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Got Covid

Sick bed no more


by William Thomas

At 3:35 on a memorable morning in early January 2022, I awoke shivering violently. This was interesting, since I was cosily cocooned beneath a thick comforter and quilt. After a few minutes in the dark wondering what might be coming next, my thermostat flipped into a short-lived fever. My first reaction was relief: No more worrying about Covid!

     My next realization was profound thankfulness that I was not vaxxed. Nevertheless, at 73 and having survived two heart attacks, I had to admit that my CDC-certified odds of surviving this GMO infection had dropped from over 99% for most folks — to 94.6% for “high risk” characters like me with age and health “issues”. 

     Those odds still seemed acceptable. Especially with my carefully assembled collection of proven early treatments. 

     And super-especially when compared with the known risks of developing blood clots, myocarditis and neural short-circuits from a never-ending series of fast-waning injections that even their proponents agree do not stop infection or transmission of something that had become less dangerous than a cold. 

     Except among the immune-shattered “vaxxed”. Who are getting clobbered. 

     Crazy, I know, to take responsibility for my own health. But despite those vacuous legions of identically scripted talking-heads, whose ignorance is exceeded only by their Big Pharma corruption, I trusted my own long-proven immunity to handle yet another invisible world-ending menace. 



The remainder of the night passed uneventfully. The following day brought a slight lassitude, hardly unusual for a septuagenarian. And a scratchy throat. 

       “I think I’ve got Omicron,” I excitedly announced when a new friend called that day. She got it. She’d been there. She congratulated my good fortune.

     “In a few days,” I gushed, “it looks like I’ll have lifetime immunity from Covid.”


The big reveal is that for months I’d been following the over-the-counter protocols recommended by McCullough and Zelenko, the only MDs to develop effective early treatments for the symptoms branded “Covid-19”. 

     Deciding to emulate Joe Rogan and “throw everything” available at this unusual  infection, I doubled down on my daily intake of C and D, Quercetin and Zinc. Plus Co-Q10 for cardiac support. But not the heart stuff.  

     It was too much to take. All those throat jammers provoked a bodily rejection so intense I stopped all supplementation during this critical opening phase of infection. 

     Just when I needed it most.    

     It wasn’t the dosages, which remained below  recommended treatment levels. It was this onslaught on an empty stomach. So on day four, when I resumed my original regimen, it was sequentially and with food. Fortunately, this proved fine. No way was I going to call my local clinic, where vaccine-fixated doctors robotically jabbing children would never prescribe the Nobel-winning, fully FDA approved “horse medicine” that had crushed rampant covid epidemics in Utter Pradesh, Indonesia and Japan.


Getting to sleep was difficult over the next few nights, as I squirmed under upper back aches intense enough to recall the “mono” that had derailed my last year of university. Or the delirium-inducing “breakbone” dengue fever I’d endured onboard Celerity in Papeete. And the acute bronchitis that had assailed me in Hong Kong, home to the most fascinating city and least salubrious climate on Earth. 

     Happily, reclining against my heated, low-frequency magic crystal pad soon banished these discomforts.

     So far, I hadn’t come anywhere near feeling as crappy as my last bout with flu a decade ago. But with SARS CoV-2 having initially presented as a drastic pneumonia in Wuhan, my main concern was to prevent this infection from entering my lungs. Pneumonia is a real geezer getter.  

     A weakened heart further swollen and inflamed by a coronavirus brandishing more spikes than a medieval mace could also do me in. But only if a nano-graphene “covid injection” slipped much more damaging artificial spikes past protective heart linings.  

     Still, something was going on in the old bod. Where the heck were my immune defenders? 

     Faked out, it appears. Thanks to Tony Fauci.



Back in early February 2020, I’d read a groundbreaking preprint by a gaggle of New Delhi researchers who had found two extra pairs of proteins inside the CoV virus genome they’d obtained from GISAID — a European-led global initiative to share influenza data. 

     HIV-1 gp120 and HIV-1 Gag do not belong in a naturally occurring flu virus.

    “The finding of 4 unique inserts in the 2019-nCoV, all of which have identity /similarity to amino acid residues in key structural proteins of HIV-1 is unlikely to be fortuitous in nature,” its discoverers wrote. 

     Their paper was not well-received by grant-hungry research scientists, who feared abrupt curtailment of their own BL-4 playpens once it became widely known that SARS had been further modified for extra virulence and lethality in labs like theirs. Faster than anyone could say, “Galileo,” the heretical paper was stamped “WITHDRAWN” and yanked.

     But the Internet never forgets. Those nine medical sleuths had already widely shared their lab findings with other rsearchers. Genomic tables and study descriptions detailed how a SARS coronavirus had been “cloaked” by inserting HIV characteristics into the 4 SARS spikes specifically targeting human ACE-2 cell receptors. (I’ll wait if you need to read that again.)

     More than a decade of Fauci-funded recombinant tinkering in North Carolina, Maryland and Wuhan had eventually “succeeded” in conferring HIV’s unique stealth characteristics and heightened virulence onto SARS-1. 

     The resulting “enhanced” chimerical organism was dubbed, SARS CoV-2. 



On night three, my patrolling phagocytes were poking around looking for anything suspicious when they stumbled upon a massive invasion force of camouflaged spike proteins! 

     The beat cops immediately handed over fragments of the aliens for the killer T’s to sniff. Then someone cried, “Sic ‘em boys!” 

     All hell broke loose. 

Killer T-cell injecting infected cell (blue) -CuriosityStream


Lying once again in total darkness, it felt like that alarm had spurred every killer T-cell in my body into wartime mobilization. And handed of them each a flamethrower. 

     The ensuing full-on assault against billions of foreign invaders belatedly identified as “other” was like no flu I’d ever experienced. I wasn’t just radiating heat from this overwhelming counterattack. My skin felt afire.

     That’s when I knew I had covid. 

     Stunned by the scale and ferocity of an immune response I’d never dreamed could possess me, I silently cheered on this firestorm.

     Go, body, go!     


But a “cytokine storm” is no joke. Meticulous records kept by public health authorities in Scotland and the UK were already reflecting ERs and ICUs jammed with the double- and triple-jabbed suffering from over-reactive antibodies jacked up for months by the shots. Plus exposure to the virus. 

     Freaked out funeral directors in Britain and Australia were taking to the alternet to decry the surge in corpses they were handling among the vaxxed. Especially reprehensible, they said, was the skyrocketing toll of injected children killed to “save” them from a virus presenting no threat to themselves or the terrified adults around them.

     What if my own naturally occurring antibodies and killer Ts did not turn off their assault?

     I got this, my body insisted. As dawn light flooded in, those raging defenders abruptly shut down. The home team had wiped out every invader. 

     And left me feeling wiped out, as well.

Bamboo cutting board with ceramic knife -Will Thomas photo


Whenever I’m asked the primary symptom of an adventure that dovetails with the accounts of friends who’ve been diagnosed with covid, I answer (just like they do): “extreme fatigue, like nothing I've experienced before.”

     I was never really “sick” in the ways most influenza veterans would recognize. No wracking coughs. No severely sore throat. No streaming nasal passages requiring a roll of tp to absorb. I never felt really rotten. Except on the day that I did.

     Yeah no, my biggest challenges involved maintaining personal hygiene and washing the sheets in scalding water each morning after three successive nights of soaking sweats. Though remaking my raised bed was as “exhaustipating” as the great Yogi Berra once put it, I blessed each bout of natural detoxification.

     Even more daunting was preparing food. I’m talking about the monumental task of opening, decanting and heating a can of soup. 

     Or boiling and peeling two eggs. 

     Or just sitting in a comfortable chair planning a 10-step lunch requiring the logistics of an ocean crossing:

  1. Walk into kitchen, a few steps away.
  2. Place ceramic knife on bamboo cutting board.
  3. Open back door and take apple from box.
  4. Place on cutting board.
  5. Return to chair.
  6. Rest.
  7. When able, get up and slice apple into quarters.
  8. Carry sections back to chair.
  9. Rest.
  10. Eat the apple. 

(Many blessings for the support of my island community, including Lori and both Garys for delivering my food order from the co-op. Including that Nin Jiom herbal cough syrup I used to coat, soothe and finally cure my not-quite-sore throat.)

NOTE: Stokholm University gives men aged 70 to 79 with one or more underlying condiitions a 95.7% survival rate without early treatment within three days of onset


My biggest disappointments were that despite my reportorial instincts, I could not find the energy to keep a daily covid journal. Or read a yummy book. I’d already taken too many bites from that Apple on my desk. 

     Too toxic my body ruled, refusing even a peek at the online hysteria I’d become addicted to. To give both my immunity and morale a boost, I refrained from looking at any news for the next three-weeks. 

     The only website I visited was Amazon Prime Video. Say what you will — and many people do — the eye-popping series, Man In The High Castle, and hours of NFL football, hybrid Formula 1 racing, mountaineering in remote places, Alex Honnold’s ropeless rock climbing, a couple kayaking in Antarctica, two canoe trips in the Yukon, and an amateur sailboat race from Victoria to Ketchikan — proved absorbingly distracting from this seemingly never-ending malady.

     Day 7 felt better. 

     Day 10 found me in full recovery mode. I could tell because the sensations of a coated mouth tasting of dimes were gone.   

     After tentatively sticking my beak outside to taste freakishly freezing air, I was still sleeping 14 hours a night. But I was definitely on the mend. 

     By day 12, I was sleeping a dozen hours a night. 

     Soon it was 10 hours.

     Then 8.


Three weeks after my covid adventure began, sunlight once again returned like a benediction. While the day slowly warmed, I tuned up my electric Voltbike and wheeled it outside. Then, to the astonished double-takes of everyone I encountered, I enjoyed a two-kilometer trail ride to return a carefully quarantined library book, access a bank machine, and pick up mail and more meals from the co-op. 


     The tonic of being active outside in the sunshine was heightened by those convoys of truckers driving past so many freedom-insistent Canadians braving blizzards in subzero darkness to thank and wave them on. I’d never dreamed there were this many flags in Canada. 

     I cried more that week than I had in decades. And I wasn’t the only one. Sign in back of a big pickup in Ottawa: 

                        “I saw my dad cry last night. I asked why? He said, 

                         son I can finally after 2 years see your future again.”


I still have to be careful not to get chilled. But spring is coming. And just as long stints on a beach in Thailand finally burned out the upper-chest infection that had afflicted me for a year after returning from the Gulf Eco War, I’m looking forward to similar therapy just down the street.

     In the meantime, I’m delighted to have what numerous studies show is lifetime immunity to a novel coronavirus that is becoming more contagious and steadily weaker with each iteration. With just about everyone getting exposed to the dreaded yet mild “Omicron”, this is looking like nature’s own outbreak-ending inoculation.

     Except, regrettably, for the double- and triple-jabbed, who, with no remaining innate immunity to enhance, are contracting covid two or three times. This points to the Vaccine-induced Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome that is leaving VAIDS victims — and I’m using the term “victims” in a legal sense — susceptible to every infection that comes their way. Assuming they are not already afflicted with multiple organ failures  from injection-triggerd ADE, better described as Antibody Disease Enhancement. Or sudden onset Stage 4 cancers resulting from injection-wrecked DNA repair mechanisms.

     Oh yes. When two billion people awaken to what’s been done to them, there will be a reckoning for every politician, media personality, doctor, nurse and hospital administrator responsible for more than 30,000 deaths and 3,500,000 severe injuries officially admitted so far. (Documents from whistleblowers show actual figures are 10- to 50-times higher.)

     Meanwhile, eyes-tight-shut denial and mass hysteria around everything are not helping. With everyone suddenly scared to death of death and screaming at each other with their ears and reasoning shut down, I find myself re-entering the upside-down world the Hopi and so many other indigenous cultures have prophesied. And history documents. 

     If this compounding and cascading insanity is not countered by resolute, good-hearted people coming together in our shared humanity, we may all soon be joining the cowed, the corrupted, or the outlaws. 


I’m just an old-school journalist who was taught a long time ago that news is news, and not an advertising decision. Reality is not subject to opinion. I wish I was making this up. But in my career over the past half-century, my imagination still hasn’t caught up with the stories I’m reporting.     




“RESIST MUCH, OBEY LITTLE”   发件人     William Thomas 2023