Vaxxed to the max

 The following article may not be entirely true (in fact, it may be entirely fabricated). But hey, in this strange world we live in, it could happen... 

I watch from a distance as the motley crew exits the community centre in a small Manitoba town. In unison, the four men strike a pose – heads bowed, fists exalted high into the air. 

I can only wonder what the people waiting in line think of these four ragged white men as they attest to some mysterious power. What exactly did they get vaccinated with?   

A better question might be, have they been vaccinated one too many times?  

Out of sheer curiosity, I began following their leader on Twitter a couple weeks ago. Like most people, I thought it was a joke. Most media attention is paid to the vaccine hesitant, the anti-vaxxers, and the anti-maskers. But a much smaller group of people – perhaps no less harmful – is falling under the radar. They are the vaccine hungry – those who can’t get enough vaccine. I call them the super-vaxxers. 

In a normal year, these men from rural Alberta would never be able to pull off such a stunt. To get a vaccine, whether needed for travel or as a regularly scheduled inoculation, requires the proper checks and balances. You can’t just walk into a medical clinic to get your third dose of measles vaccine. 

But that all changed with covid-19. To get a shot in the arm, all you need is a health card. And it doesn’t have to be yours. 

“Oh yeah, they’re easy to get,” said Todd, a forty-year-old former oil rig worker with lanky arms. “With so many anti-vaxxers out there, all it takes is fifty bucks.” 

His long-time friend, Randy, looked at him with horror. “Fifty? I never pay more than 20!”  

Their strategy to over-inoculate themselves is ironically dependent upon an opposing force: the anti-vaccination movement. For some cash and a fully vaccinated health record, anti-vaxxers are more than willing to let these super-vaxxers get another shot. All they have to do is lend them their provincial health card. 

“One dude actually paid me to get two doses!” said Liam, the youngest in the group. He’s only nineteen, but has already been injected with 18 doses of the sacred trinity of approved vaccines. 

“I got the A-Zed first, then the P-fizer” – he enunciates both the p and the f – “then the Modern stuff. Then I got them all over again! And then again! And then again!” He keeps repeating himself as the others chuckle. 

Todd, who hatched the scheme as soon as his age group was eligible, has had 46 doses as of this writing. “I’m getting to the point to where if I go a day without a vaccine, I’m in trouble,” he confides. “Like I literally get the shakes. It’s wicked.” 

None of them seem to worry about the short- or long-term effects of consuming too many vaccines. 

“You know, there’s no research on it,” Todd explains to me. “That’s just it. Everyone says, get your vaccine. Get two vaccines. But no one says, don’t get more than two vaccines. On that front, they’re suspiciously silent.” 

And this is where it gets a little hokey. Don, the eldest of the group – a fifty-eight-year-old retired Roman Catholic priest – claims something supernatural is at work. 

“This, er, vaccine...” Don's voice is hoarse – he almost whispers when he talks. “It’s been in the making for twenty years – look it up, it’s true. They’ve been keeping it from us. Because...” – his voice grows even quieter – “...there’s a divine being in each dose. No, no, I'm not talking about aborted fetuses. That’s conspiracy. I’m talking about a touch of God in every vial. They’ve been keeping it from us – feeding it to the elites. But now they gotta share it. They had no other choice. But they don’t want to give us too much, you see – just enough to stop covid.” 

Conspiracy theories (and other symptoms) aside, the four men say they’re having the time of their lives. Travelling from province to province, they’ve gotten to know a lot of different Canadians. 

“I mean, who knew anti-vaxxers could be so hospitable?” said Todd. “They invite us for dinner, give us a place to sleep. Such a blessing. They give us a fresh dose of immunity, and we give them a fully vaccinated health record.” 

Randy, whose wife left him last year, is simply grateful for the opportunity to spend the time with his friends. “I’ve never felt so alive than after V-day, travelling with my buds. I know it won’t last forever. But the summer’s long, and hey, new nasty variants are on the way!” 

Our conversation could only last so long, as the group was already late for an anti-covid rally in a nearby town. But before they left me that afternoon, I had to know one more thing: Did they feel at all guilty for indirectly supporting the anti-vaccination cause? Anti-vaxxers, after all, spread such dangerous theories, like believing that vaccines cause autism in kids.  

After a long pause, Liam finally spoke up. “Listen, everyone’s got their beliefs, and I respect that. But personally, I think vaccines actually prevent autism. Like, after my fifth dose of P-fizer, I think I have less autism. Maybe I’m becoming, like, a genius or something. Anyway, that’s all I think.” 

I suppose it doesn’t matter to them what people think. So long as there's free will, these super-vaxxers will milk the anti-vax movement for all its worth.