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  • Writer's pictureNikko Norte

With a condom on two fingers …

It is snowing hard. From a window in our living room, I stare over the valley of Montafon, in Austria. For no reason, I think, I think of Freud, who fled Vienna in 1938 because of the antisemitic measures that were being implemented there. Soon, Heidi and I will flee Austria, and Freud, over a hundred years ago, came up with the reason why we, one day, would do so. Human life, according to Freud, is not something to wildly experiment with.


The corona vaccination experiment fails. Vaccines do not, as governments promised, bring the pandemic – which is not a pandemic truly – to its knees but keep unhealthy, mainly older people out of hospitals for a short period of time after which they still end up in a hospital with either corona-related complaints or with complaints related to their by vaccines and corona measures decimated immune system. Based on false promises, too many people have yet been vaccinated – vaccinating unhealthy people only would have sufficed – and the vaccine’s adverse events among healthy, relatively young people are skyrocketing.


Only a fraction of those adverse events, of which the reporting, despite the censorship on it, is easy to find, would have halted any other vaccination experiment, although I this morning discovered that I may be wrong when it comes to the adverse events. The cardiovascular complaints with which young people have recently begun to report at hospitals in the United Kingdom – if they get that far – are not caused by the vaccines, The Guardian taught me, but by Post Pandemic Stress Disorder. Remarkably, mainly vaccinated young people suffer from this life-threatening disorder, and … do we regret to flee Austria, I ask myself to deviate my thoughts from the path they have chosen? Not really.


Five weeks ago, I broke my ankle. Even under my paraglider, I could not keep my thoughts of the current corona madness at bay, and I poorly concentrated on a landing. Hospital staffers told Heidi I had to wait outside the hospital for it to be my turn, due her inability to show a QR-code that confirmed my vaccinated or healed COVID status. Patiently waiting in our car, my ankle on fire, I watched BMI>30 caricature after BMI>30 caricature stumble into the hospital, some of them smoking a last cigarette before entering, until I decided to wave my right to medical assistance.


For the first time in five weeks, I am standing without the help of crutches, carefully balancing my weight on two legs. What takes its toll, I realize, is the feeling of being less combative than I like to be, which, I realize as well, does not make me any less belligerent about our upcoming escape from Austria. That escape will not be a tragedy; it will be an adventure, which makes me think of Freud again, who remarked that only in retrospect we realize that the years of struggle are our best years.


Night falls rapidly. Lights come to life in the few houses on the mountain and in the distance in the village of Schruns. Since the vaccination program has been rolled out in Austria, more people die from COVID than before, a trend that can be observed in many countries. The Republic of Chile is interesting. Eighty-four percent of the population fully vaccinated, 46 percent of the population boosted. The corona-related death rate in the Republic of Chile – high summer – is on the rise again. New Zealand, Singapore, Greece, Germany, Ireland…


Japan is interesting as well. According to the mainstream media, the vaccines suppressed a tsunami of cases there. What those media fail to report is that the tsunami of cases only hit Japan after the vaccination program reached its peak. What the mainstream media also fail to report is that people in Japan sport a BMI of 22,6, that there is in Japan no ban on the use of Ivermectin, and … Christmas, the valley in front of me screams as I realize it is not yet the time to open the presents Saint Nicolas’ helpers smuggled into our house. Oh yes! Dutch we are, living in Austria. Saint Nikolas, as far as living memory goes, travels from Spain to the Netherlands each year to, on his birthday, December 5, surprise mainly children with presents. His helpers, who all listen to the name Black Peter, sneak into houses to deliver those presents; chimneys their favorite route to sneak into houses. How Saint Nicolas knows we live in Austria is a mystery, but who cares? Heidi and I look forward to opening our presents, but we will have to wait another two days, and my mind wanders to the stunt Black Peters with whom I traveled the Netherlands in a previous life, the days before Saint Nicolas’ birthday. Stunt Black Peters and the Iranian I once met in an illegal casino where I worked as a croupier …


A guest of the casino blamed me for his loss at the roulette table. Had not the buffet in which he ended up been set up half a floor lower than the floor on which the roulette tables had been set up, I might have gotten away with the incident. My criminal boss judged my tact subject to improvement, but he anticipated the process of improvement to be long, and he thus suggested an internal rise to the position of bouncer. A croupier of Iranian descent, during his breaks, positioned himself next to me at the door of the casino, sharing tales with me about the hard training he underwent after joining Iran's secret service. A few months after it had become clear that my tact remained subject to improvement, even at the door of an illegal casino, and after I had left my position in the underworld vacant, I met my former Iranian colleague in the streets of Rotterdam. End of November, the demand for stunt Black Peters high. My former colleague offered his services.


Two days later, in a Dutch fishing village, dressed up as a Black Peter, his face black as soot, my former colleague clambered out of the skylight of a warehouse, his assignment to crawl over a hawser we had stretched from that skylight to a warehouse across the harbor, the previous night. Adrenaline probably propelled him forward the first few yards, but then, he froze. The hawser swayed left and right, uproar among the thousands of spectators on the quays. I had assured my Iranian friend that he could let himself fall into the harbor without a care, should the crawling became too tough, but in a uncharacteristic fit of reality, it dawned on me that neither of us would have let himself fall into the harbor from that height. I lacked the time to further think about that. Saint Nicolas, according to the local media, was plagued by thieves that had set their sights on the children’s presents Saint Nicolas carried with him from Spain. As the ship that served Saint Nicolas as transport sailed into the harbor, two of those thieves appeared. They ran bow to stern and back on the ship, each with a bag of presents slung over one shoulder, the uproar massive now among the spectators on the quays.


It took the Black Peters aboard some time to get hold of the thieves. Without consulting Saint Nicolas, the two thieves were thrown into the harbor. Gasping for air in the cold water, I swam to a quay, where I was confronted with mass hysteria for the first time in my life. Young but mostly old kicked and punched at my fellow thief and me. They spat on us and ripped our black and white striped prison suits to shreds. Fellow thieve dove back into the harbor and swam himself to safety. My tact played up and my situation deteriorated until some police officers came to the rescue and escorted me to where other stunt Black Peters, who had descended from buildings and bridges, waited for me, the fire brigade busy to rescue the Iranian attribution to our labor shortage.


In the minivan that rushed us to a next job, two wet thieves turned into Black Peters, and when six Black Peters, about an hour later, abseiled from the arm of a construction crane, the suit of one of those Black Peters became entangled in her abseiling device, and a cheerful act turned into an alpine rescue operation. It eh… it did not matter those days. We were still allowed to be young and cheerful, and that night we practiced Chinglish in a Chinese restaurant. Weh Ta, Weh Yu Hai Ding? Yu Lei Ying Lo? Kom Kwik Lee. Childish but innocent, and tears ran down my face when a Black Peter looked at me, the soot on his face partly rubbed away, a toothpick between each of his teeth, and asked, ‘Sum Tin Wong?’


In the distance, I notice Heidi and Moos plow through a snowy meadow on their way home after an illegal walk – the last two months only Moos the German shepherd is allowed to leave our Austrian house – Moos tossing up snow with her snout, cheerfully. This morning, I called some friends in Africa, one of them a doctor I once flew to a remote African village, where, with two colleagues, he campaigned for the use of condoms in the fight against HIV. Two days later, over coffee in the lobby of a hotel in a city, I debated the three doctors. I was a simple pilot, but I insisted we revisited the village to check whether our campaign bore fruit. I won the debate. Back in the village, some weeks later, we learned from a village elder that most of the condoms we had left behind had been handed out. We also learned that most men in the village went about their old ins-and-outs with a condom on their index- and middle finger, just as one of the doctors in his white coat had demonstrated. I laughed about it, not yet having heard the word corona


Omicron is not a big deal in Africa, and the Africans I had on the phone this morning were amazed at the omicron fuss in the Western world. During each conversation, I heard myself explain that government-affiliated scientists are responsible for the current omicron fuss. Censored independent scientists express optimism. Variants of viruses spread faster but are less pathogenic, generally speaking, and it certainly seems to be the case with omicron, which is a favorable development. Government-affiliated scientists suggest that the rapid spread of a variant of a virus is something to be feared. The contrary is true, omicron proves, which reminds me of the questions people ask me in response to a blog I recently published: The Law of Non-Contradiction.


Why don't you write what we should do? Is the most common question. Strange question that is, because I give the answer in the blog. A communication error, in my opinion, is a sender’s error, and time and again, I answer: Read COVID-19: The Great Reset and realize that most governments worldwide participate in a revolution. Avoid the mainstream media, find ways to circumvent the censorship on what independent scientists have to say about corona – and wonder why that censorship is there – speak to healthcare workers, speak to paramedics, or speak to a funeral director – I am lucky enough to know one. Study the phenomenon of mass hysteria, calculate how impossible it is for unvaccinated people to overburden our health care systems, refuse to participate in QR-code nonsense, which serves no medical purpose, and say no to corona measures, including vaccinations, which for the majority of the world's population are as idiotic as fucking with a condom on two fingers in order to not contract HIV or to pass it on.


The pain in my ankle does me in. I limp to the couch, sit down, and let my eyes wander from Saint Nicolas’ still wrapped presents to Freud's books in a bookcase. In one of those books, Freud compares the behavior of an individual in a crowd to that of someone under hypnosis, and I realize it's time to snap our fingers and look around as individuals. It's still possible, but the clock is ticking ...

 

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