Lord of the ‘Rona: The Two Covid Treatments

Because fantasy and humour are now the correct responses to this pandemic

It was a strange and special occurrence in the enchanted forests of Middle Earth: the Ents — the ancient Shepherds of the Trees  — are meeting in person. Serious matters had arisen, and it was time to leave Zoom behind to deal with the situation face-to-face, branch-to-branch. 

For there was a new threat to their wooded abode, and to the barren lands surrounding — a dark, deadly menace from the East; Orcs crowned in deadly spikes, capable of moving between hiding spots at a speed never before seen.

How bad was the new threat? Some say they had been created in — and even leaked from — a high security lab in the depths of Wuhan, or at least as the Mordor-stream Media would now have you believe. 

Of course, it could all be an elaborate psy-op to turn the latest mildly-tweaked Orc technology into something more foreign and more artificial and more terrifying. Concocted perhaps as part of a broader propaganda strategy by the cunning Elf elite — the Master race of genetic superiors, who have long played both sides to further cement their control over the masses. 

There are even a few vocal community members — those scoundrels on the street corners that make the other townsfolk uncomfortable — who say there isn’t even a new army coming at all: that the idea of foreign invaders is simply a way to keep the masses fearful and locked down in perpetuity. 

But regardless of the actual truth, the immediate truth is people are scared — and sick. From the heights of Isengard, the Bespectacled Doctor in the Labcoat — white, pristine yet inexplicably menacingly — gives his fear-inducing, fact-distorting proclamations to those gathered expectingly below. And with this fear, they grow progressively more desperate. Whether the fears are real or imagined, there now seems little hope of withstanding the impending onset of spike protein armies without some form of pharmaceutical intervention.

It is for this reason that the Ents are meeting. As part of their divinely-ordained role as protectors of the forests, they have been bestowed several key regulatory functions — including the task of deciding on the appropriate time to approve such therapeutic interventions for combating invading hordes.

Present at the Ent meeting, for reasons beyond the scope of this story, were two nosy hobbitses. Known for smoking their strange smelling plant while poking fun at the bigger folk for their foolishness and gullibility, these little creatures rarely insert themselves into everyday politics. But even they realised the seriousness of the situation — that it might soon impede on even their introverted lifestyles. 

As the meeting meandered on, the Shire-folk became increasingly frustrated. They started to wonder why the Ents — despite their drawling nature, slow reactions, their propensity for conservatism and caution even in the face of eminent threat — had been given such a task. One of the hobbits, perhaps rudely, interjected:

“What about Ivermectin, hey? You know, the anti-parasitic drug that people take safely every week to prevent river blindness for a few bucks a pill that has now been found from meta-analyses of randomised control trials to reduce hospitalisation and mortality anywhere up to 80% when used as an early intervention for the wounded and that one observational study even found 100% efficacy at warding off the invaders when used before battle as a prophylactic you know that one?”

Turns out, habitual pipe weed use is conducive to a thorough understanding of the ins and outs of scientific debates of controversial repurposed drugs. 

Taking the interjection in their stride, unflummoxed as ever, the chair of the Ent committee — Treebeard — re-iterated their position. 

“We have… already in place… safe and effective… protection… safe and effective… vaccines… safe and…”

At the mention of the vaccine, the same hobbit was up. He had been waiting for this, and had the whole spiel ready: the blood clots, the myocarditis in teenagers, the rogue and potentially dangerous spike proteins circulating around the body. He was even going to go full ‘depopulation agenda’ on these naive wood-heads.

But the other hobbit sensed it, and got in first. The more observant, considered, the least impulsive of the two, he had seen how this approach had gone down before, when his companion got that manic conspiracy theorist look in his eyes. He knew that Treebeard and his languorous colleagues would not even engage in this narrative. He had a better idea — an analogy! 

“Treebeard: do you like Tacos?”

An unconventional question to ask a being that apparently subsists on water and sunlight, perhaps, but he persisted.

"Well some people like soft taco shells, and some like them hard. It is often made into a false dichotomy. But… why not both?”

“Why can’t you offer both shell types to everyone, allow them to make that choice themselves, based on their own personal worldview of corn-bread texture? Hey, you could even let them have both if they really wanted: combining an inner crunchy shell supported through layers of sour cream and guacamole with a soft outer coverage that maintains the interior’s integrity even after cracking?”

Our outspoken hobbit turned is head towards his partner just enough to stare at him out of the corner of his eye. He wasn’t about to try this one, was he?

“Well, it’s not that unlike the situation we face here. If someone wants to choose an experimental gene-therapy-lite technology to protect them from the filthy Orcs — if that is the trust they place in science, and the role that they would like to place science in their lives — then that is perfectly fine.

“But if they would instead choose to take a naturally-derived therapeutic instead — one that has shown great promise in trials, both as a prophylactic and early intervention — and for which we now have a growing number of extraordinary battle reports and survivor anecdotes trickling in from the outer frontiers of the resistance, suggesting they have never seen anything like the ability of this drug to stop the spiked nemesis dead in its tracks… why should they not have this weapon as easily available to them as possible?

“As the taco girl said, they could even have both! Get the vaccine, and if that defence was to crack, as it now appears it does for many, they can even have the backup there ready to save the day!”

His partner started… but then stopped. 

He could have pointed out that the choice of taco shell didn’t generally have potential life or death consequences. That such choice wasn’t typically tied to the inherent morality of a person, or aggressively pushed onto children. 

He really wanted to pose the question: can we at least agree not politicise the taco shell debate by blatantly favouring the option that stands to make an obscene amount of money for the Big-Mex industry?

But he could see the angle that his friend was working here, so stayed quiet.

Treebeard paused. It was a convincing argument. 

But then — not unlike the slimy whisperings of Grima Wormtongue in his ear — the official advice of the Elvish elite, passed on just before the gathering with impeccable timing and perfectly worded Western scientific fence-sitting language, floated into his inner vision. 

“No… No. We… have spoken. We have decided… that… there is no… reason for us to intervene. The data… the data remains inconclusive. We await… clear and conclusive evidence… a randomised control trial… large sample size… Oxford… maybe Harvard… Fauci… We will… continue to watch closely… remain hopeful… Ivermectin may prove effective… One day… Yes… Yes.”

The sound of small teeth grinding could be heard throughout the enchanted forest, as Treebeard picked up the two little people and prepared to escort them back on their journey home.

But hobbits are eternal optimists. No black pills, only grass and ale. There was always hope.

“Treebeard, can you take us south instead?”

“South?”

“Yes south. To the bottom of the forrest, in the darkness and murk of social media?”

Treebeard was confused.

“But, little ones, why? Why would you want to go there, into the reaches of the enemy?”

But the Ents, for all their perceived flaws of inaction, were nothing if not humble and hospitable. 

“Hmm. Well you are small, so perhaps you are right.”

As they approached the southern edge of the forest, the two hobbits — finally in tactical alignment — went in for the kill.

“Did you know that social media giants are intervening in the free market by promoting one treatment and suppressing information on the other?”

“Did you know that some of these giant actually have it written in their Terms of Service that open discussion on the benefits of Ivermectin is not allowed?”

“Did you know that Court’s are now having to intervene against hospitals refusing to administer Ivermectin to dying patients?”

“Did you also know that they are now using new orc variants that appear only a bit quicker but not actually any deadlier as a propaganda instrument to put children on the front line of battle?”

Treebeard stopped; that had done it. An anger welled up inside of him that few simple tree-herders had ever felt before. For while the reluctance of the Ents to intervene may seem frustrating to many, it was merely an expression of the fierce old school liberal principles they held at heart. 

They believed in the free market. They believed in freedom of speech, close to the point of absolutely. They believed in health freedom and the ability to make informed choice about complex medical decisions. And they believed, most fundamentally, that children should be left out of this war. 

Treebeard turned to his timber compatriots and began conversing. The hobbits braced themselves for another lengthy committee meeting, but to their surprise — with as close to a kerfuffle as is possible from ancient tree-like humanoids — the gathering was disbanded. In mere moments they were on the move again: this time out of the forest and down into the real world.

Only then did Treebeard speak again:

“The Ents… are going… to war!”

And so it was.

Suddenly, on the hills above Isengard, the dam burst. The flood of Ivermectin was unleashed: the on-rush of accurate and uncensored scientific information, followed by the wave of regulatory approval, and finally the tsunami of prescriptions by Doctors to commoners across the lands: from the heights of the Misty Mountains to the depths of the now out-of-lockdown and re-populated Mines of Moria.

The battle was won, and some celebratory pipe weed was surely in order. Yet the larger war against the pharmaceutical cabal that threatened the very existence life on Middle Earth as we know it continued.