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My Mother Drives Me in the Rain, 2000

Folks over at Moderna won’t be happy until it takes you three days to recover from the jab and aerosolized COVID bursts into flames within a 30-meter radius. Just walk directly into the hospital and hear crackling and shrieking from the ECMO ward as the patients remove their masks too early and get a backdraft situation. Walk right up to God and give him back the corpse of his precious virus. Better luck with your next plague, asshole. We knew how to make a number bigger.

Guy stands behind you at the 7-11, gets a little bit too close, breathes on your neck and it just blows his throat open. Headless corpses littered all around the gas station. You’ll be shooting up with Scanners-style boosters between particularly risky visits to Home Depot. Trying to get your range to a full kilometre sitting on the vaccine amplifier. Fuckin’ Professor X, plugged into Moderna’s Cerebro, psychically throwing immunization at the developing world.

Your blood is just incredibly aggressive T-cells, they start disintegrating the sample needles when the WHO kicks down the door looking for the gigavaccine patient zero.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have let it out,” you say as your eyes roll back in your head. Now that it’s loose from the host, it detects traces of other coronaviruses on their feet and legs. Sees the little spikes. Goodbye.

Day Two of containment breach: 100.000000% vaccinated.

Day Three: the T-cells got bored, mutated, and decided to fuck up polio too because it “looks kinda similar.” Average human life expectancy is now 739 years. The earth’s surface is a never-ending roaring hellfire, a Gaian apocalypse. Someone coughs in the subway in Seoul and is immediately reduced to his constituent atoms, mere grist for the immune system.

Florence Welch & John William Waterhouse