This figure turned up, walking towards the most remote mooring on our back-water. I didn’t recognise him, and - careful of unidentified strangers in our secluded corner of the woods - I watched what happened.
Oddly the dog who lives there - a Cane Corso/Dutch Shepherd cross, a serious dog - made no outcry when he went aboard.
Surprised, I asked my neighbour when she came ashore afterwards, taking the dog for pee: “Coby didn’t bark. Why was that?” “Well” she said, “It was Nick. He knows Nick of old. Recognised his voice. Nick was bringing me my prescription.”
“Good god!” says I, “was that Nick? He was speaking affably to me, and me responding likewise, but all the while I was thinking: ‘Crikey, my eyes are getting bad. I can’t recognise who this is!’”
“I know”, says she, “It’s the injections. He’s having a bad auto-immune reaction.”
“But he seems to have shrunk. I didn’t recognise him.”
“Exactly. Not that tall confident man we used to know…”
This is the most shocking direct personal witness that I’ve had so far of the damage done by the poison-stabs: an old acquaintance so changed by it that you’re not even sure it’s him… Age about fifty; what’s his prognosis now…?
I suggested that she advise him to do a search on Joe Mercola’s website, to get some low-down on what the frontline doctors have discovered so far by trial and error, about healing the injection damages.
A shocking incident to me.