And now I don’t! This is a fun game, isn’t it? Paedophile peek-a-boo, where your name pops in and out of the press. Those that knew you are left back-pedalling furiously, swinging the distraction hammer in a never-ending game of Whack-A-Nonce. You’re gone but not forgotten, yesterday’s garbage but tomorrow’s news, regardless of how frantically your rich and powerful friends scramble to divest themselves of the taint of associating with you.
As a general rule of thumb I try and avoid speaking ill of the dead but in your case I think I can probably get away with making an exception. There’s not much hope of a posthumous charm offensive on this one – you’ve nothing left to offer, without even the decency to hang around long enough to point fingers at your contacts. You can rot, Jeffrey Epstein, mouldering in the same disgrace and contempt we reserve for the seediest of our moral abominations.
Shameless to the very end, under any other circumstances suicide isn’t the coward’s way out. For you though, that you took the shortest route to avoiding the consequences of your actions is the likeliest explanation for your death, regardless of the conspiracy theories now swirling around your legacy. This amount of publicity is generally fairly counterproductive to keeping secrets, regardless of how rabidly the internet thinks you were murdered. Were you conveniently ignored or assisted? It’s possible, but I’ll remain skeptical until Ghislaine Maxwell takes a fall at home and lands on a bullet with the back of her head. At that point even I’ll have to put my hands up – until then, let’s focus on the established facts.
Even without the CIA or Mossad or the Illuminati there’s enough to unpack, and what a shitty suitcase you’re bringing to the party. You should never have been allowed the opportunity to die however you did and that’s only number one on a list of judicial failures longer than one of Prince Andrew’s excuses. The repeated betrayals of your victims are innumerable, going far beyond the expected inequities of an already two-tiered system. It’s beyond doubt that you were well protected and insulated from consequence. The Lolita Express is not the nickname of a plane you get on if you have any shred of awareness. Paedophile Island is not one you can knock up yourself after a how-to video on Blue Peter.
You never existed in isolation, Jeffrey Epstein, and it goes far beyond your co-accused and those who participated wholly in the abuse. There’s an entire army of enablers, facilitators, money men and legal wranglers so entangled in the web that they deserve every panicked thrash now heading their way.
If there is any justice, any hope for the victims of the rich and privileged, there will be enough stink kicked up by those seeking the truth that this ceases to be a partisan issue. Every single name in your black book, every single face on those CDs in your safe, every single yes-man and woman and pimp and trafficker, every lawyer, every enabler, every fetid, rotten moral vacuum complicit in any part of your network should be living in fear.
Every one of them, be they Republican or Democrat or royalty or socialite, should be dragged kicking and screaming out of the darkness and immolated in the light of the truth.
And that’s the final tragedy of it all, Jeffrey Epstein – that you and I have one thing in common, and until that happens I’ll hold my fucking breath.
I see you, Jeffrey Epstein. I fucking see you.
