And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.
Sick To My Stomach
AN OUTHOUSE is a useful tool for the proper disposal of human waste when no plumbing is made available, but an abominable place to become confidentially affectionate with—or dare I say fond of. I can’t help but wonder if that little shack atop of the grassy knoll; the initials W.C. for a name; complete with a squatting stool and dreadfully small hole for late-night aiming (both of which were generally caked with several shades and textures of fecal batter, as a rule) still stands. From its hill I could gaze immediately east over the thorny caps of yellow-fever trees, which giraffes often congregated under, often dozens at a time. And to Lake Naivasha, with its legion of hippos, perhaps half a kilometer beyond.
This scene unfolding before us is in the Rift Valley of Kenya, and even now, two decades and some change later, I can still smell the nauseating fumes which would arise from its hellish hole in the ground as I lay over it heaving with an inconsolable sickness, trembling from the cold. At 16 years of age and 135 pounds, I was told I had begun to resemble a skeleton. After ejecting 30-pounds of body weight—there had been at least nine consecutive weeks of vomiting—you would think that somebody would come to the conclusion that my body was naturally attempting to expel toxins. Simple math, right? The fear of catching malaria trumped all logic. But then again, it’s not like the CDC expects you to use any.
In Africa you will hear stories of malaria. You will be told that nearly half of the world’s population is at risk of contracting malaria, and that it is a mosquito-born infectious disease with a particular bias for the poor and the international traveler who inhabit or visit the developing countries of the world, particularly those coming in from the north or the south of the subterranean equator. For whatever reason, the mosquito forsakes the developed half. You will hear sweeping numbers, like how malaria has reportedly claimed between 150 million and 300 million lives. Or that there is currently an estimated 219 million cases of malaria in 87 countries, resulting in some 435,000 annual deaths. Malaria only effects developing countries, especially African countries, which have apparently been developing since the dawn of human history. Ridiculous. Also, the CDC specializes in employing the word “estimated.” You will want to take note of that. Officially, infants, children under five, pregnant women, and AIDS patients, migrants and travelers, are considered most likely to contact malaria, which is never explained, and makes absolutely no sense. Take more notes.
The solution? Prescription drugs.
Finally, something that does make sense. We have just stumbled upon pharmakeia again. There it is, that Greek word. Sorcery. I will probably end up taking a nose dive off an old Tartarian bridge on a secluded trucker route. You will hear tales of my chronic depression, and despairing battle with the bottle. Not to overlook my inner demons, because Big Pharma likes to project themselves onto others. Though mosquitoes reportedly hold 40% of the world hostage with an infectious disease, Big Pharma has its aim of turning 100% of the world into a Totalitarian Drug State, of which I was an ignorant teenage victim, afraid of being bitten by an insect. Before this is over, you too shall see why I was hoodwinked into the outhouse.
Malaria is a hoax.
Before venturing on, I recommend you pause here and read my two-part report on the AIDS hoax, because I don’t care to be repetitive. Also, my paper on the polio hoax will come to use, as it involves mosquitoes. I therefore suspect this is a follow-up, in some regards. AIDS: Psychodrama. AIDS: Big Pharma Exposed. Polio. The basic concept is that germs and viruses are in no way connected with disease. You cannot get sick from somebody else saying a-choo! That’s not how disease works. Evolution is so stupid. Such a notion, once embraced, will immediately correct the titled axis of most people’s globular reality, furthermore flattening it to something less of a pear and more of a motionless disk. You will be freed from The Matrix. Meanwhile, the very thought of leaving Babylonian bondage behind will be soundly rejected by most. It’s supposedly terrifying taking that first baby step off the plantation. They will prefer writing it off as absurdity and further proof that free speech needs eliminated in favor of Science and the Big Pharma narrative, so as to remain on the sippy cup. If this describes your view of the planet, then I bid you adieu. Come again when you’ve tired of the wide road. I hear rush hour traffic is unbearable.
To be clear, malaria is caused neither by virus nor bacteria—according to the official narrative. So, we are entering new territory. Questions will undoubtedly need answered. Like, what is malaria, and how does one become victim to the disease, if not by a mosquito? Once again, I turned to The Matrix for answers.
The following is my report.
History: A Nauseating Narrative
ANCIENT WRITINGS apparently testify to malaria’s long reign of terror. Mesopotamia wrote of deadly periodic fevers, suggestive of malaria. Egypt, China and India did too. Homer, Aristophanes, Hippocrates, Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle all spoke of it. But did they really? And then in the first century, a symptomatic assault once again suggestive of malaria arrived in Rome, reportedly spreading throughout Germany and England, in which African mosquitoes and probably black people, and while we’re at it, monkeys, are to blame. Roman soldiers are also fingered as a culprit, but that makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, unless they were biting people.
You see, malaria is reportedly caused by single-celled microorganisms of the plasmodium group. The parasites are most commonly spread to people through the bites of infected female Anopheles mosquitoes and not the Roman legion. It is only female mosquitoes that transmit malaria, because, though male and female mosquitoes both draw plant nectar, females draw blood in order to incubate her eggs, whereas the male has his mind set on other things. This much is true. So, yeah, mothers are replenishing larvae at the cost of your own blood. What happens is, the bite from the infected host introduces thousands of parasites into a victims bloodstream, via the mosquito’s saliva, which is nothing when compared to the human bodies 20 trillion red blood cells. The parasites are so vastly outweighed that we might as well blame one day in a hundred-thousand years.
The connection was made by Charles Louis Alphonse Laveran, the French physician who won the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine in 1907. That is to say, he was chosen for the part. It was specifically in 1878, while working in Algeria during the Franco-Prussian War, when Laveran “discovered” that the protozoan parasite Plasmodium was responsible for malaria. This came in the heels of Louis Pasteur, who discovered that germs were icky and the cause of all human sorrow. In the case of Pasteur and Laveran, we are dealing with Evolution with a capitol “E.” They were not simply contemporaries of Charles Darwin, obviously. No, I can do better. In 1856, the Royal Society of London presented Pasteur the Rumford Medal. Also, I checked. Laveran was elected a Fellow of the Royal Society in 1907. They smoked cigars in the same back room as Darwin and The Bulldog. Now you know what you’re dealing with.
While combing through another random alleyway in the Matrix, I stumbled upon a discussion with Microsoft co-founder Bill Gates. It was his quip, whereas the war on mosquitoes was declared after several people got infected with malaria while visiting the plantation home of the philanthropist Robert Woodruff, which struck me. You may recall that a philanthropist is the official narrative’s way of letting us know we’re staring someone in the face who throws a lot of money around for public favor while simultaneously investing funds for the purposes of spook behavior, by which the city of Atlanta has made his name known. Woodruff was also the president of Coca-Cola, and what does that tell you? Woodruff distributed liquid sugar—the sweetest poison of all—to every city in the world. The CDC was founded on July 1, 1946, but even before that, the League of Nations and the Rockefeller‘s were throwing their money at malaria and mosquitoes. The CDC is a federal agency. So again, just in case the purposes of a philanthropist somehow escaped you, now you know who men like Woodruff and Rockefeller were ultimately working for. But also, who the United States was working for, and that is Corporations like Coca-Cola.
BY NOW you should probably be staring the mosquito in the eye and asking yourself: Why Mombasa and not Austin, Texas?
If you are a Texan, you will likely tell me that Texas is not to be messed with, and also that your mosquitos are simultaneously bigger than everybody else’s. Meanwhile, plasmodium parasites claimed to be transmitted by their anopheles mosquito hosts inhabit all 50 states, including Texas, and every continent on Earth with the sole exception of Antarctica. In other news, malaria is confined to tropical environments and developing countries. Are we beginning to see a disconnect here? It was not always so. Both Europe and America, neither of which are exclusively tropical, were once infectious with malaria, and as little as several decades ago.
The explanation we are given for malaria’s recent absence from the western world is two-fold. First, only 60 of the 450 known species of anopheles mosquitoes are reported carriers, all of which have conveniently been excommunicated to developing countries due to passport issues. This leads us into the second far more criminal explanation—necessary for Totalitarian rule—which is to say that Science in America annihilated malaria. Kind of like how Science landed on the moon. The CDC was founded after the United States Corporate Government declared war on mosquitoes—a war, mind you, which was deemed a success. The CDC went straight to work spraying down every home and child in America. It was DDT, the CDC claims, applied to the interior of every suburban neighborhood in America during the 1940’s and 1950’s, that killed them. Right. Mind you, they are still desperately clinging to this narrative.
Malaria was likewise eradicated in Europe in the 1970’s. If you want to know how Europe eradicated malaria, I asked The Matrix, and it responded: “….through a combination of insecticide spraying, drug therapy and environmental engineering.” Oh dear. Cognitive dissonance is a persistent headache. Their only prescription…? What the world needs is drugs. More drugs. Also, chem-trails. And in case I forget to mention it later on, drugs.
Wait, how was malaria eradicated again?
The real answer however is, it wasn’t. Because malaria as advertised was never a thing to begin with. We are only witnessing another slight of hand. But more on that in a moment. You can think of the CDC’s war against the
child mosquito as follows. DDT trucks were advertised as a candy cart and rolled down every suburban street in America, spraying toxins at the children who danced in its fumes. In 1972, DDT was banned in the U.S. This is largely due to the 1962 publication of Rachel Carson’s book, Silent Spring. Carson was an aquatic biologist in the U.S. Bureau of Fisheries, which is essentially to say, the Government exposed its own operations in an underhanded way, and through an individual who, according to The Wikipedia, advanced “the global environmental movement.” So, one psyop leads to another. But not before they’d first deemed their war against the mosquito a success.
Its narrative persists, despite the fact that anopheles species fully equipped and capable of transmitting malaria currently inhabit Europe, all 50 States, and every continent of the motionless plane. That is, aside from Antarctica. If you’re paying attention, our Slave Masters are sick sadistic sociopaths. The only thing they were successful at, in their campaign against the invisible enemy, was poisoning an entire generation of children and crippling them with polio. Try not to let cognitive dissonance win the day.
ANOTHER THING Bill Gates mentioned was that more soldiers were dying from mosquitoes than bullets during The War. That struck my attention as rather odd. Why so many deaths in combat and not while milking the cow back home? Are we to believe that mosquitoes were working for the Axis powers but not Uncle Ben or Aunt Jemima? The same is said of the First World War. Mosquitoes were murdering French, British, Belgian, Russian, and American soldiers faster than Deutchland’s factories could supply artillery, and vice versa. We are also told that Confederates took satisfaction during the American Civil War knowing that Federalists would come down south and die of swamp diseases, while they themselves remained unaffected. Sure, let’s go with that. The solution—as you may have already guessed—was drugs. Mainly, arsenic.
The pharmaceutical compound known as quinine comes from the bitter bark of a high altitude tree native to South America, by which the French chemists Joseph Pelletier and Jean Biename Caventou were capable of isolating in 1820. It is variously known as Jesuit’s powder. And knowing is half the battle. Quinine quickly became a favored therapy for intermittent fever throughout the world, the very medicine which Dr. David Livingstone used to treat his own malaria with in the African Congo and its whereabouts.
Livingstone is still regarded as “Africa’s greatest missionary,” yet he is recorded as having converted only one African. Just one. Apparently, Livingstone’s solitary convert was the chief of the Kwena people of Botswana and went by the name of Sechele. The story goes that Livingstone converted him and then told the chief to divorce four of his five wives. Sechele did so. A year later, one of his divorced wives was found to be pregnant with Sechele’s child. Sechele said it was a weakness in the flesh, and the missionary moved on. What Livingstone actually succeeded in doing is drugging up the continent and then having a waterfall named after him. How does somebody get a waterfall named after him? I was asking myself that very question, and then stumbled upon a Masonic Lodge in Malawi which goes by his name. You see how that works? I do.
Getting back to the First World War. Problem: soldiers get sick in the trenches and the Government blame mosquitoes. Solution: they then start inoculating everyone with quinine and other punch bowls spiked with arsenic. Ordo Ab Chao. Quinine is toxic. The medical Establishment doesn’t even dispute that fact. Toxins wreak havoc on the body. An untold thousands of nervous systems have been wrecked due to the drug. It has brought on deafness and blindness. And more importantly, no case of malaria was ever cured. The side effects of arsenic includes vomiting, diarrhea, and abdominal pain as well as anemia. Kids, the lesson here is, don’t drink the Kool-Aid. Meanwhile, more soldiers induced with quinine and other arsenic-laced drugs died of parasite-infected mosquitoes than bullets. Right. Dr. Livingstone didn’t cure anything.
Blackwater fever is described as “a complication of malaria infection in which red blood cells burst in the bloodstream, releasing hemoglobin directly into the blood vessels and into the urine, frequently leading to kidney failure.” But what they won’t necessarily tell you is that blackwater fever, also known as blackwater urine, is another side-effect of arsenic poisoning. The condition is brought on by inadequate dosages of quinine, which occurs due to the treatment of malaria with quinine. The CDC at least admits that “overdose of anti-malarial drugs, particularly chloroquine, can be fatal,” but that is misdirection. The CDC might as well be telling us to eat a McDonald’s Quarter Pounder with cheese, complete with a supersized Coke and fries (courtesy of Robert Woodruff), once a day rather than three times a day, so that we may only grow fat rather than obese. The takeaway here is that there is no safe nor certifiable level of toxin which should be permitted to enter our bodies—kapeesh?
Today, chloroquine is prescribed by doctors as a method of combating malaria, and is a derivative of quinine. Most recently we find something called artemisinin, which is isolated from wormwood, employed as a prevention device of malaria. The medical Establishment insists the pills are essential in order to stop malaria, and if you’ve been paying attention, then you have already seen the slight of hand. Artemisinin causes vomiting and nausea. This should tell you something. Its toxic to the body. Artemisinin is furthermore combined with mefloquine, which has been found to cause brain damage. Sulfadoxine/pyrimethamine is another drug typically used along with other antimalarial medication such as artemisinin, side effects which include nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. In more depressing news, Philanthropist and sociopath Bill Gates has donated hundreds of millions of dollars in an effort to inoculate all of Africa with malaria-preventing vaccines and drugs, a disease which reportedly
murders kills 2,000 African children every day.
To be clear, there is only one cause of malaria, and that is drugs. Without drugs, malaria doesn’t even exist. It’s an illusion. What, don’t believe me? Malaria’s first symptoms, given that we are inhabiting a developing country, is fever, headache and chills. As previously noted, this will likely be matched with an enlarged spleen. Malaria has also gone by other names. Marsh fever and ague. Ague is described symptomatically as fever or shivering fit. Here’s some irony for you, but also the Truth. In a western developed country such as my own, these symptoms are more likely to be regarded as a cold or a flu. And nobody’s contracting the flu from mosquitoes.
In Africa, I was popping pills.
Under African Skies (A Conclusion)
UNDERNEATH the blanket of a crystalline sky, the muscle spasms didn’t agonize anymore as they had probably once intended. I felt no pain. Truth be known, I looked forward to my solitary nights—particularly the intervening moments between vomiting, when I could lie upon the grass, some thirty feet from my tent, gazing up at the glorious girdle of stars.
On a cloudless night there was no hiding from the Milky Way. Its brilliance was simply incommunicable to a teenager who had only familiarized himself with the sort of stars one might trample upon back home on Sunset Boulevard, all of which blazed for a moment in time and then fell under the shadow of Hugh Hefner’s Hollywood sign. Beyond the hill where W.C. stood, the ghost-like glow of hyena eyes, matched with their whooping-wails, haunted the agonizing yip of zebras they preyed upon. A warthog occasionally paraded by. There were occasions when I was unable to leave my tent behind—even to vomit—due to a hippo which might toddle up the hill from Lake Naivasha to idle between myself and the outhouse. Have you ever seen a hippopotamus in person? They’re as big as a Volkswagen. Had it sat down or rolled over, I might have had my skull crushed. There was one night in particular where I recall hugging the ground to escape the zebra parade, sponsored no doubt by the hyenas, who destroyed everything and trampled my tent to the ground.
To the west of the hill where W.C. stood, a handsome Masai, though rather short for his east African ethnicity, operated a dutiful fire. His name was Daniel. The local Masai village, maintained with mud, manure, and a convenient brier-patch, couldn’t have been more than two or three kilometers to the west. Daniel, he never bothered me. But he conscientiously kept watch over the fire—and me. I never recall him intervening in the poisons that were rigidly exhumed from my body except to gesture with a hand if I felt up to joining his crackling orb of light. Wiping whatever bile remained on my lips as I approached, its ashy glow illuminated a face equally as kind. Even then my guardian rarely spoke unless I initiated conversation. Usually we were content just sitting and listening—star gazing. His English was good. He never brought up the vomit, which must have plagued him with concern, but I preferred listening to his Swahili tongue, if he offered it.
There were our adventures during the day to consider. They could be practically comedic at times—chasing down a tribe of baboons who’d run off with cans of food from the storage shed. And then at night he’d captivate me with stories. Like the lion he’d killed with only a sharpened stick. Apparently, they all tell those stories. Did he actually live the encounter? Perhaps not. His manhood is certainly not dependent upon it.
And besides, it’s not like lions were never our concern. There was that one which Daniel only thought to mention on the morning after it had walked right past W.C. and the tent—paw prints for proof. That lion, by the way, was hunted later in the day. It’s crime—eating human.
The stories I could tell.
I can’t help but wonder if Daniel entered the ministry—if he this very moment pastors an east African church, as he confessed aspiring to do. Has Yahuah woken him up to eternal Truth of His Law? I hope so. His dutiful service to me; managing that little fire near the outhouse on the hill while the Most-High guided me in deconstructing the Copernican Universe, and eventually the pharmakeia stronghold, is not even quantifiable except by heavenly standards. Actually, I put little thought into those glorious Rift Valley skies and the sickness which accompanied each night until years later—two decades, actually—when the missing pieces of the puzzle finally came together and the Truth no longer needed to be suppressed. Fact is, the universe became an uncomfortable back-pocket subject. I simply wouldn’t—No, I couldn’t—give Elohim praise for something so indescribably delightful but which Yahuah also rebuked me for doing. The earth is flat and the Copernican Universe is a Kabbalah wet dream. Elohim is so good and loving—and patient—that He would think to correct me in error, even over a great chasm of time. By His providence alone I finally opened up Scripture and discovered The Unexpected Cosmology.
“The heavens declare the glory of God and the firmament sheweth his handywork.”
Even now I can close my eyes and recognize Daniel’s kind face flushed with the heat of ember. A spear adorns his arm. The whooping-wails of hyenas still advertise the hunt. And if I look up from a sick and trembling body, frightened of an imaginary disease, it is the firmament of His power which garnishes my gaze.