On January 6, the last time I wrote on Substack, my older brother Ricky called me in the early afternoon from the hospital. He said he had fallen out of bed, but couldn’t explain how. He called 911 and of course, the first thing they did when he entered the hospital was to give him a COVID test. Just as predicted, it came back positive.
Ricky had no symptoms whatsoever. He was perfectly healthy. There were no injuries from the fall. Instead of sending him home, and maybe advising him to quarantine himself, they immediately began tests. Tests are the lifeblood of our horrific Medical Industrial Complex. Like corrupt car repair shops, they have to find something to stay in business. Within a day or two, they had amended his diagnosis to COVID pneumonia. He still sounded pretty normal, and I wasn’t that alarmed.
Once the COVID diagnosis was made, there was no chance for me to see my brother. The hospital permitted no visitors to COVID patients. Eventually, I couldn’t even talk to him on the phone, because the machines in the room made it hard for him to hear what I was saying. So there was little I could do. I told two different doctors and two different nurses that I absolutely forbid the use of Remdesivir. They argued but agreed to go with my wishes.
On January 18, I discovered that they had begun giving him Remdesivir against my explicit instructions, on January 15. That just happened to coincide with when Ricky began to really spiral downwards. They stopped when I ordered them to, but obviously, the damage had already been done. They also refused my request to give him Ivermectin. I was told, “Ivermectin isn’t allowed at this facility.” He died on January 20, my niece’s birthday.
My brother’s death was so unexpected, so head-scratching, that it was essentially as if he’d just dropped dead. To go from being healthier than the vast majority of seventy-three-year-old men, to dead in two weeks is an indictment of the healthcare “professionals” who were supposed to be caring for him. How does that possibly happen? What kind of “care” essentially kills someone in two weeks? The idea behind a hospital stay is that you’re in the ideal hands- professionals who know best.
There is zero doubt in my mind that my brother would be alive and well today if he’d never called 911 that morning. The hospital stay killed him, not any deadly virus. They saw a seventy-three-year-old guy, who had not been vaccinated, and they got their $13,000 bonus for a COVID diagnosis. And his non-vaxxed status assured that he’d be fast-tracked for death. Family members have had the classlessness to blame his death on the fact he didn’t get the vaccine. And to essentially hold me responsible for him not being vaccinated.
Ricky’s death would have devastated me regardless because I was basically his caretaker. He had mental and emotional issues that were never really quantified, but he definitely needed someone to look out for him, which I tried to do. But the fact he died supposedly from COVID-19, the psyop I’ve written and talked so much about, makes it even harder to deal with. I’m sure there are those out there- probably even within my own family- snickering, “See, he said it was a hoax, and now his brother’s dead from it.”
Maybe if I’d been able to visit him during those two weeks, and to understand what was happening to him, I might be handling this better. But the last time I saw him was on Sunday, January 2, when we had our weekly ritual of lunch at Red Lobster. I had grown to love that ritual, and he did, too. I will probably not be able to eat at Red Lobster again. At any rate, that was it. Eighteen days later he was dead, from a virus that I firmly believe has been politicized and never isolated or concretely identified.
Actually, I did see Ricky again, on the day he died. They called me early in the morning and said that now I could visit him since he was in the end-of-life stage. Quite a policy there- you can see your loved one when they’re about to die. After being required to don three masks, a face shield, a patient gown, and gloves, my wife and I spent three agonizing hours in his room, watching him slowly wither away. I told him I loved him a hundred times, but he showed no cognizance that we were there.
So that’s how I said goodbye to the sibling I was closest to and had by far the closest relationship with. My life was intertwined with him in a multitude of ways, which becomes clearer as I go through all his papers and settle his affairs. It’s frightening to consider that life can be lost, on the basis of an unnecessary 911 call, and a bogus PCR test that yields a 90 percent false-positive rate. That’s all it took, along with a policy that forbids me to visit him and be more directly involved.
I don’t know how many doctors and nurses are actual monsters. Maybe they believe they’re providing the best treatment possible. They certainly trust what their education, and the medical establishment, tell them. But while they may not be monsters, the system they serve- the Medical Industrial Complex- is monstrous. Medical practitioners are the third leading cause of death in America. Hospitals kill more people than anything except cancer and heart disease.
I spent forty-four years working for the Medical Industrial Complex. I have more than enough material to write a book about it. I heard nurses mutter “I wish he’d die” in response to some poor soul screaming in agony. I saw a nurse joke with a surgeon about “not trying too hard” before operating on a child because her unit was already filled with patients. I heard constant tales of surgeons leaving scalpels inside patients, or operating on the wrong limb- that’s why they circle what area is to be operated on now with a magic marker. Is that what you’d expect of “the best and brightest?”
I have stayed away from doctors as much as I can. My brother, on the other hand, made appointments for the slightest imaginable malady, had regular blood work done, and was up for any and every test they proposed. He put his trust in them, and they ultimately failed him in the most tragic way possible. From what I’ve seen of “healthcare professionals,” one would be better off visiting a witch doctor. They don’t heal; they create permanent patients, addicted to the poisons of Big Pharma.
I keep fantasizing about going back in time, to the morning my brother fell out of bed somehow and stopping him from calling 911. Would he have developed COVID or cold/flu symptoms? I’ll never know. And that is the hardest thing to accept. What really triggered things will remain a mystery. His heart was fine, as were all his other vital organs. He didn’t have diabetes or high blood pressure. He didn’t even have a trace of arthritis. He never smoke or drank, or ate fried foods; Ricky was incredibly careful about his health.
Yesterday, when my wife and I went back for the second time to clean out his apartment, the guy in the apartment next to him asked about Ricky. He was shocked to hear he’d passed away, but he volunteered information that just makes this all the more bizarre. He claimed that he heard a commotion at around 2 or 3 a.m., and my brother was arguing with the EMTs, saying he never called them and was fine. Ricky never said anything to me about this, so I have no idea what it means. But it adds yet another layer to the puzzlement which consumes me.
What isn’t a mystery is how quickly my brother deteriorated in one of our wondrous, highly rated medical facilities. If we had an honest legal system, the medical profession would be looking at the biggest class-action lawsuit in the history of the world, from the families of all those “COVID” patients who were murdered by Remdesivir and ventilators. The Medical Industrial Complex, like every other part of our thoroughly corrupt Banana Republic (including that legal system) needs to be held accountable.
To understand what we’re up against, look at television commercials. How many aren’t advertising pharmaceutical products? They are sickening; “Tell your doctor.” “Ask your doctor.” “Check with your doctor.” And then they list every awful side effect one can envision. Of all the unworthy “professionals” in this country that have been institutionally idolized, none deserve it less than doctors. They are largely a pompous, unfriendly, and unsympathetic group. And they kill people every day with their mistakes. Yet the public continues to shower them with unwarranted respect.
How many Hollywood products, from Dr. Kildare to Marcus Welby, M.D., have extolled the virtues of the purely altruistic doctor, who exists only to save one life after another? Have you ever seen a film or television show that criticized the medical profession? That portrayed doctors honestly, by exposing their arrogance and insensitive bedside manner, not to mention their incompetence? That showed hospital nurses taking forever to answer the calls of patients in need? That satirized the routine hospital practice of waking a patient up to give them their sleeping pill?
My brother Ricky was killed by the Medical Industrial Complex as surely as if they’d stabbed him repeatedly, or poisoned his food. Remdesivir alone is a killer, and they know it. But powerful forces, led by Anthony Fauci and his “enemy” Donald Trump, have huge financial interests in it. It’s too big to fail.
I know I can’t do anything to bring my brother back. To hear his voice one more time. But I intend to keep his memory alive, as part of a continuing exposure of what is really going on in hospitals that bear no resemblance to the fictional worlds of programs like ER. Even before the Greatest Psyop in the History of the World turned hospitals into genuine killing fields, they were awful places to be. Inattentive nurses, cocky and dismissive doctors, and continuous mistakes on the part of everyone.
They almost killed my father once after he had the most routine surgery imaginable, for a deviated septum. On another occasion, when he broke his hip, they put the metal plate put in wrong, and it shredded his muscle and forced another surgery. My sister fell and broke her hip six years ago, and has been in agony ever since. Her ridiculous doctor told her she was fortunate to be alive. But then again, a hospital almost killed her when she was just thirty years of age, with their negligence and familiar errors. My niece, who has Downs Syndrome, fell and reinjured her broken hip when the nurses took forever to bring her a bedpan.
When my mother was in the hospital once, the nurses kept ignoring her urgent request for a bedpan. I went to the nurse’s station at least three times, demanding to know why they hadn’t brought her something she desperately needed. Several nurses were sitting comfortably at the station- they certainly weren’t “treating” any patients. And once you complain about the lack of “service,” the “service” becomes even worse. They mark you down as a troublemaker. The smiles completely disappear.
When my mother died, the bitch at the nursing station’s first words to us as we stepped off the elevator was a cold, unsmiling, “Do you want an autopsy?” I have seen enough since my childhood to judge the medical profession this harshly. They literally never did anything to help my parents, my sister, or my brother. Every time they went into their “care,” my loved ones came out the worse for the wear. Those amazing doctors never made them better.
Americans have such low expectations for those they entrust with the most important jobs. They don’t blink when teachers in charge of their child’s education turn out to be vacuous authoritarians who document their bias on Tik Tok and Instagram. They don’t seem to care that their political “representatives” don’t even attempt to represent them. And they don’t seem to notice just how often the secular saints portrayed by the likes of George Clooney seem to fail in real life. How often do their patients get worse and die? How seldom do they actually cure them?
My brother was not supposed to die at seventy-three. He had none of the comorbidities that people of his age usually suffer from. I honestly thought he’d live to be 100. Healthy people do die every day, from accidents, homicides, or suicides. My brother wasn’t involved in an accident. He certainly didn’t kill himself. He was, however the victim of a homicide. Death by the Medical Industrial Complex- I’ll dub it Medicide. That is the only explanation for why he isn’t alive.
Sure, it’s necessary to seek medical attention for severe injuries or a broken limb. But “preventative care,” which is what the Medical Industrial Complex pushes incessantly, is a corrupt money-making scheme. The fact that doctors now can’t tell patients they’re overweight- which lies at the heart of most “diseases” treated with Big Pharma products- tells you all you need to know about their professional integrity. Just like their willingness to go along with the most unscientific “Woke” proclamations.
These same astounding medical superstars have participated in the hideous mutilation of young people who are confused about their “gender.” How is injecting kids with puberty blockers, or removing some male’s penis, part of “care” which helps people? How is it compatible with the Hippocratic Oath? But then again, the millions of abortions, performed by these same “lifesavers,” attest to their lack of principles and hypocrisy. Like our politicians who swear an oath to a Constitution, they don’t remotely believe in.
It’s really a small step from “sex change” operations to drowning the lungs of patients with a horrific poison like Remdesivir. The medical profession was rife with corruption before COVID. And now, all they have to do is give a COVID diagnosis (and get a financial bonus in the process), and no one questions what happens afterward. The average person- like most in my family- will simply say, “he had COVID,” and that turns off all critical thinking. What did you expect to happen? He had COVID! Those treating COVID patients are heroes! COVID sucks! Stay safe.
I am not going to let this matter rest. My brother, like the untold number of others who entered a hospital and quickly died from “COVID,” may have died in vain. But exposing the truth about what really happened to him, what really happened to all those people, can serve a noble purpose. If it prevents a single person from going through what Ricky did, then it’s worth it. I may not have him with me any longer in this life, but that’s the only thing that might make me rest easier.
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