A Secret Service agent assigned to protect the exterior of Joseph Biden’s Delaware home stopped in his tracks as an unspeakable cry, the wailing sound of death, emanated from within the house. He spoke into a concealed microphone in a cufflink: “Celtic in trouble, entering the house.” A moment later, a voice crackled in his ear. “Do not enter the bedroom. The situation is stable.”
But it was too late. The agent had drawn his weapon and charged in, his face going pale as he crossed the threshold. A pungent scent assailed his nostrils. On the bed lay the withered shell of a man who both resembled and didn’t resemble Biden, a bare torso pressed against a mattress, arms spread like wings, a guttural, gurgling sound escaping parched lips. A polyethylene tube ran from a withered arm to an I.V. bag beside a bank of diagnostic machines that monitored Biden’s vital signs. A clump of hair, brittle and grey, lay on the pillow upon which his head rested, canted slightly to one side. The shape on the bed looked emaciated and dehydrated—almost desiccated—like a dried prune. Its hollowed cheeks fluttered as the mouth let out a barely perceptible whisper: “Candy.”
The Secret Service agent was dumbstruck. His jaw dropped, and his eyes widened. He had been tasked with guarding the President of the United States—a high honor within the Secret Service—who was supposed to be poised, stoic, regal, dignified, articulate, resolute, and healthy—but saw only a scrawny, sick frame that couldn’t even lift itself out of bed; it could hardly speak, and when it did, it repeated the same word: Candy. The feeble frame’s sorrowful, sunken eyes beheld the agent, its mouth muttering “candy” thrice before another Secret Service Agent, accompanied by Jill Biden and a physician, barreled into the bedroom, admonishing the agent present for disobeying instructions to not enter the household.
“I don’t understand what’s going on here,” the agent said. “I came into the room before I got the message not to. Can someone tell me what’s going on?” the agent, Andrew Cunningham, asked.
The date was April 5, 2021, and Covid-mania had gripped the country. Forty-two states and territories had issued mandatory stay-at-home orders, shuttering businesses and bringing life, as we knew it, to an abrupt halt. Pervasive mask and vaccine mandates had rolled like a firestorm across the country, and persons eschewing the government’s unconstitutional mandates were treated as if they had leprosy, shunned by the vaccinated lunatics who embraced the regime’s narrative. The economy was failing, people feared stepping outdoors, and Biden had retreated to the bedroom of his Delaware home.
Agent Andrew Cunningham had been in the Secret Service for eight years. After high school, he attended Arizona State University and obtained a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice. Upon graduating, he applied for a job at the Secret Service and passed the Top-Secret security clearance checks needed for employment. Most people would call him a wholesome guy, a man with conservative values with a wife and one child, with another on the way, a home, a mortgage, and a dog—he believed in democracy and wanted to serve his country.
He entered the Secret Service a GS-7, the government’s starting pay grade, and excelled in practical leadership and marksmanship, earning the envy of his peers. A year after graduating from the Secret Service’s intense four-month training school at the Federal Law Enforcement Center, Cunningham was promoted to GS-9 and began protecting foreign dignitaries visiting the United States. In March 2019, he was part of a detail guarding Israeli Prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu, who had come to the U.S. to see President Trump in D.C. He got to shake their hands, and he would later say shaking hands with President Trump was an immeasurable honor and that the President projected an unbreakable, shimmering aura of righteousness and strength.
When the Plandemic hit and the world started collapsing in on itself, Cunningham spent more time at a desk than escorting heads of state, twiddling thumbs and sifting through meaningless paperwork. He missed fieldwork.
A presidential election came and went. Much of the country went bonkers over a few thousand Trump supporters peacefully protesting a stolen election. And Cunningham would soon represent a man he despised, a decrepit beast so entrenched in the Deep State, so surrounded by coffers of infinite dirty cash, that his phony victory over Trump was practically a foregone conclusion. Although Cunningham loathed Biden, his station forbade him from publicly disparaging the President, even a fake one. Paperwork suddenly seemed preferable to laying eyes on a man he detested beyond his ability to articulate.
On April 4, 2021, Cunningham received a call he dreaded. He was made part of a four-man team sent to guard the President and the First Lady at their Wilmington, Delaware, home. Unlike the other agents, who had access to the home’s interior, Cunningham was told to patrol the exterior and to stop any vehicles encroaching on the alcove of the Biden residence. He was told Biden had isolated himself for fear of catching Covid, as administration members with whom Biden had close contact had tested positive for the virus. Only Biden, Jill, and two “approved” agents could enter and leave the house. He didn’t understand why he was relegated to yard duty while less experienced agents could freely enter the home, but he was compelled to obey orders.
A day later, Cunningham was patrolling the yard of the Biden home when he heard an unearthly moan and cry for help originating from a window to the fake President’s bedroom. He keyed his microphone, saying, “something might be wrong with Celtic,” but heard no reply. Celtic—the Secret Service’s codename for Biden—was in danger, he said as he drew his sidearm and entered the domicile, peering around corners and clearing the house. He paused at the door to Biden’s bedchamber. He glanced about, hoping to see the other agents or Jill rushing to Joe’s bedside. Cunningham wanted none of it. When no one showed up, he entered the bedroom and saw the unimaginable.
Jill Biden and the second Secret Service agent rebuked Cunningham for stepping in the household sans permission. Cunningham gawked in stunned silence as Biden’s physician, Dr. Kevin O’Conner, charged into the bedroom carrying a syringe of viscous liquid, which he inserted into the I.V. tube dripping fluid to Biden’s arm. “Candy,” Biden said, a smile crossing his face as the concoction dripped into his veins. He suddenly sat up straight, pulling the I.V. from his arm and saying, “I’m better now.”
Minutes later Cunningham got a phone call from Secret Service Director James Murray. “Now that you know, you keep your fuc**** mouth shut,” Murray told him, even though Cunningham didn’t comprehend the scope of what had happened until another agent revealed to him that Biden had been addicted to a pharmaceutical cocktail called Adrenochrome since 2009.
Cunningham heard that Biden’s addiction to Adrenochrome had become so acute that he needed an infusion every few days to avoid falling into madness. Without it, he shriveled into a ball of incomprehensible insanity. Through research Cunningham learned that Adrenochrome was made of adrenal fluid harvested from the adrenal glands of tortured children and synthetic opiates.
He resigned from the Secret Service a week later, saying the job and raising a family were incompatible. James Murray threatened him plainly to keep quiet about what he had seen at Biden’s Delaware home. A month later, Cunningham moved his family to Switzerland.
Cunningham says he’s still in disbelief. He saw a man with one foot in the grave suddenly stand up and dance a jig after getting an Adrenochrome poke. After witnessing what he had, he said he could not work for the government. He and his family won’t return to the United States until Biden is gone and President Donald J. Trump restores complete order to the Republic.