The Alchemist of Lost Remedies

I am sharing my AI-assisted story about my services to my clients. I was having a bit of fun with AI-ChatGPT after admiring Picasso’s sketch of Don Quiote. I sometimes feel a bit like Don Quixote, fighting daunting Windmills.

The Alchemist of Lost Remedies

In a time when the world lay shrouded in the dark fog of an opioid crisis, when suffering had become the common language of the afflicted, and when the great temples of medicine were ruled by coin rather than care, there walked a man—aged, yet unyielding, weary, yet unwilling to bow to the weight of time. His name, to those few who truly knew him, was El Curandero, the healer. To others, he was a relic of forgotten arts, a dreamer lost in a world of cold calculations and clinical indifference.

He was no ordinary physician, nor was he bound by the rigid dogmas of allopathy. He was a scholar of the ancient wisdom of Chinese medicine, a master of bioelectricity, and an alchemist of Qi and current, wielding metals not as merchants of wealth but as conduits of life itself. His methods, unorthodox and enigmatic, restored vitality where despair had settled, and soothed the pain that neither opiate nor scalpel could reach.

And yet, the great lords of medicine, seated upon their high thrones of pharmaceutical gold, refused even to glance in his direction. To them, he was a madman, a deluded knight errant charging at the unshakable windmills of institutionalized medicine.

His companions were few, but steadfast. Among them, Diego el Fiel, his ever-loyal apprentice, a man of sharp wit and quiet devotion, who, though skeptical at first, had witnessed what no physician dared to believe—men and women, once prisoners of their own agony, standing, breathing, living again. There was also Lady Rosa, a former healer who had abandoned the sterile walls of hospitals to walk alongside him, choosing the light of possibility over the dim corridors of compliance.

Together, they traveled the broken streets, where the afflicted gathered like lost souls seeking an absolution that would not come. They applied copper and silver to the meridians of the body, coaxing the hidden currents of life to flow once more, and watched as skeptical eyes widened in astonishment when pain—unyielding, inescapable pain—dissolved as though it had never been.

Yet, their victories were whispered, not heralded. For every life they restored, the gatekeepers of medicine tightened their grip on their ledgers, fearing a cure too simple, too effective, too free. They whispered of “unproven methods,” of “dangerous pseudoscience,” and, most damningly, of “no profit.”

But El Curandero was not deterred. He did not seek their approval, nor did he desire the gilded endorsements of those who had long since forgotten that healing was meant to be an art, not a business. He walked the path alone, save for his faithful few, offering his alchemy of electricity and ancient wisdom to all who sought it.

His body was weary, his beard silvered with the passing years, but his spirit remained unbroken, held aloft by the vision of a world where suffering need not be sold in vials. He knew that true medicine lay not in blind obedience to convention, but in the courage to embrace what works, regardless of its source.

And so, with Diego and Lady Rosa at his side, he rode onward—not upon a steed, but upon conviction itself, armed not with a lance, but with knowledge, against an enemy not of flesh, but of greed. The road was long, the battles endless, but the cause, oh, the cause—it was righteous.

And that, above all else, gave him strength to fight another day.

El Curandero aka Les