I've Been Doxxed

Here's How You Can Help Me Before They Send Me to Prison

ChatGPT thinks its a real tough guy. I asked it to review my book, Pandemonia: A Novel Plague Plague Novel, but instead of reviewing, this uppity LLM decreased my social credit score and preemptively added the book to the real banned books list. Now it seems that when the authorities catch me, I’ll be doing hard time in a North Korean Labor camp.

Before I am doxxed by the NSA, I’m getting ahead of all this.

This is important.

My real name is Doctor Anthony Fauci.

All that stuff about COVID? Here’s the truth. I was possessed by a demon and I pray that God forgives me. Sure, I had a lifelong lust for power and status. Who doesn’t? Even this guy was playing status games:

But I didn’t do all that bad stuff on my own. The forces of Hell pried open my weak soul and made me do unspeakable things to the fats of America. Luckily, our Catholic Vice President, JD Vance (Peace be Upon Him) was able to slip some holy water into my personal stash of vaccines. The vaccines enhanced my occult powers and strengthened my hold over the minds of the gullible. But now that I’m off the juice, I’m just an old Georgetown professor, withered by the eye of Sauron, stinging my sinful flesh.

Before this book burns and my legacy is consumed by the demonic forces tearing our world apart, I have to try and get my message out. In Pandemonia: A Novel Plague Plague Novel, I cleverly disguised myself as Doctor Ant Sickle, the Royal Physician. Like me, Doctor Sickle stumbled upon a forbidden and arcane magic, a pestilence from an ancient kingdom across the Sea.

Here is how it all went down back in 2020 - complete with audio companion!

It was a moonless night in early-Spring. The firmament had slipped on its inky black undergarment and was begging for some mischief, perhaps a spanking. It was an ideal night for spooky skullduggery.

“Nyheh-heh-heh-heh!” thought Dr. Sickle as he tiptoed through the District of Quagmerica’s silent walkways. He wore his black scrubs so as not to be seen, and if accosted or spotted, he could always claim he was on route to perform one of his discreet “reality reassignment surgeries” that assisted in separating a pregnant mother from her unwanted fetus. A soundtrack of suspenseful string music fit for espionage echoed in his auditory cortex.

Confident no one was watching, he pulled the Crystal from his robes. He drew on its ether. Or did it draw on him? No time for metaphysics. He breathed a quick magic spell to remotely extinguish the gas lamps illuminating the streets. Now he could operate as he generally preferred: without transparency.

He picked the lock of the service hatch under the towering phallus of Gorge Cockington’s monument, and descended the lichen-laden ladder into the pump station. The musty smell of sand and charcoal filtration waging aquatic germ warfare against insidious microbes struck him on his bell-ended snout. The pump room was a large circular room ringed with a six-foot-wide moat for unclean water, known as a settling basin. It enclosed three more rings, equal in width, each containing gravel, charcoal, and sand. The filtered water flowed into a basin in the middle, its radius equal to that of the three rings surrounding it. On a metal grated platform in the middle of the clean water basin, there pumped a massive pump that fed a pressurized chamber. This chamber stored, and eventually released, the needed energy for the penis-shaped monument’s daily majestic spurt. An ancillary pump distributed water throughout the city via a more modest horizontal aqueduct and, during moisture emergencies, would divert water to levy-protected reservoir on the south side of the Portomire River.

“Let’s get this party started,” dinged the Crystal. Sickle opened his duffel bag and procured a brass beaker. He placed the Crystal on its mouth, but it was slightly too large to fit in the base chamber. The Doctor sliced his palm with a razor-sharp pocket scythe.

“You’re a doctor, and you decided to just cut your palm, huh?”

“What?” said Sickle, suddenly defensive and self-conscious. “I saw it in a play and thought it looked cool."

“Hey, whatever you say, Thespian Theo. I mean, you’ll need some manual dexterity to finish the task at hand. Oh well, it’s too late to consider cutting your forearm now.”

“I’ll be fine,” snapped Sickle, and he drizzled his blood onto the Crystal.

“Mmm,” moaned the Crystal ecstatically, “that’s the stuff." It began to spin, steaming with purple mist as the dim light around it lurched inward. It squoze itself into the beaker and bubbled. “Oooh, that’s a nice stretch. OK, quick, tip me over and pour me out!” the voice chimed from inside the beaker.

Sickle wrapped his hand with a bandage and upended the beaker into the dark waters below. The water roiled, the surrounding ripples flashed purple-not-purple, as something resembling a giant black sea urchin bobbed to the surface. It split apart down the middle, hatching two identical creatures, and the husk evaporated in a purple mist. The two smaller urchins repeated the process, creating four urchins, and the exponential process continued until the urchins became microscopic. The entire surface of the pool became covered in a sickly purple glean, not unlike an oil spill. The mass swirled around the water and surged toward the pump’s inlet valve, which put the machine into overdrive. Corrupted water swelled and sought an exit path.

High above, at the tip of the monument, no one bore witness to Gorge Cockington’s ghastly nocturnal emission.

Sickle gazed down at the water in consternation: what had happened to his precious Crystal? The surface stirred once more, and a winged purple demon leapt high out of the pool and floated gently beside Sickle on the platform. “That’s brisk, baby!” it shouted. It was the shape of a slender man, long-apendaged and angular. Glowing purple varicose veins streaked its skin. The nose and smirk hooked in that classically demonic fashion. The crown of its head was ringed by bony black spikes. The eyes were close together, inset and alert, with irises the color of dark matter.

“Not bad for Phase One,” it said in a voice like smoke bubbling in a marijuana bong. “Thanks for the donation." The pair simultaneously sucked fluid from the sides of their mouths, nervous spittle for Sickle, and satisfying blood for the mysterious figure. “Don’t just stand there with your mouth hanging open, partner. Did you think I was just some kind of talking magic crystal?"

“Of course not!” sputtered Sickle, reclaiming his cold, clinical air. “But a scientist never makes assumptions unless backed by empirical data.”

“Yeah, sure. Hey, ever hear that any sufficiently advanced science is indistinguishable from magic?”

“Science is better than magic.”

“Well, we’re going to use the little magic of influence to implement our plan, remember? Empirical data won't be enough to mask your reliance on post-hoc justification. We need to be men of action. Don't worry, we'll do it in a scientific way." He paused. “Eons in that cramped structure must have bereaved me of my manners. Call me Corona." He extended his hand, his wrist and knuckle joints bending uncannily. Sickle took the hand reluctantly in an effete “how do you do?” embrace.

“Well Corona, I guess you’re free now. You have my thanks for your sage guidance.”

The demon’s gurgling laughter filled the chamber. “You’ve got the playbook, but you’re going to need me riding shotgun with you. Also, it might not look like it, but this body isn’t going to hold up too long. I will need to borrow your strength for a while. When the potion takes hold and Quagmerica is healthy again, I can become corporeal. We need each other, and this is a partnership, after all.”

Sickle squinted through his spectacles, “What did you have in mind?”

The demon grinned ominously. His smile, a delayed reflex, widened a second too late. “Open up that cockpit, captain. I’m climbing aboard.”

Before Sickle could protest further, Corona folded his wings behind him, pried Sickle’s mouth wide open with his clawed fingers, and disappeared inside.