#KidCovid

“The Lord was born under a star but my baby was born under a hashtag.”

My Mother used to tell me that with half a smile. She said I didn’t cry when I was born, I just wheezed. My eyes sealed shut, I was oblivious to the fact that my barely three pound body was to be the single greatest nexus of digital fury and speculation since 9/11.

Before they had even cut me from her womb the media was already outside. Someone had leaked the nature of my condition to the world and the hungry eyed spectators wanted their first look at the cursed child.

#KIDCOVID …world’s first child born with severe symptomatic Covid-19. San Bernardino, California 5/8/2023

Millions of self appointed experts took to their keyboards to explain my existence. Was I the victim of a new strain? Was I a hoax? Was I an unfortunate anomaly, or the dark harbinger of a new normal? Official statements were issued. Pregnant women were quarantined.

Pfizer donated an experimental incubator. Dubbed ‘The Pfizer Egg’ due to its shape, it had been originally developed as an artificial uterus for sheep embryos, but was adapted to be a breathing chamber for me. I spent most of my first year of life inside of it.

Just before my first birthday the President visited me.

Our meeting was preserved in a world famous photo. The Peek-a-Breath as it came to be known, showed the President’s masked face, hands cupped on both sides so she could see into the plexiglass dome, two angel wings of escaped breath vapor flanking her wide eyes. My tiny left hand could be seen reaching above the mesh of breathing tubes and electrodes in my technological cradle as if to salute her or perhaps to beg for help.

A glossy TIME magazine icon of 21st century suffering, it was reproduced endlessly on shirts, murals, viral photoshop renditions on Instagram, and even as a bronze statue outside Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City. But most importantly, in tacky political ads.

“From George Floyd to Kid Covid, it’s time to make America breathe easy again…”

They took me out of the Egg after my first birthday. #KIDCOVID set an all-time GoFundMe record, raising 48.6 million dollars within a year of being posted. Most of that money went into the prototype for the Lite-Lung artificial respiratory system. The Lite-Lung was worn like a backpack, connected through a surgically implanted port in my esophagus. The device gave me some semblance of a normal childhood. I took my first steps. My father could play ball with me, albeit slowly.

The kids at school called me Vader or sometimes Bane, but I didn’t understand them. Even with my device, it was hard for me to sit for long periods without nodding off and this made television and school equally difficult to get through. Unfortunately, this wasn’t much of a concern, as the doctors had said that due to brain damage caused by my diminished lung capacity I would likely never exceed the cognitive abilities of a 5th grader.

More like me were born and soon I had hundreds of viral siblings. Symptomatic Natal Covid, or SNC for short, became the name of our condition. None of the new cases were nearly as severe as mine, however, which was a relief to everyone except for my parents. Still, it was enough to keep the panic going. The President announced her March of Hearts campaign. Modeled after FDR’s March of Dimes, the March of Hearts raised money for research to combat SNC. It was also the forerunner for the controversial ‘Kid Covid’ Bill that would mandate vaccinations for all pregnant women in the country.

“…Senate narrowly passes Kid Covid Bill… President expected to sign…”

After the bill was signed, we received a commemorative silver heart locket in the mail. A pair of lungs was engraved on the outside with an American flag shaped heart decal in the center. When opened it revealed the Peak-of-Breath photo next to a portrait of my parents.

By the time I was ten I had become old news. Instances of SNC had diminished, not a single one as sensational as my own, and the ‘miracle story’ of the Kid Covid and the Lite-Lung had been all but forgotten. Until my parents received an unbelievable offer. A certain eccentric billionaire publicly invited me to receive a new pair of artificial lungs as well as cutting edge neurotherapy that could restore nearly all of my cognitive capacity.

It seemed too good to be true because it almost was. The Billionaire was known for being something of a huckster. He was infamous for an artificial island amusement park which had partially collapsed into the ocean years prior, killing 73 people. Further, he insisted that the surgery had to be done in zero gravity on his private space station. On top of this, the U.S. government had banned all American citizens from receiving experimental surgeries. The new President was very opposed to the ungodly “transhumanist agenda.”

One hot July morning, however, my father packed my mother and me inside of a trashcan and rolled us to the corner. Federal officers had been watching us for weeks. A well bribed trashman picked us up a few hours later. By the time the feds noticed we were already in Mexico. And soon after that, Singapore. And soon after that, the ocean launch pad.

It’s a pity that I don’t remember outer space. I only remember the before and after. There was lots of crying. Mother couldn’t come with me. No excess weight was allowed. I remember the launch pad surrounded by the glaring white of the pacific ocean in the midday sun. I remember a group of masked men in neon orange and yellow jumpsuits yelling at each other as they funneled me into a tiny port hole in the side of a surprisingly small rocket. I remember my two astro-surgeons in white latex suits inside the ship, with nothing but their eyes showing, strapping me in between them. One of them patted me on the chest and said something vaguely reassuring as he adjusted the settings on the Lite-Lung before I slowly passed out.

Once again, #KIDCOVID held the eyes of the world. The rogue low orbit procedure was watched via livestream by hundreds of millions of people. I was suspended above the two surgeons in an aluminum box with a rectangular opening through which they performed the surgery. Millions gasped in horror as they removed my scarred, half dead lungs and replaced them with a shiny neon blue and pink 3D printed pair. My shaved head was then pulled down into full view of the camera as the brain surgery began. Holes were drilled into my skull so that tiny implants could be injected directly into my brain — nano spores modeled after benign tumors that would germinate synaptic growth.

When I woke up I was in a hospital in Beijing. A nurse slowly explained to me that my mother and the Billionaire had been arrested and sent back to the U.S. where the two of them along with my father faced charges of child endangerment. Fearing a similar fate, the crew of my ship had decided to defect to China.

Thus my first job as a human PR victory began.

I toured schools throughout the People’s Republic. I spoke of the backwards and anti-science nature of the degenerate west. I bowed my head so children could see the little bumps left on my scalp; the evenly placed beads of scar tissue that felt like braille. I held their hands to my chest so they could feel the strange, mechanical hum of my new lungs. Despite the pain of losing my family, it was the happiest time of my life. Free at last from the Lite-Lung, my cognitive abilities started showing marked and exponential improvement. I could read a whole book by myself for the first time, without passing out. Finally, I could understand myself and the world. I could think clearly for the first time. But that's when the real headaches started.

Former CCP darling arrested with over 60 pounds of Phenoxen #KIDCOVID

At age 19 I was arrested in Hong Kong for possession. A sympathetic police chief gave me a word of advice. He told me to defect to the U.S. before the Chinese government had me deported or disappeared. Maybe I could still “catch the welcome wagon,” he said in English. I took that advice, and a bag of Phenoxen in my bum, straight to the American embassy.

Outside of a hotel in Austin coming off the tail end of a three week bender, I saw a billboard with the Peak-of-Breath photo on it. The text at the bottom read:

WOMB WITH A VIEW. WHAT’S YOUR EXCUSE?

Apparently it was some kind of pro-life message. It was sun faded, and clearly old because they had started transferring unwanted kids to Pfizer Eggs years ago. But it did something to me. Broke and broken, I had no paths in life left but to cash in on my unwanted celebrity.

KID COVID: AS I LIVE AND BREATH became a bestseller. I was once again the perfect curiosity for the new era of Sino-American conflict. A prodigal child, lost but now found, I started my second job as a human PR victory. I made all the talk show and podcast rounds. I spoke about how the East was oppressive and backwards, and that they had brainwashed me. I sobbed about how despite being out on parole my parents didn’t want to see me because I was a junkie.

It was all great propaganda for the early months of the war.

The western media called it the ‘Pacific Conflict’ but everyone online called it #WW3. Unlike its predecessors, World War III had surprisingly low human casualties. It was fought mostly with privateer drones which would text cargo ships and tell them they were scheduled to be sunk within the hour. Chinese and U.S. warships would then come to rescue the sailors. The rival nations would circle each other and read dire warnings via loudspeaker for several hours punctuated by the occasional warning shot before finally allowing some neutral country to rescue them.

Eventually, merchant ships armed themselves with nanoparticle missiles. Fired into the air, these cutting edge weapons would release trillions of magnetized nanoparticles that would disrupt 5G networks and even down enemy drones. The particles were designed to dissolve completely within 48 hours.

I remember sitting with crowds gathered on the beach at sundown watching the horizon for the occasional glimpse of nanoparticle induced aurora borealis.

Hundreds of thousands of payloads were released during the war. Trillions of particles dissolved into nothing over the world’s oceans. But a few million remained. World War III ended up having the unique distinction of being the only war that didn’t start killing large numbers of people until after hostilities ended. The nanoparticles became a Covid that no vaccine could cure. Not only did nanoparticles poison the human respiratory system, they slowly eroded most electronics.

Civilization didn’t last long after that.

And yet, my artificial lungs, made mostly out of synthetic plastics, seem unaffected. It’s quiet in California now. The birds are long gone but the plants are doing ok. I take long trips up and down the coast exploring any suburban ruins I think might have something of value. When I see the occasional fellow marauder, always sporting some kind of homemade motorcyclist-meets-scuba-diver breathing contraption, they always just stop and stare at me in disbelief.

I wave politely, and continue on.

I spend most nights on the beach now with my silver locket, the only thing I have left from my Kid Covid days, worn proudly around my neck. And as the mighty ocean swells I breathe in with it...

in and out… in and out… in and out…