(Washington, DC) “Becoming an immunologist, originally, was just a way to pay the bills, and support my secret passion to become a full-time science fiction writer,” Dr. Anthony Fauci confessed to me in an exclusive interview, yesterday. “Robin Cook was my hero. Did you know we were both born in Brooklyn in 1940? Robin grew up to be the author of popular medical thrillers, I grew up to be the author of popular medical killers.” He let out a big guffaw, removed his glasses and wiped his tearing eyes. “Oh, my. But somehow, things got flipped around and my talent for spinning apocalyptic pandemic dystopias ended up providing the fodder I needed to become director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases.”
This was what I had suspected after hearing the bizarre responses Fauci gave before the House Oversight and Accountability Committee Select Subcommittee on the Coronavirus Pandemic on June 3rd. During the hearing, he admitted to making up COVID protocols. For example, when questioned about the scientific validity of social distancing and masking, he said they “sort of just appeared.” Ideas sort of appearing is the mark of what professional novelists call a “discovery writer.” I should know, I’m one of them. We don’t come up with an outline for our stories, we simply start writing and the stories “sort of just appear.”
After hearing his testimonial, I sent Dr. Fauci an email saying: “I knew your secret. Deep down, you always wanted to be a science fiction writer.”
He wrote back immediately telling me to meet him in the boiler room in the basement of the NIH’s Hubert H. Humphrey Building. We’d talk there. Not online.
So I booked a flight from Toronto Pearson airport, and within twelve hours my plane was landing in Washington DC. As promised, I found the real Dr. Anthony Fauci sitting at a beat-up wooden desk, with a 1984 Smith Corona electric typewriter, in the dimly lit basement of the National Institutes of Health’s flagship building.
“So this is your writing nook?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Even though I retired as director, they let me hold onto this little corner.” He patted the dusty typewriter. “So, how did you find out my secret?”
“Easy enough,” I replied. “I mean, when the House Committee asked you if you recalled reviewing any studies or data supporting masking you replied, and I quote, ‘I might have, but I don’t recall specifically that I did.’”
Much Ado About Corona: A Dystopian Love Story
He then pointed to a model of the Starship Enterprise hanging from the cement ceiling over his desk.
“Like do you think warp drive is a real thing? Do you think Gene Roddenberry tested it before sending Captain Kirk star trekking all over the galaxy? Warp drive makes no sense, has no studies, but millions of Trekkies believe in it.” He leaned in close and lowered his voice to a whisper. “By the way, you know Operation Warp Speed? I came up with the name. Donald took all the credit, but it was really my idea.”
Jotting down notes, I mumbled, “Yes, Trump is many things, but I don’t think he’s a science fiction writer.”
“Oh, don’t be so sure,” said Fauci, wagging a finger. “Ever hear of QAnon?”
“Well, neither of you have ever had a novel published.” I pointed to a stack of envelopes he had piled up on a bin on his desk marked “REJECTION LETTERS.”
“Ah,” he said, thumbing through the pile. “Yes, in my early days, I used to write my medical sci-fi horror stories down and send the manuscripts out to editors. I thought I’d be like Michael Crichton. Did you know Michael wrote pulp fiction to get through med school? I really enjoyed The Andromeda Strain. We shared a dorm room in med school. It was actually me who came up with the idea for Jurassic Park.”
I frowned. “How is that possible? Crichton went to Harvard and you graduated from Cornell.”
Fauci shrugged. “It’s not possible. I just made it up cause it sounded good. Anyway, I wasn’t as lucky as Crichton. I was just a poor Jewish boy trying to become a doctor.”
“Jewish? But your Wikipedia page says you were raised Catholic.”
He sat up straight and let out a sigh. “Who are you going to believe, Wikipedia or me?”
“Hmm,” I replied. “That’s a tough one.”
“Anyway,” he continued, “Harper Collins, Penguin Random House and all the other big publishing houses kept telling me my stories were too far-fetched. No one would believe them. Ha! Well, I showed them.”
“How did you show them if you’ve never had a novel published? You are not even really a science fiction author.”
He slipped his glasses back on, adjusted his tie, straightened his lab coat and said, “Science fiction author? Hell. I’m... science fiction itself.”
I gulped, made sure there was at least six feet between us and cautiously asked, “What do you mean?”
“What do I need those big-shot New York publishers for? I got Washington. Ever since they made me director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, I’ve taken sci-fi to a whole new level. My first bestseller was called AIDS — a ’far-fetched’ tale about a deadly new virus for which there was no cure and was easily spread by asymptomatic carriers.”
“Sounds a little like COVID-19.”
“Yeah, well, COVID-19 was the sequel to AIDS. I’m really proud of both of them. I tried my hand at a few other spin-offs — the swine flu flop and the monkey pox plop — but the whole coronavirus plot sold like bonkers. I think it was all the comedy I added. You know the crazy rules about wearing a mask only when you’re standing… or how about the one about keeping the liquor stores open and the gyms closed… for your health. Ha! The humour helped a lot. AIDS was too much like Frank Herbert’s Dune. Yeah, Dune sold well, but it was as dry as desert dust. The zany COVID protocols made it more like Douglas Adam’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, far-fetched, funny and everybody in the whole world dies.”
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He then began to hum Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World,” as I glanced again at his pile of rejection letters. Suddenly, I wished time travel was possible. If I could go back to 1984 and convince just one of those editors to publish one of his manuscripts, maybe he would have stuck to writing sci-fis instead of spreading sci-lies.
My gaze fell to his hands. They were shaking slightly. I couldn’t help but think of all the deaths on those hands — deaths that could have been avoided if his fingers had kept on typing away on his 1984 Corona typewriter.
I felt a great sadness. But I also had hope that I might be able to appeal to remnants of the artist in him and eke out some kind of confession for his countless crimes against humanity. I cleared my throat and moved on to a more probing moral question.
To be continued…
John C. A. Manley is the author of Much Ado About Corona: A Dystopian Love Story, the forthcoming All The Humans Are Sleeping and other works of speculative fiction. You get free chapters from his novels by subscribing to his Blazing Pine Cone email newsletter at https://blazingpinecone.com/subscribe/
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