Fraudley’s Downfall
A Puppet's Demise
With recent factual revelations about the COVID pandemic and considering Anthony Fauci’s testimony before Congress, this updated piece rings with renewed relevance.
The world continues its immersion in a travesty of events where reality is more dramatic than fiction. We can only speculate about what drives the reckless characters in this loathsome epic that unravels before us. It is difficult to conceive how individuals can rationalize moral and legal violations of the highest order.
This dramatization envisages some of the dark tragedy of those machinations. It is written in a genre that attempts to shed light on the history that unfolds in front of us. The descriptions herein attempt to give fabric to the events hidden from our eyes and amplify words kept from our ears — by portraying some of the players who propel or expose the degradation we witness.
Any resemblance of the individuals in this tale to actual people is fully intentional. Artistic license has been taken in this abridged account that can only give an imagined glimpse into the world behind the malfeasance that has been and is unfolding. Readers are likely to be aware of the omission of copious additional offenses.
Dr. Francis T. Fraudley was a narrow-minded and most peculiar man. For decades, he had succeeded at feigning that he was grand, noble, and brilliant. It was only a matter of time before the world would know that he held none of these virtues.
Fraudley did everything to disguise his true self, stature, and conflicting missions. His ongoing work in making healthcare and pharmaceutical industries very profitable directly conflicted with the mandate of his government job; ensuring the well-being of everyone in the country.
As head of the U.S. Government’s National Institute For Preventing Disease, he was responsible for stopping widespread infection, so they never became a public health crisis. His ineffectiveness in this realm was hardly apparent because he had been an expert at keeping his failures away from public debate. This had started to change.
Although Fraudley claimed to be protecting the health of the nation, he wielded his power without concern for anyone but himself; he embodied a cold-hearted, mechanistic institution.
Fraudley had advised seven presidents. He also directed billions of dollars in medical research. Among those grants was one for funding a laboratory where new viruses were developed and studied, including variants of the most recent strains of flu that had spread around the globe.
No one but Fraudley knew the extent of his connections and commitments, particularly to military endeavors. There was increasing speculation that he was involved with covert funding for experiments in bio-warfare and was consulted on PSYOPS that reinforced vaccine mandates. It was apparent that he had allies at Defense Intelligence; to what degree they were involved in his nefarious dark schemes was his biggest secret.
Although feigning unshakeable confidence and unquestionable insight through many presidential administrations, Fraudley’s insecurity was apparent. His repeated need to demand trust was an absolute confirmation of the implausibility of his words.
The painful restraints of Fraudley’s diminutive consciousness and the ensuing lack of circulation to his head accounted for his limited ability to accept ideas from anyone but himself.
Like other self-promoters, Fraudley surrounded himself with people who claimed he was indispensable; all making sure he never faced criticism. Those who disagreed with his scientific perspective were severely punished with ex-communication from their field of practice. His proclivity for funding research that supported his circumscribed perspective reinforced his worldview.
Fraudley’s insistence on developing important policies without foundation compensated for his lack of creative abilities. Yet because he was supposed to be the most knowledgeable and respected man in the realm of infectious disease prevention, he was able to make unfounded decisions and change his mind without anyone defying him.
He was either admired greatly by colleagues who benefitted from his policies or despised by those who recognized his megalomania. Most who knew him well kept their distance unless they were summoned. And few would dare contradict him, because of the political clout he had accumulated over many years in Washington.
Fraudley’s lifelong attempt to make up for his narrowmindedness accounted for the increasing amount of nonsensical words and dangerous decisions that emanated from his tight little mouth. As an unprecedented crisis rose around him, the absurdity of his babble was only exceeded by the pretense of his expertise.
It was almost as if his pointed nose grew with each lie. And with this, his beady eyes and protuberant ears gave him a deranged, rodent-like appearance. Indeed, by exacerbating the severity and duration of every plague that had spread around the globe in the last forty years, Fraudley had something in common with a rat; although this insult is unfair to rodents, as the damage they do is unintentional.
Many liars fool themselves, however, Fraudley knew he was unscrupulous, and void of any morals. Because of this, he had outlasted and outdone everyone in the Capital city, where shamelessness was endemic. His lofty role in protecting the health of the nation was preposterous.
Despite his great flaws and sharp claws, one thing was agreed upon by all; Fraudley had understood better than anyone how to extract power and wealth from Washington’s bloated bureaucracy; for himself and others.
He faced imminent retirement with smug satisfaction, although his problems were just beginning.
Fraudley’s bantam physique and small-mindedness accounted for his need to work in an extremely large office with an enormous desk. The bespectacled octogenarian sat with an oversized cell phone in hand, with a wall full of huge photos of himself with powerful players in government and industry. He very much needed to remind himself of his friends in high places.
As the de facto most powerful medical official in the U.S. Government, Fraudley had the polished false confidence in his voice turned up to maximum while speaking with one of the few people he considered a superior. He was plotting with an important ally; the most powerful drug dealer on the planet.
Ted Skimmer was the CEO of Pfakir Pharma, the manufacturer of painkillers, uppers, downers, and anti-psychotics; and most importantly to Fraudley, a gargantuan supplier of vaccines to the world.
Skimmer was a master salesman with a creaseless face that never betrayed the stream of pretense emanating from his mouth. This, combined with an innocent puppy dog look and an unshakable calm demeanor, allowed him to con anyone.
In great contrast to his outward persona, Skimmer was responsible for supervising the greatest distribution efforts of the most dangerous and ineffective product ever marketed to mankind. The genius of the universal sales campaign, which simply repeated the lie, safe and effective, was his mantra.
Although Skimmer had depended heavily on Fraudley for this most recent success in vaccine sales, dozens of other henchmen also did his bidding. But Fraudley remained his loyal, willing puppet who ensured the government went along with his ruse.
Skimmer applied his expertise in feigned concern, “Francis, I’m a little worried about you. It seems like you’re taking some heat. Are you going to keep clear of trouble?”
The two racketeers had dealt with oversight problems before, but behind the smug confidence in their conversation, there was a new hint of doubt. Fraudley’s go-to position was always finding blame with anyone but himself, a flaw that would lead to his demise.
“Thanks Ted, I’m fine. Our primary fact-checker friend has gotten lazy; I think he’s forgotten his mission. He and his pals were supposed to shut down the static — they were doing okay for a while. But I’m not happy either.”
“I know you’ll take care of this Francis. Remind him he has powerful people behind him.”
“Don’t worry Ted, Mr. Silk Suits is all about cash. And he knows if he fails, he will never eat caviar again. I’ll put the pressure on.”
Skimmer presses on with what he cares about, “And what about this Federal case where they got a hold of your emails? I’m sure we don’t have a paper trail. But what’s this messy talk about freedom of speech? I read about your deposition.”
“I’m taking the soft approach so far, it’s all deniable. But I’ll get the big guns out if they keep attacking. My people will be playing golf with the judges involved, they’re lined up to shut it down. And don’t worry about Congress, a little mea culpa and they will find another issue to complain about.”
“Good, I’ll leave it to you. Do whatever it takes to turn this inconvenience around. Remind everyone, particularly that nasty Senator, that just because he once was a doctor, it doesn’t make him a research expert. If you need my help there, let me know. Everyone has a price for cooperating.”
Fraudley ends the conversation with a smirk on his face as if he just had a bite of lemon. “I will, there’s no problem, thanks Ted, goodbye.”
Myron Banks, impeccably dressed, departed his office, smiling confidently to himself as dusk fell over Washington. Never had his work been so satisfying and well-compensated. He bounded down the steps of a weathered brick building only a few blocks from the White House.
The tall, dynamic, dashing executive director of the Center For Ultimate Truth, had worked his way up through the influential, back offices of Congress. Banks was a spin doctor extraordinaire; if he couldn’t shape information to the liking of his political bosses, he could make up stories that the press and public swallowed whole without blinking. He was a master at manipulating the internet and social media to work for or against any cause — and despite his duplicity, was relied on as a brilliant fact-checker.
Banks was still riding on the past success of his report that had been readily embraced by the news media, Corrupt and Cancelled, designed to quash all dissenters against the government’s pandemic policies. It centered on a list targeting and discrediting the powerful influencers in the movement.
Pfakir’s pfandemic, as Myron liked to call it among trusted friends, made him a rich man. And to the delight of his discreet funders, which included Ted Skimmer of Pfakir Pharma, the White House used his manufactured data to target people and organizations, greatly diminishing their social media presence. Most importantly, these same individuals were disdained and unable to present their thoughts to mainstream media.
Like many in his line of work, he had no conscience; so there was nothing he was unwilling to say or do to satisfy the needs of those who paid him. All Myron wanted was money to fund his insatiable need to look smart, eat well, and impress the small group of people who believed he was brilliant.
However, the impact of his work was fading. Corrupt and Cancelled used the tired selling points of Pfakir to cast disdain on its targets. The report was a thinly disguised hit piece that had become meaningless in light of the detailed revelations about the ineffectiveness and dangers of vaccines. Although most mainstream news media remained set on pro-vaccine cruise control and hadn’t changed their coverage, they had stopped mentioning the report. He was hopeful that his funders hadn’t noticed, and still believed he remained their golden boy.
As he turned at the bottom of the steps, Myron decided to head to his favorite nearby restaurant, when he heard the sound of a horn behind him. He looked back as his name was called from the rear window of a black limousine.
“Hey, Myron,” said Fraudley, shouting from the back seat.
Myron turned back, looked up and down the street, then slowly walked over and peered into the half-open window.
“I didn’t think you would take the chance of being seen here with me, Dr. Fraudley.”
“Don’t think Myron, just get the hell in.”
Myron climbed into the limo, and before he could close the door completely, it sped away.
Nightfall begins to shroud the city and the National Mall is empty. Myron and Fraudley sit on a park bench with the Lincoln Memorial looming in the distance.
Myron is pleading, “You said we were doing fine and there wasn’t a problem.”
“Just shut up and listen,” Fraudley commands impatiently, “These troublemakers are only getting more powerful. It was your job to make sure they were demeaned and marginalized, and what’s happening now? Half the country believes that the latest vaccines aren’t safe or effective, and these clowns keep flooding the internet, hawking their books, and having conventions, rallies, and planning to reverse all the gains we’ve made.”
Fraudley pauses as he realizes how dangerous his predicament is; Myron defends himself further.
“We’re doing everything you asked. We support the Honest News Initiative and keep reminding the networks of everyone who you say is a source of disinformation. I’m constantly giving interviews to top reporters with the main talking points: they are in it for the money, they don’t know the facts, and they are conspiracy theorists. Every time they come up with a new angle, we shoot them down and the press follows. I’ve been following your instructions, Dr. Fraudley.”
They both stare out at the Lincoln Memorial without considering the significance of their conspiratorial conversation within its glow. Fraudley’s mind is on how he can save himself; Myron continues to spin his predicament.
“The information is working against us. I can only do so much when the studies are falsified, damaging emails become public, and even your friends at the Disease Force admitted the vaccines don’t stop transmission.”
Fraudley hadn’t been listening to Myron and continues where he left off, “And when they get banned from one media platform they just pop up on another. I can only get the White House to do so much with social media. You were supposed to get the press to make sure these guys were silenced. This is on you.”
Myron meekly defends himself, “It doesn’t help when there are news reports of unaccountable deaths and athletes are dropping like flies. Now there are even scientific studies confirming the vaccine was more dangerous than the virus.”
Fraudley is irate. His rodent eyes blink and squint as he points a sharp finger at Myron, poking him in the chest.
“So you think you’ve got excuses. Then tell me why I’m catching hell. There are lawsuits where I’m being deposed and have to claim I don’t recall, like a mafioso. There’s a book about me that describes the color of my underwear. And now I have to go to another hearing on the Hill to answer more questions about my lab in China. This was not supposed to happen!”
With money always on his mind, Banks injects a thought. “I realize there are issues the Center isn’t covering. But we don’t have enough resources to put out every fire.”
Fraudley, squinting his eyes and baring his teeth, hisses as he continues his rant. “What the hell have you been doing? You make shit up with slick fancy charts and pretty pictures and just hope that it will work. Well, the troublemakers you were supposed to silence are getting louder. And you and your lists of the disinformers are being ignored.”
Myron slouches slightly, knowing this is not just an evaluation. “So what do you want me to do?”
“This anti-vax crap has to finally come to an end. And what you’re going to do is not send out glossy pages or smile at sexy news reporters, but make sure the leaders of this group don’t have any place to make their case — or seem like heroes.”
“And how am I going to do that?”
“First, you will plant some stories that are released as bombshells, then turn out to be fake. They will all go for the bait and look like fools.”
Myrons eyes have widened, as Fraudley has never been so overtly poisonous.
“Then, you’re going to spread dirt on every one of them. And not just that they are providing misinformation to the public about vaccines. You’re going to get personal and throw enough heavy mud until it sticks. You’ll set up social media accounts that report that they are philandering, taking bribes, and abusing children. You’ll make them so busy defending their high-minded honor, that they won’t have time to think about vaccines.”
Done with his rant, Fraudley stands up and says, “You better launch this plan yesterday, and god help you if it doesn’t fly.”
Fraudley briskly walks off towards his waiting limo, leaving a stunned Myron on the bench, considering his new marching orders. He gazes upon the distant monument to Lincoln, a president who governed the country through a civil war; although to him it’s just a pretty building.
Myron has no recognition of his role in fueling a constitutional crisis. Unsure of where to go, he decides he should have a delicious dinner.
The next day, a golden dawn crowns the nation’s capital as Francis Fraudley’s limo streaks through the nearly empty streets of the city. He shakes his head as he sees the early stirrings of a homeless encampment while passing Layfayette Square. His phone rings as the vehicle is stopped at the White House entrance. He ignores the Secret Service detail inspecting the vehicle and speaks angrily into his phone.
Fraudley is still shouting as the heavy barriers drop and they are waved through the gate. “I don’t care what you have to do, just make sure anyone covering the story doesn’t refer to it as gain of function or directed evolution. Get them the information on viral engineering that explains how we are staying ahead of the next variant. And do it now or I’ll have your head on a platter.”
He ends the call, gets out of the limo, and enters the West Wing. Fraudley marches down the main hall of the White House office wing as if he owned it; then pushes a door open without knocking.
Bob Murphy, a stern executive in a dark pinstripe suit is behind his desk on a phone call, though Fraudley begins talking immediately, pacing in front of him. “What the hell is going on? I told you to make sure those Twitter accounts were shut down, now those criminals won’t shut up and are making more trouble than before. Obviously, you didn’t stay on top of it.”
Murphy hangs up the phone quickly and is overtly apologetic. “Dr. Fraudley, we did everything we could and the original board was compliant, but…”
“I’ve heard enough buts, and I’m not going to listen to your crap. You put the screws on that idiot who is letting anyone back on Twitter and let him know we’ll make him responsible for spreading lies that make people sick and die. Tell him he’ll be charged with murder and his billions won’t keep him out of prison.”
“I don’t know if I can tell him that,” Franklin says meekly. “I’d really need to run this by Justice.”
Fraudley is livid and leans over the desk, snarling at Franklin. “You don’t need anyone’s opinion but mine. Do it right now or I’ll go down the hall to your boss and make sure you’re outside on the street with the filthy homeless bums.”
“I’ll do everything I can.”
“You’ll do everything I say.”
With that said, Fraudley storms out.
In a brightly lit, huge, open-plan office of the Washington Herald, Bella Willing is at her computer typing. She is a rising star reporter at the newspaper, with an uncanny ability to find exclusive sources inside and outside of the government.
Bella is very clever, although naively believes she is on the side of truth and righteousness when there has been no sign of these attributes in Washington for a long time. She is proud to be a member of the corporate news world and trusts that the standards and practices of the free press are a blessing to democracy.
Throughout the pandemic, Bella believed that the information obtained from the government was reliable. She also felt that upstanding fact-checking organizations had provided valuable data for background on her numerous articles.
Recently though she’d been troubled.
She couldn’t ignore the increasing number of news reports about young athletes dying on the field and generally, the unexplained deaths; it was particularly obvious that no one was asking why. Without telling her colleagues or editor, she had gone down a rabbit hole on social media and emerged in a world where it was taken for granted that vaccines were causing severe side effects.
At first, it appeared to be the same rhetoric she had learned to ignore, but Bella quickly realized some serious scientists and doctors were presenting reasonable arguments. However, she still refused to believe that the pharmaceutical companies and government agencies would intentionally silence them.
Despite what she was learning, like many other reporters, she was still attached to her previous decisions and stories; accepting a different version of events from over the last few years would be devastating.
Bella is reading yet another report of a professional football player who suddenly collapsed when her phone rang. She looks to see who the caller is, and answers.
“Hey Myron, what’s up? Have you got something for me?”
Myron Banks is sitting in his plush office at the Center for Ultimate Truth, leaning almost too far back in his chair. There is an open folder with some papers spread out on his desk.
“I sure do. I just got some amazing info that I know you’ll appreciate. And if you publish it soon, it can be an exclusive, just for you.”
“Can you send it to me?” Myron hesitates as Bella waits impatiently for an answer.
“I’d like to tell you more about what we’ve got, but not over the phone. How about we meet at the usual place and then I take you out for lunch?”
“I’ll see you there in an hour.” Bella ends the call and goes back to reading. She finds it intriguing and strange that without any substantiation, all the reports of athletes collapsing are now insisting that the cause is not the vaccine.
Bella grabs her backpack and puts on her jacket she starts walking towards the office door. Then she returns to her desk and takes out a small audio recorder from a drawer. She puts it in her pocket and departs.
Bella and Myron emerge from the entrance of Union Station mixing in with the dozens of train passengers heading out into the city. They pass the waiting taxis and cross through traffic. Walking towards the Capitol building away from the din of the street noise, Myron begins his pitch.
“I’ve got a new source. We are going to start getting information about how the anti-vaxers are funded, and also how their investments contradict the rhetoric. I wanted to offer some incredible information to you first.”
Even though he has given her material for stories before, Bella senses that Myron is pressing her more than usual, and asks “Why me?”
“Because you’ll know the importance of what you’re looking at.”
They turn a corner and enter a restaurant within the shadow of the Capitol building. The dim lighting and private high-backed booths were designed for discreet encounters on Capitol Hill. Sitting across from each other, Myron takes out a folder from a thin briefcase and slides it across the table to Bella.
He speaks in a whisper, “Have a look at these.”
Bella goes through a few pages of documents and then looks up.
“Myron, most everything else you’ve given me before is supported by reports from federal agencies and medical trials. These financial files could be explosive, but I’m going to need to verify that they are what they seem to be. Where did you get them?”
With a crooked half-smile, Myron replies, “From an impeccable government source.”
Bella looks down again at the papers and then leans towards Myron and says, “Well, I’ll either need to know exactly how you got them, or you’ll have to tell me who gave them to you.”
Myron exudes the slickest false confidence. “Isn’t it enough to have proof in your hands that the most aggressive purveyors of anti-vax disinformation have invested in the vaccine?”
“No one will publish this without some kind of backup.”
Myron feigns confidence. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it for you. But I’d start writing your article before someone else gets a hold of these.”
Fraudley is irate as he storms back into his office, ignoring his assistant and slamming the door behind him. He sits behind his desk and calls Pedro Faschic, the executive director of GreenDay Partners, a conglomerate of laboratories that experiment with viruses, and the beneficiary of huge government grants.
Faschic is one of those special human beings who can’t help lying when his mouth opens, in his continuing attempts to manipulate others. He sincerely believes he has outsmarted the world. His company is an extension of his duplicitous personality. GreenDay appears to be involved with environmental concerns and protecting the world from emerging infectious diseases; however, GreenDay is just a cover for the darkest destructive research — developing biological warfare.
Faschic’s dealings with Fraudley have come under scrutiny. Publication of their email exchange provided a glimpse into the nature of the relationship — and Fraudley’s direct ties to the underbelly of risky experimentation with viruses.
Fraudley is yelling into his phone. “Now I find out that you don’t have any non-disclosure agreements with your employees, including this author who used to be your VP! Your guy just published a book with every detail we needed to keep under wraps. How can you be such an idiot?”
Faschic calmly defends himself. “Don’t worry Francis, he’s a veteran with PTSD, and admits to having a grudge against me for not taking his advice on how to run the company.”
“Everything he writes about in his book is explosive and will blow you out of the water. He’s getting ready to testify to Congress.”
“Calm down Francis, I’ve got at least ten people who will contradict everything he’s said.”
“Don’t tell me to calm down! You said if I could arrange for the local police and the FBI to put pressure on him, the book would never be published. Look, if this gets worse, I’ll be telling Congress that you’re the bad egg that was out of control. So you better fix this, and fast.”
Faschic is unshakeable. “Remember when this first started? You asked me to help make sure that gain of function was just another topic the conspiracy theorists were making up. We couldn’t let this get any traction. Well, I just did what you asked, I took the heat for a while, and then it all calmed down.”
Fraudley loses whatever composure he has remaining. “You’re on thin ice Faschic. And if need be, I’ve got everything ready to make sure you will sink and never come up for air.”
“Francis, don’t threaten me, I know that you and your buddies at Defense have set me up here. You won’t get away with it. If need be, I’ll tell the press and Congress everything. You can retire in a prison jumpsuit.”
Fraudley ends the call without replying and slams his phone on his desk.
Bella is in her editor’s office at the Herald. She sits across from Derek Sharp, whose insightful and aggressive investigative reporting over decades allowed him to rise in the ranks of corporate news. He is one of the most influential editors in Washington and is confident the Herald has covered the pandemic with appropriate dignity.
Sharp remained under incredible pressure from his publishers. Readership of the Herald had been shrinking and its online presence was the only hope for keeping it alive. He no longer thought like a reporter; his priorities were corporate. And Bella, his shining star, had insights that attracted younger readers, the new lifeblood of the paper.
After showing Sharp the documents she got from Myron, Bella makes her point. “Although this material is incredible, and would be picked up by all the partners of the Honest News Initiative, I’m concerned. They look legit, but we have to verify somehow that these are what they appear to be. They are only copies.”
Sharp shrugs and dismisses her concern. “You got these from your fact-checkers at the Center. We can cover ourselves and say it’s from them. That’s been good enough before and no one will be concerned.”
Bella presses him. “Something doesn’t seem right. I’m not sure what it is, but I want to see what I can find out — some kind of verification.”
“Look, these people are on the Corrupt and Cancelled list, they have already been discredited as spreaders of disinformation — no one will be surprised.”
“I don’t know, the atmosphere is different from a year ago. They have a vocal growing group of supporters and we need to be on solid ground. I’d like to get confirmation or a denial before writing about it.”
Sharp realizes he can’t say no to Bella; she reminds him of who he was as a young idealistic reporter. “Okay, do whatever you need to do, but let’s not sit on this, get right on it or it will show up somewhere else.”
Doctor Richard Reid and his wife, Dr. Susan Mills, are weeding a sprawling garden at their country farm in the rolling hills of Maryland, taking a break from what has been a grueling week of interviews and travel. The calm of their home is a salve for their hectic pace.
The route to Washington, D.C. through the historic countryside is under two hours, and they know the road well. Reid is one of the most respected cardiologists in the world, and for decades has testified before Congress regarding legislation that supported programs for cutting-edge research.
Susan is a renowned pediatrician who championed natural childbirth for decades. Most recently, she and Richard have become leading voices in a sober, critical view of the new line of vaccines for the virus associated with the pandemic. Both of them are interviewed regularly — the readership of their blog is greater than most national news websites.
They both look up as their dogs bark defensively, as they see an unfamiliar car approaching on their long driveway. The car stops near the garden gate and a young woman emerges.
“Sorry to just show up uninvited. I’m Bella Willing, a reporter for the Washington Herald, are you Dr. Reid and Dr. Mills? If you have a few minutes, I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
Susan and Richard look at each other, and although they are unshakeable and fearless, they know how the Herald has covered their perspective with venom. Nonetheless, Susan is cordial. “Why don’t you come inside for a cup of coffee.”
The three of them sit in a large kitchen at a round oak table. Susan offers Bella a homemade oatmeal cookie with her coffee, which she accepts gratefully. Richard breaks the silence. “So how can we help you today?”
Bella is surprised; she had expected a brief hostile, confrontation and denial. But somehow she feels very comfortable with Susan and Richard. They certainly did not come across as the misguided souls that the press had covered with derision over the last few years.
She takes a folder out of her backpack and puts it on the table. “I was given these files which seem to show that you have around fifty-thousand dollars invested in Pfakir Pharma. I thought it would be fair to allow you to comment on them before publication.”
Susan reaches for the folder and opens it, looking carefully at each page of copies of accounting records and tax returns. She passes each of them to Richard, who also looks over the pages. Neither of them seems to be surprised.
Bella is almost apologetic. “Before writing about these and making them public, I needed to know if they were yours.”
Susan smiles at her. “Bella, most people are surprised to learn that we are not crazy or outlaws. Both of us are doctors and have relied on the pharmaceutical industry as partners for many years. In the past, it made sense that we invested in these companies. But as soon as we started recognizing their duplicity, we sold all of our stocks. These are copies of our documents, and we did own shares in Pfakir about ten years ago, but someone has changed the dates on these papers.”
Somehow Bella is relieved. She knew intuitively there was something not right, and felt justified that she had come to speak with Susan and Richard. “Is there any way you can confirm that?”
“I’ll go get the originals, it won’t take long.”
While Richard and Bella sit waiting for Susan to return, she asks him something that has been troubling her. “As a cardiologist, do you have a theory about what’s happening to all the athletes getting myocarditis?”
“It’s not just athletes, but they are more susceptible to the effect of the vaccine on the heart. I can give you a couple of papers that explain why if you’re interested. It’s not rocket science, it just takes an open mind to understand.”
“That would be very helpful. Somehow this kind of analysis isn’t available.”
Richard laughs. “Oh it’s available, it’s just that no one wants to consider that the vaccine is doing more harm than good. But be careful Bella, once you scare the powerful with the truth — they will attack, slander, and belittle you — and reveal how they truly feel about freedom of speech.”
Susan returns with a few papers in hand and shows them to Bella. Her eyebrows raise when she sees that indeed the dates on the originals are nine years earlier than the copies she has.
Susan is also concerned for Bella. “I know you can’t tell us who gave you these falsified copies but be careful, whoever it is, you shouldn’t trust them. And when they discover you are no longer compliant, they’ll do anything to stop you.”
As Bella drives back to Washington, she reconsiders everything she has believed and written about the pandemic over the last few years. Recognizing that everything she reported was based on lies and deception, tears flood her eyes.
She arrives at the office and immediately goes to her editor, Derek Sharp.
Bella is emphatic. “There’s no doubt about it, the Center For Ultimate Truth is a propaganda front. Corrupt and Cancelled is a lie. The Honest News Initiative and Fraudley and his friends at the White House are all complicit in a huge fraud that has done incredible harm. How are we going to report this?”
Sharp looks out his window with a view of Washington, “I suppose that’s the important question.”
Noting his ambivalence, Bella simply says, “You’ll print it or the story will make headlines somewhere else.”