreadful thought, an unthinkable thought and, yet, if they were going to be turning into some kind of zombie—no, wait, that’s not what they were being called . . . the word was “vaccie”—a vicious, psychotic, violent young monster unleashed upon their own families.

Who needed armies or poisons or nuclear weapons when you could just let Junior kill his entire family?

“We’re thinking of running for it—maybe leave Frankie behind somewhere.  He can fend for himself.  The little freak knows more about anatomy than I do.  Surely he can find food on his own. Even if he can’t, I’m not going to wait around for young Frankenstein here to blossom—or, should I say, come out of his cocoon.  I got the rest of my family to think about.”

Myrtle then caught sight of her son intently looking at her.  He was all the way across the room—and this was a rather large room! She and Mr. Trope had been whispering but, somehow, he had heard every word.  It was written in his eyes, in his devilish expression.

Mark had been such a handsome boy and, now, look at what he had been turned into.  All the kids had been dressed in Halloween disguises or been painted to look like monsters but, as for Mark, there had been no need for such disguises or makeup.

He already looked like a monster–literally.

There were dark shadows below and around his eyes.  His eyebrows were visibly thicker and, if you might believe it, there were even fangs growing out of his mouth.  Maybe that was just her imagination.  Her boy hadn’t been turned into a vampire—no, this was actually more sinister.

“You can come with us, Myrtle . . . if you like.”

“He’s listening, Mr. Trope,” Myrtle found herself muttering as softly as she could with her face turned, in case the fiend could read lips.

There was sweat generously dripping from her forehead.  She was afraid not only for herself but for everyone here.  That boy was capable of anything . . .

Mr. Trope looked at Mark and attempted to stare the boy down but it was no contest.  Mark could have stared down the devil himself.

“No, Mr. Trope, we won’t be joining you and you won’t be going anywhere,” Myrtle said somewhat louder; “our place is here with our families.”

Mr. Trope finally saw what she was getting at.  “Yes,” he repeated like a well-trained parrot.  “Our place is here with our families.  In fact, I think that we need to be getting back home, Myrtle.  It was a lovely party.  Let’s do it again next year.  Call me tomorrow so we can discuss the details. You know what I mean by the ‘details,’ don’t you?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Trope.”

Myrtle went around thanking everyone for coming, also hinting that it was perhaps time to leave.  She did not have to push anyone out, though.  They all got the hint rather quickly.

These were dangerous times, anyway; everyone was ready to run away from wherever they were.  It was as if they were all now living in the middle of an island at any time expected to sink.

When everyone had left, Myrtle stared at her son who was now standing at the bottom of the front porch.  He was, it seemed, trying to give Mr. Trope one last intimidating look before he left with his family.

Myrtle grabbed her other two children and made ready to take them back in the house.  Tonight, she would padlock their room and put Mark in the guest bedroom by himself. That little time bomb could go off at any moment.

She was not about to be caught unprepared when it happened.

There was more to be done but she was not sure what that was.  Mr. Trope’s idea, though, had some merit . . . it posed serious danger but, then, just being alive these days did the same thing.

Myrtle stood at the top of the porch to give Mark one last look before going to bed.  She had borrowed a handgun from a friend.  They were no longer available to the general public but she had one nevertheless.

Could she kill her own son?  She didn’t know the answer to that.  Could Mark kill her and her other two children—she did know the answer to that.  It was difficult to explain how she knew but she knew.

What had these vaccine magicians done to her poor son? How had they turned him into a monster for their personal vendettas?  All she knew was that it had been done.

The future looked bleak but Myrtle was determined to go on.  She owed that much to her other children.  Then again, they had also been vaccinated.  Would they also turn into vicious, psychotic monsters?

The thought was too much to bear.  Maybe it was enough to just get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a good time to reconsider all these dreadful possibilities.

May all these vaccine pushers in time get what they deserved, was her final thought for the night.  It was an unkind thought but, after all, she was only human.

She wished she could say the same for the vaccine spin masters/voodoo scientists or the evil young creatures—these so-called “Vaccies”–they were now creating . . .

The End

(from the book Vaccies, Stemmies & Eboes:  The New Monsters on the Block)

Copyright, 2015.  Fred Fletcher. All rights reserved.

 

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