By Ray Wilson
The late afternoon sun illuminates the garden; beyond the paved courtyard, there is a fishpond. Beyond those manicured lawns and formal flower beds, there is shrubbery on the far borders.
“Watch him on the paving slabs with his walker, won’t you?” my missus says.
Frohike is adept at using his frame, and the terrain poses no difficulties. Laughter and frivolity percolate out of the care home lounge. Frohike’s birthday bash went down well. Tea and lashings of strawberry, cream and chocolate cake met with the approval of both the staff and residents.
“You know that the BBC was filming here this week,” my missus says.
“Really,” I say, imagining the narrative they would spin based on their lies by omission during stage one of the COVID debacle. It isn’t difficult to guess lashings of government approved propaganda-long COVID and COVID fear mongering. What is the psychological damage caused to the nation by illogical isolation rules, masks, and social distancing? Will the military grade democide unleashed on an unsuspecting, docile public get a mention? Veins were filled with the experimental juice, and human lives were destroyed. How about all the rest of the claptrap that the BBC wholeheartedly supported during the scamdemic?
I look at Frohike after two AstraZeneca jabs. He hadn’t seen a doctor in years until he got his so called vaccinations.
At this point, the mention of the British Brainwashing Corporation makes me feel queasy. The next day, me and the hound head for my dad’s village.
“Good morning,” I shout to my dad’s next door neighbour as I swing the motorcycle combination onto the drive.
She smiles and sketches a wave as she crosses the road to her car.
There is proper heat in the air; it’s just after seven in the morning.
“I’ve got the tools ready,” Rich explains. “We had better set all the levels before we get started.”
“Whoa, there, doggy,” Rich says with a chuckle as my hound races towards him.
It’s another Saturday project: a pent workshop to house the metalworking lathe and its cornucopia of tools. After marking out the concrete pad positions, we begin the excavation.
“It’s a bit like an archaeological dig,” I say, handing Rich a rear sprocket drive.
“That’s off of Frohike’s old FS1E motorcycle; he manufactured it specially for racing.” Rich examines it closely.
“What’s this, Rich?” I ask, holding up a broken red plastic lens.
“Incredible, that’s the FS1E rear light,” he replies. “Frohike had a knack for customising every part of that bike.” I nod in agreement, marvelling at the history behind each piece we uncover.
“It’s funny, Rich, I say. “Last night, Frohike was smiling because it was his birthday, but I could see him struggling to find words—there was no eye contact, just a vacant stare.”
Rich’s expression turns sombre. “He was always the life and soul of the party,” Rich reflects quietly. The pieces of the motorcycle suddenly feel heavier in our hands, carrying the weight of Frohike’s absence.
“He started doing repetitive actions and mumbled, What’s the point?, several times. That was pretty much all he said, Rich.” I use a small trough to remove the last layer of soil before we lower the concrete pad into the hole.
A couple of hours later, the concrete pads were in place, and the weight bearing timbers were sawn and ready to be lowered into position.
My brother Steve arrives to take dad shopping.
“Alright, Steve?” I ask.
“Busy, how’s Frohike doing?”
“Okay, my missus is concerned about what might happen if the government pulls another stunt that stops her from visiting him. She remembers her time with hospital staff gaslighting patients and their families, telling them they’ll die if they’re unvaccinated or if they don’t follow the hospital protocols.”
“COVID is still around,” Steve begins.
“Please, Steve, as a mind virus burned indelibly into the public’s heads . A lie enabled by fake PCR tests and misguided beliefs—rebranding the flu or any other ailment as COVID. Lies peddled by the BBC,” I reply heatedly. “We need to think critically. What if the BBC had genuinely given coverage of the Great Barrington Declaration or any of the London Freedom marches?” I add.
“Dad is about ready to go, Steve,” Rich interrupts , looking concerned.
“Let’s focus on Frohike getting him the care he needs instead of arguing about media narratives—the media are all brought and paid for anyway,” Rich suggests gently.
“If you get a chance, Steve, visit Sally; she’s in the IRU Ward; she would love to see you. Me and the Missus are going this afternoon,” I say.
“Okay, I will try to go in the week,” Steve replies.
By the time we arrive at the hospital, it is late afternoon, and the park has a vacant look about it, and we have the luxury of parking anywhere we like. As we walk towards the entrance, I notice it is closed—a barrier has been erected around it. Men in hi-vis jackets are busy with maintenance work, and diversion signs guide us in through a side door. The warm glow of the sun casts shadows across the grounds, creating a peaceful atmosphere that contrasts with the urgency of our visit.
“Hello Sally, you are in another ward then.”
“Am I?” she asks. She is dazed and disoriented. Not her normal self.
“Sally, it was Frohike’s birthday yesterday; we have brought you some cake.”
“How old is he now? He’s only young and in a care home; he was doing motorcycle engineering and whatnot.” Sally shakes her head, looking lost and confused.
“63 and a mere youngster,” I reply.
“What about your dad? How old is he now?”
“He’s 96,” my missus answers. “Can I have a quick look at the newspaper, Sally?”
“It’s all about wars. I survived being bombed out of my pram. Do you think there is another war coming?”
“That’s what the powers that should not be are trying to orchestrate—more talk of conscription,” I reply.
“All those poor young men in our family who died in WW1 and WW2, all for nothing,” Sally says sadly. “They were boasting about their money when I worked at the home office. The Bretton Woods system collapsed in the 1970s, and how they all got fat—I couldn’t bear it.”
The playbook of WW3 involves a severe global economic crisis, resource competition, famine, plagues, currency wars, political and social unrest, the burying of medical crime, geopolitical alliances, and potential trigger events such as the conflict over Ukraine. Taiwan, Middle Eastern conflict, cyber warfare, and environmental catastrophes. A crisis triggered by a major debt default, the collapse of key financial institutions, or disruptions in trade. Countries will resort to protectionism and competitive devaluation of their currencies to gain an economic advantage, disrupting global supply chains and fostering resentment among nations. The scenario would involve cyber warfare, technological disruption, medical genocide, and mass migrations due to engineered climate change-induced disasters.
“Well, Sally, you survived it last time; you can do it again,” I tell her.
“Suppose so. The ones who are fooled are the ones to watch,” she points out.
“Better eat up your cake, Sally.”
“Not the topping, just the sponge,” she replies. “Are we all going to be fooled again?”
I watch as she carefully picks off the frosting, leaving a pile of crumbs on her plate. I can see the worry in her eyes as she contemplates the future.
“Let’s hope not,” I say.
“If we all could just come together and say no, we are not fighting stupid wars, it would all end, wouldn’t it?”
I nod in agreement, knowing that only unity and cooperation are key to preventing such catastrophic scenarios from becoming a reality. We must stand up for freedom. It’s crucial for us to prioritise peace and understanding in order to build a better future for all and to understand that parasitical elites control world events only through our acquiescence.
