The Wise Wolf Had a 'Coronary Event' and Has Some Thoughts About That

A brief medical update from a man who used to have abs

Something strange happened to me last night while I was working on my HeliumCartel.com research. Something unprecedented in forty-odd years of life. Something I hope never to experience again but which I am fairly certain was less a conclusion than an opening act.

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Not metaphorically. Not the vague existential dread that comes from spending your evenings documenting how every president since Clinton has been quietly handing China the keys to the global semiconductor supply chain. That I am used to. This was physical. Sudden. Severe. The kind of chest pain that arrives without warning and immediately communicates that it is not interested in negotiating.

If you have seen the movie Alien, specifically the scene where the creature erupts through John Hurt’s chest in a shower of viscera while everyone at the table is just trying to have a normal dinner, you have a reasonable approximation of what this felt like from the inside. Except I was alone. And there was no alien. And I was not having dinner because I have been living on Doordash and vending machine garbage for two years and my relationship with healthy food is, at this point, purely theoretical.

Within about ninety seconds I was drenched in sweat in the specific way your body does when it has decided to stop being subtle about something. I could not breathe correctly. I Googled what to do, which told me to chew aspirin and call an ambulance. I chewed the aspirin. I did not call the ambulance, because I do not have health insurance and I am not interested in a seven thousand dollar bill for the privilege of having volunteer firefighters show up in a thirty year old Ford ambulance and drive me twenty miles to the local hospital. I have a perfectly good ebike for that. So I laid in bed all night worrying I was going to die, which is a very specific kind of American experience available exclusively to people who had the audacity to be poor in a nation run by billionaires who can fake assassination attempts on themselves whenever their poll numbers are sagging or they need a few hundred million dollars to finish the nuclear bomb shelter they are disguising as a Baal room. In the morning I rode the ebike to the ER. In the rain. At six in the morning. Twenty miles.

Before you picture me heroically pedaling through the storm like some kind of cardiac Lance Armstrong, I should clarify that it is an ebike, meaning the motor does most of the work and the pedals are there primarily to make it street legal, which matters because I do not have a driver’s license, because I have not had time in two years to get to the DMV to renew it, because I have been slightly preoccupied trying to keep this publication from collapsing under the weight of everything I have put into building it. So it was less heroic commute and more wet man on a glorified scooter hoping his heart held together for another twenty miles.

The ER doctor examined me, ran some tests, and informed me that I had experienced a coronary event. I said you mean a heart attack. He said yes, a coronary event. (This man deployed the phrase “coronary event” with the specific energy of someone who has made a professional decision to communicate information while technically not saying anything. He is probably very good at depositions.)

He sent me home with blood thinners and instructions to see a cardiologist as soon as possible, which is excellent advice that I intend to follow as soon as I solve a problem I will get to in approximately one paragraph.

The problem is the wisdom teeth.

I have multiple infected wisdom teeth that I have been treating with rotating courses of antibiotics for the last two years because the surgery to remove them costs a minimum of ten thousand dollars and I do not have ten thousand dollars. These are not my teeth by the way. Mine are WAY worse than this. I am talking 20 years of repeat infections and impaction worse. I am talking my mouth sometimes smells like a dead animal worse and there is nothing I can do about it because…

I do not have dental insurance. What I have is a mouth that has been sending bacteria directly into my heart lining for two years, which is the thing that caused the endocarditis, which is the thing that damaged my heart, which is the thing that caused the coronary event, which is the thing that had me riding an ebike twenty miles to an ER on a Wednesday morning because that is apparently the kind of life you get when you eschew corporate ease in favor of becoming a itinerant hobo journalist.

The cardiologist will not touch the heart until the teeth come out. The teeth cost ten thousand dollars. The ten thousand dollars does not exist.

What does exist, sitting in storage at my parents’ place, is a 1960s Allstate Vespa that I have owned since I was twenty-one years old. It is a genuine classic. It is the one physical object I own that I actually care about. I have had it for over twenty years. Selling it gets me most of the surgery money and also represents a very particular kick in the teeth from a universe that has apparently decided I have not had enough of those yet, which is an interesting position for a universe to take given current events.

This is my prize possession. They are nearly impossible to find in good shape outside of Europe or Vespa collections. I have not fully committed to selling it. I am working on it. It is probably better than dying of heart disease over an emotional attachment to a moped. Probably.

You might be thinking right now, ‘well if this wolf is so wise, how did he end up in such bad shape?’ Well my friend, there is a perfectly logical explanation for all of that.

Demons.

I’m not joking.

Five Years Ago I Still Had Abs and All It Took was an Invasion from Hell to Ruin Them

Five years ago I was in real physical shape. Not the kind you perform for social media. Actual functional fitness, three hundred and fifty pound bench press, mainly plant-based diet, the cardiovascular profile that makes doctors nod and schedule you for a year out instead of calling you back urgently.

Then I went to Arizona to investigate the death of Isaac Kappy.

Kappy was a B-list actor, appeared opposite Thor in a couple of Marvel movies, spent the last chapter of his life posting videos on Twitter claiming Hollywood was run by child-eating cannibal pedophile practitioners of mystery Babylonian death cult rituals. In May 2019 he walked off a bridge. The official determination was suicide. I had questions. I went to ask them.

At some point during the investigation, in the Four Corners area, three very large men beat the hell out of me for asking uncomfortable questions about Kappy, skinwalker summoning, and the demonic ritual infrastructure I was finding embedded inside mainstream religious institutions of basically every denomination you can name in the American Southwest.

I am going to leave what happened out there vague for now, partly because the full story requires more space than this article has, and partly because I do not currently own a house with steel walls and a panic room, which is the minimum infrastructure I would want in place before I start talking about cartel goons that traffic children for Hollywood cannibal witches. Someday. Not today.

I came home a different person. A broken person.

The three hundred and fifty pound bench press became a memory. The plant-based diet became a Doordash diet, which is technically health-adjacent if you are willing to count the lettuce under the burger as a vegetable, which I was. I stopped leaving my motel room because the last time I went to a grocery store I spent forty-five minutes being followed by men in aviator sunglasses with the build and bearing of people whose professional activities do not appear in any government budget document, one of whom spent the entire trip quietly chanting “CIA” as he trailed me through the produce section, and another of whom looked me dead in the eye on the way out the door and said “See you soon, Jay.” That is the intelligence community’s version of a friendly wave. Message received, gentlemen.

They always know my real name. Operating under a pseudonym that is a wolf while your enemies still know your legal name at all times is the kind of irony that stops being funny very quickly.

So I stayed in. The vending machine down the hall became a primary food relationship. Tropical Fantasia became a food group (see the earlier article for the full Tropical Fantasia discourse, which I maintain is among the finer things this publication has produced). The formerly muscular frame became progressively doughier in the way that happens when you replace iron and vegetables with stress and Doordash for four consecutive years.

The Pillsbury Doughboy, who presumably has access to dental care through whatever union represents animated corporate mascots is looking at my current physical condition with something approaching professional concern.

This is the thing stress does. This is the thing isolation does. This is the thing a job that answers to nobody but the truth does to your body when you do it long enough without support, without income stability, without the basic infrastructure that normal employment provides in exchange for your silence about the people running everything.

And now there is a chest burster situation and a ten thousand dollar molar and a Vespa I am emotionally not ready to sell.

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A Note For The Intelligence Agency Assets I Know Are Subscribed To This Newsletter. Yes You. I Am Not Stupid.

I have footage of what is happening in New Mexico. I am not going to describe it here because you know what I am talking about. If anything ever happens to me, my dead man switch releases that footage simultaneously to seven thousand journalists, whistleblowers, senators, congressmen, human rights organizations, celebrity influencers, Alex Jones, and pretty much every set of eyes you Mystery Babylon douches do not want seeing what you are doing and then half a million extremely pissed off patriots make sure your heads end up on poles. So take that into consideration the next time your cult decides to throw me in jail for something I did not do or tries to murder me.

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The Health Tips Section

A lot of you sent health advice yesterday and I genuinely appreciate it. The DMSO crowd showed up in force and I respect the enthusiasm but DMSO is not going to fix endocarditis, I am fairly certain of that. And before anyone else recommends colloidal silver, I want to note that there is a real documented man who took it in the quantities being suggested to me and turned permanently purple. Completely. Irreversibly. For the rest of his life.

I am already weird enough looking without adding a color that does not occur in nature, particularly if I ever need to go into hiding, which is not a scenario I am ruling out. Just because something is trending on social media does not make it a magic cure all. Oh and by the way, purple silver man died of a heart attack and stroke. So much for magic bullet cures, right?

What I actually need is a real doctor. If you are a physician reading this and you have thoughts on how a person survives endocarditis long enough to get his infected teeth removed and see a cardiologist, the comments are open and I am reading everything.

Read This. Then Share It. Please.

The helium research at HeliumCartel.com is the reason I was sitting at that desk when my chest tried to kill me. I want to be clear about something. I did not call an ambulance right away. Part of that was the insurance situation. Part of it was something else. I was afraid that if I left that motel room before that data was published, someone would happen to break in and steal my laptop, and everything Lily and I spent weeks documenting would vanish and never see the light of day. That is not paranoia. That is a reasonable operational concern for someone in my position and you know it.

So I chewed the aspirin and I kept working and I published it and then I rode twenty miles in the rain on a glorified scooter to get blood thinners.

Go to HeliumCartel.com. Read what we built. Then share it, because the mainstream media that has been stealing our work without credit for eighteen days at a time is going to need public pressure to touch this one, and that pressure starts with you.

The wolf is still howling. Somewhat breathlessly. But still.

If you have been meaning to subscribe, Lily takes the bus and would like to stop, the wisdom teeth are not going to pay for themselves, and independent journalism that answers to nobody requires funding from the people who benefit from its existence since it is certainly not being funded by anyone who benefits from its silence.

If you will excuse me, I have some disgusting orange flavored baby aspirin I need to chew.

Help keep the Wise Wolf medicated.