The Misadventures of Lead Feather“The Monkeypox Memo” The Iron Quill

The Misadventures of Lead Feather“The Monkeypox Memo”
The Iron Quill

It began, as all of Lead Feather’s medical emergencies do, with a voicemail from a provincial number and the unmistakable dread of bureaucratic intrusion.
“Mr. Feather,” the voice said, “this is Saskatchewan Health Services. Due to your… um, promiscuous history… you’ve been flagged as a high-risk candidate for the monkeypox vaccine.”

Now, I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that they called him, or the fact that they already knew. According to the government, Lead Feather’s love life was apparently a public health concern. I told him long ago that the combination of Pride Week, 1980s key parties, and a hot tub in Regina would come back to haunt him.

Naturally, Lead Feather was furious.

“Who the hell keeps records like that?!” he roared, knocking over a glass of vodka-orange (his breakfast).

“You do,” I reminded him. “You once live-blogged your trip to a swingers’ retreat.”

“Oh right,” he muttered. “Well… that was art.”

The Clinic Visit
We arrived at the pop-up vaccine site in downtown Moose Jaw, which looked like someone had glued a rainbow flag to a FEMA tent. Lead Feather strolled in with the swagger of a man who once protested war but now feared his immune system.

The intake nurse looked over her clipboard and then did a double take.

“Ah… Mr. Feather? We flagged you due to… uh… ‘multiple high-risk encounters between 1977 and 2014.’”

Lead Feather beamed. “That’s what I call a legacy!”

“No sir, that’s what we call a cluster outbreak.”

They handed him a consent form the size of a Liberal budget bill. It asked questions like:

Have you had contact with exotic animals?

Have you participated in group activities involving leather furniture?

Have you attended any events sponsored by the Trudeau Foundation?

Lead Feather checked “yes” for all three and added a smiley face.

Side Effects May Include… Revelation
As they jabbed him with the latest experimental blend of monkeypox mRNA, he slurred, “This better come with a donut.” The nurse ignored him, but I could see her scribble “possible flight risk” on his file.

Twenty minutes later, as we sat in the post-shot observation room (read: a folding chair under a tarp), Lead Feather looked at me with bleary, vaccine-hazy eyes.

“You know what’s funny?” he said.

“Not usually,” I replied.

“I trusted these people,” he whispered. “I let them tell me who to fear, who to blame, what to inject, what to suppress, and now they’re poking me because I once dated a DJ in Montreal named Ramón.”

He paused, visibly reflecting.

“…I think I might be conservative now.”

Moral of the Story:
If the government knows more about your bedroom than your doctor does, you’re not living in a free country.

And if they keep injecting you for the mistakes of your past, ask yourself:

Are they really healing you—or just making sure you stay sick enough to obey?

This has been another misadventure of Lead Feather—

—boomer, believer, and now… unwilling test subject #64782 in Saskatchewan’s public health theatre.

— The Iron Quill