The Novel Morona Virus

Long before our lives were disrupted by the novel Coronavirus, there appeared on the scene a much deadlier virus. One that couldn’t be seen with a microscope. Eve Ensler writes in detail about the appearance and spread of this virus. To learn about other strains of this virus, check out Strongmen (LeftWord, 2017).

This is the story of what happened in the late time, right before the end time, that later got interrupted and became the new time. In those days there arrived in the land of violent amnesia and rapacious dreams – a virus. It first became discernible in an oafish, chubby man with orange hair. Some say it was the virus that turned his hair orange. Others claimed his hair was actually the virus. The oafish, chubby man with orange hair goes on to become the most powerful man in the world.

It was highly debated whether the intensity of the infection was the cause of his rise, but it has since become clear that the virus was a very contagious one and that much of the populace had a dormant strain of it lodged in their beings which was activated by the orange man during his toxic campaign.

Those infected the most deeply were those with unexamined wounds and openings from childhood, repressed fear, insecurities that were ripe for othering and rage, predisposition towards racism and sexism and insatiable daddy hunger. These tendencies were exacerbated and catalyzed by the way the portly, thuggish leader injected the virus into the unsuspecting crowds through angry white-hate filled spittle, slimy superlatives, sham filled promises, and toxic red caps which allowed the virus to seep in through the hair follicles and head. Bald men were most susceptible.

This, fortunately, was not true of all segments of the population because some appeared to have built-in immunity. Most of those were the ones who lived on the various edges, which was ironic, as it was the ones most foreign and exiled from the culture who would eventually find a cure. We will come to that later.

It was also highly debated whether the man with orange hair was the origin of the virus or simply the manifestation of it. Some said it didn’t matter, but I believe it matters a lot. For if the chubby man were the originator of the virus, then it would have simply been one sick individual contaminating the public and if and when he was eliminated, the virus, would, in theory, be gone as well. But we know this didn’t happen. So the question then evolved: why was the oafish, portly man with orange hair the major host of the virus?

And again, the theories abound.


And, there was evidence that this virus was spreading and worsening. It began appearing in other men who were suddenly going on shooting rampages, murdering hundreds at concerts and shopping malls and other public gatherings with no apparent motives. It became known after many of these incidents that white men over the age of 50 were the main carriers of the disease as they had not, due to privilege and arrogance, developed the necessary and flexible antibodies mentioned above to fight off the virus.

This enraged a powerful community of feminists who thought little of the virus theory. They were thoroughly convinced that the so-called virus was not a virus at all but the final manifestation of malignant racist patriarchy. They were disturbed that it was being called a virus as it took responsibility from the rotund oinker with orange hair and all his followers and made it seem like something they had caught rather than something they were perpetrating. But even some amongst them had to admit that the qualities, persistence and recurrence of racist patriarchy made it seem much like a virus, and they were still at a loss to explain how thousands of white women had voted for the chubby gangster after he had bragged about being able to grab their pussy parts because he was famous.

There were many women who believed the orange round slime was no longer a man at all, but through the deteriorating impact of the virus had become a kind of octopus, (not to insult octopi as they are highly evolved creatures). Yes, they thought he had become a soft-bodied, eight-armed mollusc whose flaccid body could rapidly alter its shape and whose many groping tentacles would sometimes, at parties, on airplanes or during job interviews, travel up women’s skirts attempting to get through their panties or into their blouses sliding and ejecting a dark goo around their breasts. These mushy octopi seemed to replicate throughout the land. They would station themselves at the head of entertainment and news companies where they would incubate for years and were able to easily shoot their goo and wrap their tentacles around hundreds of women in broad daylight while other men with low-level infection, awed by the octopi, longing for similar position and fortune, watched and said nothing.

Some saw the octopi as the ultimate performer in a culture hinged on fantasy and entertainment. They blamed the TV executives for the original spread of the virus as from the onset the corporate leaders understood that the vicious carrot man increased their ratings and sold more Subarus. The populace was glued to the corpulent con-artist with an all-consuming fascination that verged on obsession. Because they had long ago lost the ability to distinguish the real from unreal they were transfixed by the on-going sideshow, somehow disconnected from the catastrophic outcome.

And there were a small group who believed the nation had simply been seized by a scary clown and that the population was suffering from coulrophobia, a fear of clowns that rendered people paralyzed, terrified, anxious, and dysfunctional. The man with the orange hair smiled when he was murderous, he told lies by the minute and committed crimes daily and, like the notorious John Wayne Gacy, a clown who was actually a serial killer who had murdered 33 people, he understood, as Gacy said, ‘Clowns can get away with anything.’

Then there were those who kept believing the virus would pass, that it was only momentary and that it couldn’t possibly hold or spread further. They were sure it was simply a strange aberration that would never be tolerated and if they did not give it attention, it would disappear. These are the same people who feel a bump under their skin or see blood in their poop and believe that if they ignore it really, really hard, it will somehow go away. It is hard to tell whether these folks had actually already been infected by the virus, as one of the major symptoms of the virus is an inability to know you have it.

Another major component of the virus that ravaged privileged people was their refusal to resist it. The privileged were simply unable to give up their daily comforts in order to fight the virus when it began to infect and destroy the lives of the less fortunate. The virus created a superstitious delusion in them that if they did not focus on the virus they couldn’t catch it. If rather than ignoring it, if they looked at it or touched it – the privileged truly believed – they would get it. This delusion later proved to be fatal.

Then there were those who could perceive the virus and who should have been actively fighting it. They were called liberalatte. Because no one in this group was practised in telling the whole truth, because they were an opposition that had ceased being the opposition years ago, they tried to placate the virus, adapt to the virus, and accommodate the virus. For some inexplicable reason they seemed worried about offending the virus and therefore making it worse. The virus would occasionally ruffle the liberalatte, but they had lost the will or the energy to scream out for all the millions who were suffering from the deep sickness the virus was spreading.

Because secretly the liberalatte believed that to truly revolt against the virus would alienate the people in the middle, and they were most concerned about losing their positions and power and comfort, they learned how to mute their outrage, sorrow and reactions and by doing so normalized the virus which allowed it to spread wider and deeper.

Then, of course, there were those who served in the court of the orange man. They had contracted the virus and most definitely understood the devastating impact of the virus, and secretly despised the orange octopi pig, but somehow through their malevolence attempted to use the pathogen to their own end. Rather than trying to protect their fellow citizens and stop the deadly virus or disrobe the orange haired emperor, they rode his mad sickness like a wild horse gaining every benefit they could. While the population was being deported, banned, attacked, starved, refused medical treatment, lied to, forced to have babies, run over by cars, shot by police and white supremacists, abandoned and forced to drink poisoned water after a storm. They moved to get as much money, land, drilling rights, private airplane trips, island vacations, monument parks, tax cuts for themselves as they possibly could. They were called virus bankers.

The malady spread deeper and deeper throughout the land. Crops withered. Fires burned. Storms raged. Animals disappeared. Hate festered and hate crimes escalated.

Generals were hired to police the orange idiot and contain the sickness, but they quickly fell by the wayside, becoming apologists for the plague and its host, losing their integrity and minds. They, of course, had latent aspects of the virus imbedded in their own consciousness and began to sound more insane and demented than the tubby lout they were monitoring.

Psychiatrists and psychologists broke protocol and issued warnings to the public that a malignant normality was spreading through the land and that the orange man was insane, living in his own reality, that the people would be unable to manage the crises that would eventually face the most powerful man in the world.

There were many brave determined people who did not have the virus but suffered from its consequences and they rose in the millions in the streets, in the Congress, at airports to prevent the virus from completely ruining their lives. Initially, they were not able to prevent the virus, but their on-going activity kept them from being contaminated themselves.

Committees were formed to investigate the multiple crimes and offences of the orange fool and the sick people around him.

Some in the press became almost obsessed with reporting on the viscous pestilence almost to the point of orange madness. Lawyers pressed hundreds of legal cases. Bacteriologists developed sprays and poisons. Pharmacologists harnessed new antibiotics and mood-altering drugs.

Many in the land became hopeless, depressed, suicidal, homicidal, disassociated, hostile, alcoholic. Those who could afford it went shopping or fled to other countries. But the virus followed them there as it had taken hold in new forms and had possessed leaders far and wide.

Arguments raged about methods and tactics of approaching the plague and the orange emperor. The strident ones believed that only complete annihilation would rid the world of the illness. The non-violent practitioners and faith leaders called for empathy and the need for reconciliation, understanding and healing. They believed if they could unlock the roots of the virus, it could be released from the collective cells. They held vigils and prayer ceremonies and developed spiritual antidotes.

Witches made potions from strands of orange hair and spittle and did on-going hexes.

But still the virus raged deeper and deeper. The orange followers became so toxic that, although they could feel the impact, they were unable to admit that their jobs, homes, air, water, healthcare, were being systematically destroyed by their fearless leader. The genocidal narcissist began to prepare them for nuclear Armageddon. This shockingly felt more relieving than the opioids they were addicted to and less expensive.

The land of violent amnesia and rapacious dreams was nearing its end.

Then something wondrous and surprising began to happen.

The seers, the mystics, the sexual explorers, the artists, the exiles, began to do what they had wanted to do all along, but were now free to do with the end of the world in sight.

They made each other laugh and rubbed and healed each other with special oils and rituals and prayers. They lay with each other and shared their dreams. They listened to each other’s stories and made amends and reparations. They learned to read the stars and listen to the wind. They rediscovered ecstasy and poetry and purpose. They grieved for the world and held each other as they wept. They wrapped themselves around trees and bowed down to the rivers. They spent their days dancing and massaging each other. They foraged for food and fed each other. They stopped competing and striving.

Every day was filled with extraordinary acts of kindness. And a warm and delicious energy began to rise. It was liquid like honey and its pull was irresistible. One by one people began to join them. Even those who thought they didn’t know how to dance suddenly heard and moved to new rhythms. Even those afraid to touch or be touched found themselves lathering on oils. And a new world began to grow. It was magical and even work seemed like play.

The orange moron became louder and more hysterical but the people could no longer hear him as the radiant music was sweeping across the land. And as his idolaters were transformed into revellers and there was no one to admire or worship him, the people of the land watched with horror and awe as the gross sac of the vile Emperor’s body began to wither like a deflated orange ball.

And so the moral of the story and the lesson from the orange idiot is to keep your souls clean. Viruses are always lurking but they cannot thrive where the people have washed their past darkness and have fortified themselves with solidarity, imagination and love.