Manifesto of the Inoculationist Liberation Front

By Ralph Benton

Enough is enough!

We, the rational humanists of the Inoculationist Liberation Front, do hereby pledge our hands and minds to the establishment of Covid-19 herd immunity. This we shall achieve through education, encouragement, and direct action. No longer shall we hobble ourselves to indulge the whims of those who cloak selfishness in liberty. The willfully ignorant, who refuse to see and think, will be saved despite themselves, for the benefit of us all.

Scientia est libertas!

A record of direct actions undertaken by the ILF,
as recorded by Commander Moderna Johnson

Day Zero

I create this record as a memorial to all those who know that action, not mere rhetoric, are necessary in the face of this madness. The least of us suffer the most, yet we sigh and shrug as the classrooms are shut down, businesses fail, and the economy stumbles, simply to protect those who refuse to protect themselves. Yet to simply watch them die of their own ignorance is in itself an immoral act, when a solution is at hand. An extreme solution, a controversial solution, but the only justifiable path forward.

Tomorrow the ILF launches the nation's first direct action campaign to build herd immunity! Wish us well, for the sake of the nation.

Day One

We did it! This morning we bestowed our first gift to a lucky woman outside the Winn-Dixie here in soon-to-be-famous Shelbyville, Missouri. Me and Private Salk waited inside the back doors of the van, while Lady Mary Montagu prepped the J&J. She's worked at the Memorial ER for about twelve years, and has given more shots than there are stars in the sky.

Of course we know that the J&J isn't quite as formidable as the others. But the Action Planning Committee felt that our targets might not be the best candidates for the necessary follow-up treatments.

And there she was, proudly sporting a "My Body My Choice" t-shirt.

"Odd, I don't remember seeing her at the pro-choice rallies," Lady Montagu muttered.

"I don't think she signed the weed legalization petition either," Salk added.

"Pipe down," I ordered. "Stay focused. This is it."

She sauntered by the van, heading for the maroon F-250 sporting a mischievous Calvin pissing on the name Pelosi. "Go!" I shouted. Salk threw open the doors and we jumped out. Ms. Choice, shocked and awed, didn't move until we grabbed her arms. Then she started to fight.

"Are you ISIS?" she shouted. Me and Salk had her against the van. Lady Montagu swabbed her arm and jabbed the needle. In less than ten seconds it was done.

"What did you do to me?" the newly vested member of the inoculated class shrieked. "Is it the gay drug?"

"Welcome to the herd," I told her and jumped in the van. Salk had us on the freeway in three minutes.

God that felt good!

Day Seven

Well, that was different.

There we were, idling in the Odessa county fairgrounds parking lot, listening to the roars as the local WWE wannabes beat each other with chairs and filing cabinets. Scuttlebutt around the funnel cake stand was that the most hated villain on the bill wore a rainbow cape and called himself The Lib.

We spotted a middle-aged lady coming our way. Looked normal enough, but we had seen the truck she got out of earlier. So much hate, so little bumper. Salk cracked the van door. Lady M. pulled a vial from the mini-fridge. Go time.

Our fresh cow didn't say a word, didn't offer a hint of resistance. She smiled. Whoa.

"Oh, thank goodness!" she giggled as the needle slid in. We had seen all sorts of reactions to our ministrations, but giddy was new. Lady M. gave her a questioning look. "My husband, he's the worst kind of Fox News addict. Even after his brother-in-law died of Covid he said it was a hoax. I've been wanting to get the shot for months, but I haven't dared. Thank you!"

We watched her walk away. What a world.

Day Twelve

We're really making a mark, we're really making a difference. This is so exciting!

The news pinheads are calling us "Vigilante Vaxxers," which really is a cheap slur. Vigilantes work outside the law, doing the jobs that the authorities cannot or will not, despite denunciation by those same authorities.

OK, maybe the vigilante slur isn't that inaccurate. But it fails to properly convey the moral foundation of our work! The news outlets, out of fear, laziness, or any other characteristic that defines modern journalism, refuse to publicize our reasoning. That's fine. We'll continue to leave flyers at the scenes of our charity work that include links to our manifesto and supporting documentation. We're using a heavily secured VPN, of course.

In an interesting twist, the Washington Times asked Anonymous to dox us, and they refused. Their posted answer was, "While their methods are extreme, in the end the ILF are not doing any harm. In fact they are helping, both their targets and society." Yes! Some people get it.

Day Fifteen

A philosopher. Lord save us from those who would debate the tide.

It was our sixth jab of the day. We'd pulled the guy's face from a batch of Fourth of July pics a pro-virus Facebook group posted. The fact that three of the revelers came down with Covid the following week didn't dampened their narcissistic vitriol by the width of a needle.

Anyway, we got him heading home from Elks' bingo. He knew who we were as soon as Salk opened the van doors.

"I won't resist," he said. "Don't need a broken needle." Had he heard about Sioux City? "Here to impose your will on me, are you?"

Salk flinched a little at that. He's the most libertarian of us.

The guy stared at me. Not threatening, not scared, but more like he wanted to see me deeply. "What's next?" he asked, as Lady M. gave his arm a final wipe.

"Off to Wyoming," I said. "And that's enough intel for you." I held out a flyer, which he ignored.

"No, what choice of yours do you plan on inflicting on others? Sew shut the mouths of the obese?"

Snarky bastard.

"Covid is different," Lady M. answered. "If your choice only affected you, go nuts. But your inaction is harming me and everyone, all of society. And for no reason," she added, in a voice toughened by her last six months in the emergency room, "except some sort of juvenile rejection of authority."

"Juvenile, I see, I see," he said, as if considering the gravity of her words. "Will you start injecting habitual drunk drivers with Anabuse?"

"I can think of worse ways to spend our time," I shot back.

Sure, his face said, perhaps.

"Why not define racism as a personality disorder," he persisted, "and mandate psychoactives? That's what the Soviets did with their wrong-thinkers."

I slammed the door in his face.

"Nut," I said.

But the van was quiet for the rest of the drive.

Day Nineteen

As expected, our quarry has become more elusive. The t-shirts have vanished and MAGA hats are sparse. But not in all places.

Lieutenant Gerrymander recently completed an outstanding piece of work, looking for House districts with greater than 65% Republican vote. Jackpot! Thanks to both parties busily subverting democracy, we have dozens of districts to visit where congregate those who die gloriously free of intravenous nano-trackers.

Tomorrow we're off to Cullman, Alabama!

Day Twenty

Oh yes. A target-rich environment. This will be fun. This town is in as need of enlightenment as any place I've ever seen.

Day Twenty-three

Bastards! We knew the benighted would strike back, but this!

Salk parked the Trumper van in the parking lot of the VFW and we waited for a lone patriot to weave his way out of the place. Sure enough, there he was, Gomer in the flesh, taking three or four steps where two would do. An easy inoculee, we figured, particularly in his state.

We popped the doors, and in a blink wobbly Gomer became steely Rambo. The 9mm pointed at my face didn't waver. In seconds five of his friends had us zip-tied and hustled into the alley. I was sweating. Who knows what these conspiracy loons might do? When their own Nurse Ratched whipped out a needle we all froze up, but Gomer just laughed.

"Shit, y'all, we're gonna give ya sumthin' that really works 'gainst the China virus. Billie Jean, give 'em the good stuff!"

"What, what's in it?" Lady Montagu managed. She knew better than anyone just how fucked up a single injection could end up.

"Jus' relax, honey pie," Nurse Ratched cooed. A USB stick labeled "5G Biosheld" hung around her neck. "Nuthin' you need to worry about! Just a spoonful of Zitroneer, God's own miracle elixir."

I felt Lady M. relax. Whew.

"Got it off the dark web," the short one with the pointy boots said. "Nuthin' those Freemasons at the FDA need to know about."

The contemplation of the dark hole at the end of a gun barrel does wonders for one's compliance. We stood and allowed ourselves to be given the antibiotics that somehow were supposed to work as an anti-viral.

Once Salk had gotten his shot I spoke up. "All right, you've had your fun. Cut us loose and we'll be out of town before sundown." This was technically a kidnapping, after all. Salk stuck out his bound wrists for release.

"Not so fast," pointy boots said. "Got to show you some south'rn hospitality, no hard feelin's and all that." He pulled out a white paper bag, a bag illustrated with yellow arches. "We figure part of the reason you folks are so down on ordin'ry 'mericans is 'cause you done lost touch with your roots. Well, let's just break bread together." He forced Big Macs into our hands. "Now, eat!"

Salk shrugged and went to town, he was fine. I looked at that processed, flavorless bun, those limp strands of unfair trade lettuce, that orange goo that oozed over my skin, and, worst of all, that blackened patty, a perfect Platonic disk, concocted from a dozen tortured cows, or some other sort of protein. A nightmare simulacrum of food. I threw up a little in my throat, and took a bite.

Lady Montagu said, "I'm not eating this, I'm a vegetarian."

That provoked howls of delight. When the hilarity died down the veteran grew still, still as death. He stepped up and pushed the gun hard enough against her temple to force her head to her shoulder.

"Not today, you ain't. Eat it."

He didn't move the gun until she was finished. She looked grey, from the gun or the burger I couldn't say.

"Now!" pointy boots said. "Let's remember we're all Americans here! Stand tall, and recite the Pledge of Allegiance." He looked at us, a grin drifting under his perfectly waxed handlebar mustache.

"I don't know the words," Salk said. "So I can't."

Pointy boots didn't hesitate, just swung his leg and planted one of those boots right into Salk's balls. He dropped.

Immediately Lady Montagu and I began, "I pledge allegiance ..."

That was pretty much the end of the show. We stumbled back to the van, and Salk took us into Atlanta under the soothing voice of Audie Cornish.

Day Seventy-seven

We're winning. Not without cost (I came down with a wicked rash after that burger), but we are winning. Daily deaths in the US are back under a hundred people a day, the best since March of 2020. We're at close to 87% vaccinated or in recovery, which means that we have reached herd immunity.

The ILF came, we inoculated, and now we shall disappear.

But Covid isn't going to disappear, that is a fact. Where will it strike next?

Perhaps in those "Freedom Camps" Tucker and Laura are talking up. Sure, move to Wyoming and set up a tent city. Just a few hundred unvaccinated patriots in close proximity. The 'rona wouldn't dare show up there!