Lasha Darkmoon – Darkmoon March 7, 2020

Here is the inimitable Jon Rappoport “going viral” with indignation. He refuses to panic, scoffing at those who do. This is all, he tells us, one big money-making scam:

“Enter THE VIRUS. The medical version of Satan. A virus whose very existence is in doubt. And now one prediction on steroids is pegging the eventual global case numbers at 15 million, and the cost of containing the virus at $2.4 trillion. The elite players are visiting their tailors and having their deep pockets deepened further to absorb this (planned) windfall.

What, no spittoons? No plastic baggies to wear over shoes? No hazmat hoods with visors? No ray guns to kill the virus as it floats through the air? No oxygen tanks and masks to offset the toxic effects of the disinfectants?

HEADLINES SCREAM : The virus is coming, the virus is coming! Head for the hills! Pack up the kids! Live in the forest! Dig for roots and tubers! Survive, away from the CONTAGION!

The SCIENTISTS . . .  they’ve never met a virus they don’t love. Even if that virus turns out to be nothing more than a fabricated construct, a cartoon, a fairy tale spun out on the evening news.

Update: The US Congress has just approved $8.3 billion for “fighting the coronavirus.” Talk about a money pot! Major fingers in that pot, including, no doubt, vaccine companies.”

(Ellipses omitted and emphasis added. See Corona baloney: it’s the money, honey).

Chuckle, chuckle . . . but honestly, this is no joking matter.

Connor Reed, a 25-year-old British expat from Wales, was in China teaching English when one day he began to get a sore throat. Here is a spine-tingling account of how he beat the killer virus now sweeping the globe.

He opens Day 1 of his Virus Diary on a calm note, assuring us there’s no need to panic. He’s young. He’s healthy. Armageddon? Bring it on!

DAY 1 — MONDAY, NOV. 25

I have a cold. I’m sneezing and my eyes are a bit bleary. It isn’t bad enough to keep me off work. I arrived in this country to teach English as a foreign language — but now I’m a manager at a school in Wuhan, the city in central China where I have lived for the past seven months.

I speak Mandarin well, and the job is interesting. My cold shouldn’t be very contagious, so I have no qualms about going to work. And I live alone, so I’m not likely to give it to anyone. There hasn’t been anything in the news here about viruses. I have no cause for concern. It’s just a sniffle.

By Day 2 he has a sore throat. “Remembering what my mum used to do when I was a child, I mix myself a mug of honey in hot water. It does the trick.” He tells us he has advantages which will help him to survive the Black Death. Doesn’t smoke, hardly drinks. Decides to invest in a bottle of whisky, just to be on the safe side. “iIt’s important to me to get over this cold quickly, so that I can stay healthy for work. For medicinal purposes only, I put a splash of whisky in my honey drink. I think it’s called a ‘hot toddy’.”

Great! The hot toddy’s worked. By Day 4, Connor has begun to perk up. “I slept like a baby last night. Chinese whisky is evidently a cure for all known ailments. I have another hot toddy in the evening.”

I nip into my local supermarket. “You got any Chinese whisky?” Nope, they don’t stock no Chinese whiskey, the shop girl glooms, but they can offer me Scotch whisky. I lash out on a bottle of Scotch in an excess of patriotism.

By Day 5, Connor is over his cold. “It really wasn’t anything,” he tells us airily.  He spoke too soon:

DAY 7

I spoke too soon. I feel dreadful. This is no longer just a cold. I ache all over, my head is thumping, my eyes are burning, my throat is constricted. The cold has travelled down to my chest and I have a hacking cough.

This is flu, and it’s going to take more than a mug of hot honey, with or without the magic whisky ingredient, to make me feel better.

The symptoms hit me this afternoon like a train and, unless there’s an overnight miracle, I will not be going to work tomorrow. It’s not just that I feel so ill — I really don’t want to give this flu to any of my colleagues.

DAY 8

I won’t be in work today. I’ve warned them I’ll probably be off all week. Even my bones are aching. It’s hard to imagine I’m going to get over this soon.

Even getting out of bed hurts. I am propped up on pillows, watching TV and trying not to cough too much because it is painful.

DAY 9

Even the kitten hanging around my apartment seems to be feeling under the weather. It isn’t its usual lively self, and when I put down food it doesn’t want to eat. I don’t blame it – I’ve lost my appetite too.

DAY 10

I’m still running a temperature. I’ve finished the quarter-bottle of whisky, and I don’t feel well enough to go out and get any more. It doesn’t matter. I don’t think hot toddies were making much difference.

Soon our Young Hero is to enter Face Mask territory. Life is no longer a rose garden. His pet kitten succumbs to the dreadful disease, conking it on Day 11. Kitty kitty, pretty kitty, where art thou gone?

Connor survives to tell the grim tale:

The rest of Connor’s sensational diary, which has now “gone viral”—pardon the pun—has probably made him a small fortune, if not a minor celebrity in Llandudno, North Wales. His blow-by-blow account of how he went to Wuhan and came back from hell makes for sensational reading on the train. By Day 12 Connor has had a relapse, just as he thought he was out of the woods. He can barely breathe. Going to the bathroom leaves him in a sweat, “panting, dizzy, shivering.”

WOW! “Shivering” and “sweating: at the same time, that’s a new one on me! How can you be hot and cold at the same time? I guess this virus is pretty versatile. But no, “cold sweats are common”, my doctor informs me snootily, refusing to shake my hand and backing away from me as I probe him further on the mysteries of perspiration.

“The television is on,” Connor confides breathlessly in his Diary. “But I can’t make sense of it. This is a nightmare.”

I find this strange, if not suspicious. This guy can’t make sense of a TV program—it’s beyond his comprehension!—and yet his prose is perfectly lucid. That takes some doing. Your brain shuts down, but your pen races on regardless, churning out impeccable prose:

“By the afternoon, I feel like I am suffocating. I have never been this ill in my life. I can’t take more than sips of air and, when I breathe out, my lungs sound like a paper bag being crumpled up. This isn’t right. I need to see a doctor. But if I call the emergency services, I’ll have to pay for the ambulance call-out myself. That’s going to cost a fortune. I’m ill, but I don’t think I’m dying—am I?”

You’re not dead if you can still write, dumbo!

Not only can this guy write, but he can jabber away in Mandarin nineteen to the dozen. “My Mandarin is pretty good,” he discloses, “so I have no language problem when I call the taxi. It’s a 20-minute ride [to the hospital]. As soon as I get there, a doctor diagnoses pneumonia. So that’s why my lungs are making that noise. I am sent for a battery of tests lasting six hours.”

On Day 13 Connor is back in his apartment in the City of Dreadful Fright. The doctor has prescribed antibiotics but Connor is reluctant to take them. He’s worried that his body will become resistant to the drugs and, “if I ever get really ill and need them, they won’t work. I prefer to beat this with traditional remedies if I can.”

He’s been misdiagnosed as having pneumonia. He’s relieved that’s all he’s got. “I’m only 25 and generally healthy,” he tells himself. “No reason for alarm. I have some Tiger Balm. It’s like Vick’s vapour rub on steroids. I pour some into a bowl of hot water and sit with a towel over my head, inhaling the fumes. I’m going ‘old school’. And I’ve still got the antibiotics in reserve if I need them.”

DAY 14

Boil a kettle. Add Tiger Balm. Towel over head. Breathe for an hour. Repeat.

DAY 15

All the days are now blurring into one.

DAY 16

I phone my mother in Australia. There was no point in calling her before now — she’d only worry and try to jump on a plane. That wouldn’t work, it takes an age to get a visitor’s visa to China. I’m glad to hear her voice, even if I can’t do much more than croak, ‘Mum, I feel so ill.’

DAY 17

I am feeling slightly better, but I don’t want to get my hopes up yet. I’ve been here before.

DAY 18

My lungs no longer sound like bundles of broken twigs. Suddenly, I’m feeling better, physically at least. The flu has lifted. But the poor kitten has died. I don’t know whether it had what I’ve got, or whether cats can even get human flu. I feel miserable.

On Day 19 Connor staggers out of doors to buy more Tiger Balm (pictured). His nose has cleared sufficiently to allow him to appreciate the cooking smells of Wuhan, a megalopolis of 11 million people. But he still has far to go. His body aches all over like he’s been run over by a steamroller. “My sinuses are in agony,” he groans. His eardrums feel ready to pop. By Day 24 he lets out his first cheer. “Hallelujah! I think I’m better. Who knew flu could be as horrible as that?”

Hold on! It ain’t over yet! It’s panic stations all over again. “A tip-off from a friend sends me hurrying to the shops. Apparently, the Chinese officials are concerned about a NEW VIRUS (!!!) that is taking hold in the city. There are rumours about a curfew or travel restrictions. Connor knows what this will mean — panic buying in the shops. He needs to stock up on essentials before everyone else does.

DAY 37

The rumours were right. Everyone is being told to stay indoors. From what I’ve heard, the virus is like a nasty dose of flu that can cause pneumonia. Well, that sounds familiar.

DAY 52

A notification from the hospital informs me that I was infected with the Wuhan coronavirus. I suppose I should be pleased that I can’t catch it again — I’m immune now.

However, I must still wear my face mask like everyone else if I leave the apartment, or risk arrest. The Chinese authorities are being very thorough about trying to contain the virus.

DAY 67

The whole world has now heard about coronavirus. I’ve told a few friends about it, via Facebook, and somehow the news got out to the media.

My local paper back in Llandudno, North Wales, has been in touch with me. Maybe I caught the coronavirus at the fish market. It’s a great place to get food on a budget, a part of the real Wuhan that ordinary Chinese people use every day, and I regularly do my shopping there.

Since the outbreak became international news, I’ve seen hysterical reports (especially in the U.S. media) that exotic meats such as bat and even koala are on sale at the fish market. I’ve never seen that.

The only slightly weird sight I’ve seen is the whole pig and lamb carcasses for sale, with their heads on.

DAY 72 — TUESDAY, FEB. 4

It seems the newspapers think it’s terrific that I tried to cure myself with hot toddies.

I attempt to explain that I had no idea at the time what was wrong with me — but that isn’t what they want to hear. The headline in the New York Post says, “UK teacher claims he beat coronavirus with hot whisky and honey.”

I wish it had been that easy.

— All quotes from The Daily Mail exclusive, 4 March 2020

So much for Connor. God bless him and keep him! I hope the Daily Mail paid him well for that article and didn’t try to diddle him.

The bad news, one learns, is that the coronavirus illness is now here to stay and and will never be completely eradicated. It will return every winter, along with the flu and the common cold, as a matter of course.  And in order to prevent a repetition of the panic measures now in place, with widespread disruption to daily life, each of us will be forced to take a coronavirus jab every winter.  In short, vaccines will be made compulsory,  naturally giving rise to “conspiracy theories” that the virus was created in a secret laboratory by Big Pharma.

One thing is certain. The coronavirus pandemic, whether man-made or pure bad luck—as officially alleged—will play into the hands of several interested parties and help to advance their sinister agendas.

This is not the place to discuss these numerous conspiracy theories, except to say that it would be foolish to pretend that the globalists, the Deep State, the financial markets, and the major superpowers and their satellites are not secretly delighted at the way things have turned out. This is a pretext and launching pad for all sorts of abominations. At the very least, it will be seen as an alibi for the ensuing chaos that the Puppet Masters will pretend they were helpless to stop.

Never will you hear them whisper behind their hands: “We need Chaos! We thive on Chaos! If Chaos didn’t exist, we would have to create it!”  

Yes!—this latest panic scare, orchestrated or accidental, will be seen as a golden opportunity and a “devil send” for the Mammon demoniacs.

It will enable the canny speculators and the elite oligarchs who run the world to become richer and more powerful than ever. It will also impoverish the already poor by depriving them of the basic necessities of life, forcing them to pay through the nose for survival rations. Already the supermarkets display empty shelves—see here and here—as panic buying becomes the new obsessive-compulsive disorder.

No one wants to shake your hand any more. Kissing has become taboo. I shudder to think what honeymoon couples are doing to express their mutual ardor. Are they donning face masks as their blow air kisses across the room from separate beds? The imagination boggles.

Dare I go out and get some fresh air? What fresh air?  There ain’t no fresh air any more! This is Doom City. A cloud of toxic exhalations drifts down the neon streets of Dystopia Nova, attacking your nostrils and driving you nuts. Come, take a walk with me through the mists of madness, through the fogs of folly, into a virus wasteland where there is wailing and gnashing of teeth. One woe is past; and, behold, there come two woes more hereafter. (Revelation 9:12)

Conclusion: The present crisis will offer a unique opportunity to the already rich to get even richer. The powerful will become even more powerful than before. As for the poor, the weak, the elderly, the rag-tag-and-bobtail of creation, they will go to the wall. Weeping. And the rich will grind their bones for breakfast.

The scam artist will be king of the corporate dungheap in the new Orwellian dystopia.

And who will rule over the masses and alleviate their manifold miseries? Who will dry our tears? Where is our rescuer?

Cometh the hour, cometh the Conman!

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