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“The Canadian Epstein” — Disgraced fashion mogul Peter Nygard's own SON is helping police investigate his alleged sex crimes

Disgraced fashion mogul Peter Nygard's own SON is helping police investigate his alleged sex crimes By Guy Adams Investigates For The Daily Mail
15 Jan 2021
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'He has become my arch-nemesis. I no longer regard him as my father . . . He is a monster. I am now here to serve in any way I can, to support survivors and the justice process and also to help expose the people who covered up his crimes.'
Kai Bickle's world came tumbling down one night in May 2019, when he attended a dinner party at a lavishly decorated mansion overlooking the golden sands of Venice Beach in Los Angeles.
The host was his father, Peter Nygard, a Canadian fashion tycoon famed for the hedonistic lifestyle he pursued at a global portfolio of high-end properties, including vast residences in Winnipeg, Toronto and Montreal, as well as New York, and, most notoriously, a Mayan-themed 'private luxury resort' in the Bahamas.
Modelling himself on Playboy founder Hugh Hefner, the flamboyant Nygard, now 79, kept a revolving harem of girlfriends. Those caught up (often completely unwittingly) in this web had included actresses Susan Anton and Jennifer O'Neill, stripper-turned-reality star Anna Nicole Smith, and a former Wheel Of Fortune card turner by the name of Vanna White.
His Caribbean parties, meanwhile, tended to attract a better class of A-lister. Past visitors to the island property had ranged from Jane Seymour and Bo Derek to Robert De Niro, , Michael Jackson and Joan Collins, not to mention and , who were photographed there in the early 2000s on an innocuous family holiday.
The 2019 bash, during one of Peter's occasional business trips to LA, was to be a more down-to-earth affair. Roughly 20 guests, including Kai, 38, and his younger brother Jessar (one of roughly ten offspring Nygard has fathered via more than seven women) had been invited for food and drinks, followed by a late-night poker game.
That was the plan, at least. But Kai never made it to the card- table. Instead, he fled the lavish premises in a state of distress, shortly after dinner, believing that he had just witnessed his father attempting to sexually assault an eight-year-old girl.
Details of this ugly development are (it should be stressed) strongly disputed, and we shall examine them later. But the incident would kick-start an extraordinary chain of events that culminated just before Christmas, with the arrest of Peter Nygard on nine charges of sex trafficking and racketeering.
Currently behind bars, with his $900 million (£660 million) business empire in tatters and the FBI poring over his computer hard-drives, the fallen tycoon has now been accused of rape or sexual assault by at least 57 women. Several of Nygard's accusers were children when the alleged crimes took place, and many claim they were drugged.
At least 57 women have accused him.
He will appear in court in Canada next week, seeking bail as he fights extradition to the USA.
It is, perhaps, the most high-profile and shocking sex case since handcuffs were slapped on Jeffrey Epstein. And in a remarkable twist, it turns out that a leading figure in the increasingly public campaign to prosecute Mr Nygard is his aforementioned son, Kai.
Upcoming documentary: ‘Unseamly’ Canadian Designer Peter Nygård True Crime Documentary
Behind the scenes, I can reveal that Kai has spent the past 18 months secretly helping both the U.S. and Canadian authorities investigate his own father's alleged crimes. Keeping his role hidden from Nygard and his associates for several months, he has worked tirelessly to assist victims, and their legal teams.
On the personal front, he has changed his name (taking up his mother's surname to become Kai Zen Bickle) and used his influence over various Nygard companies to block efforts to move his assets offshore, fearing that would allow him to flee. 'We have been engaged in a brutal battle against my father and his enablers,' is how Kai summed things up when we spoke this week.
'He has become my arch-nemesis. I no longer regard him as my father . . . He is a monster. I am now here to serve in any way I can, to support survivors and the justice process and also to help expose the people who covered up his crimes.'
Perhaps most remarkably of all, Kai recently helped two of his younger siblings, one of whom remains a minor, to sue Peter Nygard over claims he 'engineered' the rape of his own sons. In an extraordinary lawsuit filed in August, the boys claimed that their leathery, multi-millionaire father instructed one of his long-standing girlfriends (who was also a sex worker) to 'make a man' out of them.
The first of these alleged attacks (which, again, are vehemently denied by Nygard) took place in the Bahamas 2004, when the son was 15 and the woman was in her mid-20s. The second occurred in Winnipeg in 2018, when the younger child was 14 and the woman was in her 40s. Court papers filed by the boys stated that the unnamed girlfriend was instructed to seduce Nygard's son by showering in his bathroom so that he 'could see her naked'. Then she raped him.
Afterwards, she allegedly told the boy he 'wasn't bad' for a 'baby.' The next morning, Nygard's girlfriend brought him breakfast in bed, kissing him on the lips and announcing: 'Mommy's got you.' Kai says he first became aware of this appalling incident last spring, and was 'sickened' to hear his brothers' claims.
He would often yell and scream at his staff.
'We all spoke and decided the best course of action was to file a lawsuit publicly in the hope that other survivors would feel safe to come forward and also file criminally against Nygard,' he says. 'We were originally going to have me in the suit as my young brother's guardian, but in the end decided not to because it would reveal to Nygard that I was working against him . . . At the time I was [secretly] doing everything I could to improve the odds that he would get arrested.'
To appreciate the extraordinary journey taken by Kai, we must wind the clock back to the mid-1980s, when his father was one of Canada's most talked-about self-made millionaires.
The son of penniless immigrants from Finland, Peter Nygard had launched his empire in the late 1960s, with an $8,000 (£6,000) investment in a struggling fashion firm. By the time he was 30, the company had become one of North America's most successful suppliers of leisure and sportswear, while his flamboyant eccentricities, which included keeping parrots in his office and filling the lobby of Nygard HQ with bronze busts of himself, turned him into an object of public fascination.
In 1987, the party-loving entrepreneur purchased a 4.5-acre patch of the island of New Providence in the Bahamas and set about turning it into a 'dream home' where he could indulge his champagne lifestyle. Over the ensuing years, he built 150,000 sq ft of Mayan-themed buildings, stretching over a dozen 'cabana-style' residences. The buildings at Nygard Cay eventually included a casino, a disco hut (with cameras beneath the dance floor, reportedly to shoot images of revellers from below), and the world's largest sauna, a 6,000 sq ft lodge made from 2ft-thick Canadian pine logs.
In the grounds were fake volcanoes that belched dry ice, a flock of peacocks, stone cobras which hissed steam at sunset, 60 ft towers festooned with hundreds of flaming torches (lit nightly by staff) and giant statues of nude women, purportedly modelled on some of Nygard's favourite girlfriends.
At weekends, he would host lavish parties, which appeared on various TV documentaries, including Lifestyles Of The Rich And Famous.
The place became a magnet for freeloading celebrities and, while Kai believes they generally had the most fleeting and brief relationship with Nygard, photos of their visits were then plastered across company literature and websites.
Prince Andrew, to cite one example, was recorded for posterity wandering with the long-haired fashion magnate on the beach, wearing blue shorts and boat shoes.
Born in the 1980s, Kai spent the first three years of his life in the Bahamas until his mother, Patricia, left Nygard, with whom she'd had three children but never married.
They moved first to California and then to the Pacific Northwest in the U.S. Over subsequent years, he had almost no regular contact with the fashion tycoon aside from occasional visits during school holidays, where he met various half-siblings.
'He would have one family weekend per year at his lake cottage, and a few days set aside for Christmas,' says Kai of the somewhat unorthodox arrangement. 'During those times, the days were filled with activities like horseback riding or mini golf.
'He could be a very charismatic person when he wanted to be and the family weekends were very light and brief.'
In the very limited time he spent with his father during childhood, Kai saw nothing that gave him reason to suspect that Peter Nygard was guilty of criminality, though he did have a highly volatile personality.
'He would yell and scream at his staff often, and that always was upsetting to everyone around it, but he would describe his yelling as 'passion' because of his 'high standards',' Kai says.
Nygard's children were further told that he 'lived a consensual, non-monogamous lifestyle,' Kai says. 'He made speeches at dinner to family when we were together to talk about how he hoped everyone got a wonderful partner and wished that he could find that special someone, but that it wasn't the life for him.
'He also had girlfriends that were persistently with him, always two or three, and often they were around for years. He wasn't embarrassed about it. He flaunted it on TV, it was part of his brand, something he showed the whole world. He was proud of it.'
Be that as it may, rumours of predatory behaviour by Nygard —and worse — had occasionally reared their ugly head, only to be quickly suppressed: a relatively easy task before the internet.
In 1980, for example, he was charged with the rape of an 18-year-old, but the charge was dropped when the complainant refused to testify. In 1996, three female employees meanwhile filed sexual harassment complaints in the Canadian province of Manitoba.
It looked like his hand was on her thigh, rubbing.
One, a 39-year-old communications manager, said that, when called into Nygard's office, she would 'find him in a state of undress . . . with his hands down the front of his pants, fondling himself.' He settled by giving the women $18,500 (£13,600) and denied any wrongdoing.
Then, in 2010, a Canadian TV network put out a Panorama-style documentary about Nygard, focusing on alleged sex abuse and harassment of former employees.
It quoted a former stewardess on his private plane who alleged that on one journey — during which Nygard was accompanied by a troupe of topless women — he lost his temper with staff, shouting: 'You are nothing! You are garbage! I am God!'
The programme also alleged that Nygard had engaged in 'inappropriate sexual contact' with a young woman who had been brought to his home in 2003 from the Dominican Republic. Nygard denied that either incident had happened, and sued to stop the documentary being broadcast.
Fast forward to May 2019, however, and those ugly incidents were largely forgotten. Kai, who was by then in his late 30s, had worked for his father's companies for just over two years after leaving college, but quit to pursue a career in activism and health science.
Nygard's trip to Los Angeles afforded them a rare opportunity to catch up, so he attended the aforementioned dinner party in Venice Beach.
As the night wore on, he recalls becoming uncomfortable about his father's behaviour towards an eight-year-old girl, who was attending with her mother, one of Nygard's old girlfriends.
'He's got her sitting right next to him at dinner, which is usually his girlfriend chair. And he's a creature of routine. So I'm already thinking this is weird.
'He's trying to act like the Papa. It was just weird . . . I'm noticing things. I'm noticing that he's telling her little secrets at dinner. Putting his hand close to her ear and going all hush-hush.' At the end of dinner, most of the other 20-odd guests got up to adjourn to the card table. However, Kai adds: 'I'm still watching him. Her chair gets pushed back. He brings her round to him.
'She was on his right side. He brings her to his left side, with his arm around her waist, and I see his elbow change and start moving as if — it looked to me, I couldn't see, but it looked like his hand was on her upper thigh, and rubbing. That's what it looked like to me . . . Everything in my body told me he was doing something terrible.'
'I had a huge adrenaline rush and I immediately told the mother to get her daughter away from him,' he adds. 'I stood up next to him and looked in his eyes. At that moment, for me, it was like all the walls were crashing down around him . . . And I realised that, yeah, he's probably trying to groom that girl.'
Nygard vigorously denied wrongdoing, and even called Kai 'sick' for thinking as much. But Kai was unconvinced.
Then, in February last year, ten women filed a bombshell lawsuit in New York claiming that the fashion magnate had used wealth and status to 'entice underage girls' from 'young, impressionable and often impoverished backgrounds' into his home, where they would be 'plied with alcohol' and (some allege) date-rape drugs, before being taken to Nygard's private quarters, where he would 'assault, rape and sodomise' them. Court papers claimed they were then coerced into joining a globe-trotting harem of sex workers paid thousands of dollars from Nygard's company funds and trafficked around the world on his company's private jet, which reportedly boasts a stripper pole.
One alleged victim, who was just 14 at the time, claimed Nygard raped her and paid her $5,000 (£3,700).
Another said her encounter with Nygard began with him showing her pornography after which he raped her, 'causing her extraordinary trauma and pain', the suit states.
Three of his existing ten accusers were 14 at the time. Three more were 15.
Within days, dozens more alleged victims had come forward. By the summer, some 57 survivors were pursuing legal action — and the number of alleged victims had reached 100.
Kai again confronted his father, only to be told it was all 'lies' and asked to speak out publicly in his father's support. But days later a friend texted Kai to complain about a recent visit to Nygard's house in Los Angeles.
'He said he'd brought a female friend with him, who had one or two drinks and had started to feel very high. Nygard took her up to his room and aggressively had sex with her, not using a condom.
'When I heard that, I knew he was not only as bad as people said he was, but was a dangerous criminal and had to be stopped.' He duly alerted the authorities about the friend's message. In a podcast called Live To Walk Again, released this week, he revealed that he began helping both the police and the alleged victims' lawyers, who he regards as 'heroes'.
Over the summer, Kai also used official positions held in Nygard firms to block two apparent efforts to move assets overseas, amid concerns that the tycoon might flee to evade justice.
PODCAST EPISODE: Peter Nygard Discusses His Father
'Through the course of ten months I also helped several survivors to file criminally against him, and spent countless hours on the phone with survivors, lawyers and authorities,' he says. Last month Nygard was arrested on U.S. charges at a home in the Royalwood area of Winnipeg. He spent Christmas behind bars and has consistently denied any wrongdoing, saying he 'expects to be vindicated' in court.
Kai has renounced his inheritance and is working on 'making the world a better place' by campaigning to close legal loopholes exploited by sex offenders.
'I'm very happy earning my own money, as I have all my life. We've never had a trust fund or an allowance, and since his money has been made through pain and suffering, I won't accept a potential inheritance,' he says.
His father's cash, he says, should instead go towards compensating victims. 'My focus now is to help the healing process.'
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A Deep Dive - Ghislaine Maxwell: Silver Spoons and Hard Times

A Deep Dive - Ghislaine Maxwell: Silver Spoons and Hard Times
This story was published in Frank's Report. Frank Parlato is an investigative journalist. Frank Report is one of the internet’s best destinations for true, unfiltered, hard-hitting journalism run by the acclaimed journalist Frank Parlato.
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Ghislaine Maxwell – Silver Spoons and Hard Times

August 9, 2020
By Paul Serran
https://frankreport.com/2020/08/09/ghislaine-maxwell-silver-spoons-and-hard-times/
http://archive.is/by7md
Ghislaine Maxwell led much of her life under the world’s fascinated microscopic view, always enthralled by her – famous and infamous – as it watched her fortunes wax and wane.
From the celebrated miracle daughter of media tycoon Robert Maxwell; to the broken young woman who fled scandal in the UK to a small New York apartment, trying to launch a new life; the rebirth Jet-set Ghislaine, who was everywhere at once, longtime companion of Jeffrey Epstein, a man even richer and more shady than her father; the sophisticated middle age woman, a runaway alleged criminal trying hard to avoid detection by her pursuers – finally, to the incarcerated, indicted suspected sex trafficker and perjurer.
Ghislaine was Robert and Betty Maxwell’s miracle baby, born on Christmas Day, 1961. Two days after that, their eldest son suffered a fatal car accident.
In 24 hours, it all had been somehow foretold: joy – and then tragedy.
During the Swinging Sixties, Robert Maxwell served two terms as a Labour Member of Parliament (MP) for Buckingham. He led a multimillionaire lifestyle, and was the host of star-studded parties at Headington Hill Hall, his baronial fifty-three-room Oxford mansion.
The Maxwells spent a million dollars redecorating the mansion. In a stained glass window scene for the imperial staircase, Israeli sculptor Nehemia Azaz depicted Robert Maxwell as the biblical hero Samson tearing down the gates of Gaza: “a titan of luck, impossible achievement, and unlimited wealth”.
They had the use of chauffeured luxury cars. They traveled the world in Robert’s Gulfstream IV Jet and his sleek 180-foot yacht, named Lady Ghislaine.
“If Bob Maxwell didn’t exist, no one could invent him,” Labour Party leader Neil Kinnock celebrated the bombastic, demanding mogul who dined with kings and presidents and had a bottomless appetite for family, food, fortune, and fame.
The first brush with financial and professional hardship came at a age when young Ghislaine would have been mostly sheltered from it.
In the early seventies, after Robert Maxwell tried similar shenanigans in a failed attempt to swindle the American financier Saul Steinberg, who was interested in a strategic acquisition of Pergamon Press. Steinberg claimed that during negotiations, Maxwell falsely stated that a subsidiary responsible for publishing encyclopedias was extremely profitable.
At the same time, Pergamon had been forced to reduce its profit forecasts for 1969 during the period of negotiations, leading to a suspension of dealing in Pergamon shares on the London stock markets.
It was found that Maxwell had contrived to maximize Pergamon’s share price through transactions between his private family companies. This was a criminal practice he would utilize again in the future.
Inspectors from Britain’s Department of Trade and Industry declared Maxwell unfit to run a public company: “Notwithstanding Mr. Maxwell’s acknowledged abilities and energy, he is not in our opinion a person who can be relied on to exercise proper stewardship of a publicly quoted company.”
‘Captain Bob’ established the Maxwell Foundation in tax haven Liechtenstein, in 1970. By the 1980s he come back roaring, prompted by money later said to have originated in the Soviet Union. He bought the Mirror Group built and a massive media conglomerate.
The good times were on: Ghislaine was nicknamed “The Shopper” because of her wild spending funded by Robert’s millions. He also bankrolled her failed corporate gifts business.
During this period, she reportedly had a VERY close relationship with her father and was widely credited with being her father’s favorite child.
In Oxford, Ghislaine led a student life of wealth and privilege. Her father would send Filipino servants to the college house she shared to clean, arrange the table and cook, in the event of a party.
Her career piggybacked on her father’s businesses. She was made director of the Oxford United, and later, put in charge of “special projects” of the New York Daily News.
With her father’s money, she found her way into society, especially in New York — a haven where she could escape his complete control.
But the good times were not to last. Overextended and over-leveraged, Maxwell’s empire was about to crumble.
At this time, Maxwell reportedly was a regular at London’s casinos, playing three tables at once, even dropping $2.5 million in a single night. For years, he had been an inveterate gambler, but this was the behavior of a desperate man whose time was running out.
“He was a very crude man,” said a female writer for Time magazine. “His polish was not very deep. If you were with him for any length of time, it peeled away. I was in his library in the Maxwell House penthouse—a beautiful apartment with marble and servants all over the place—and while I was admiring his books, his valet said to me, ‘You should see Mr. Maxwell’s collection of pornographic tapes’.”
Ghislaine visited her father in his office before he flew off to Gibraltar. “He was looking for an apartment in New York—a sort of pied-à-terre, where he could talk and have meetings—and he wanted me to help him,” she told Vanity Fair. “He asked me to go see a particular apartment. He said, ‘If you like it, I’ll make time to see it and come to New York.’ ” But the next time Ghislaine saw her father, he was dead.
”Ghislaine is the baby of the family and the one who was closest to her father,” her mother Betty told Vanity Press. ”The whole of Ghislaine’s world has collapsed, and it will be very difficult for her to continue.”
When she finally appeared before the reporters, she had collected herself. “How did your father die?” a journalist shouted at Ghislaine Maxwell. “He did not commit suicide. That was just not consistent with his character. I think he was murdered. ”
Maxwell, it turned out, had debts of nearly $5 billion, and had stolen hundreds of millions from the Mirror Group’s pension funds to shore up his faltering companies. That left 32,000 employees exposed to retirement ruin.
The irony was not lost on the hard-hitting British press: Robert Maxwell, a socialist, stealing hundreds of millions of pounds from the Mirror’s pension fund!
He swindled money from two of his public companies, transferred millions in and out the secret family trusts in Liechtenstein, to manipulate the share price of his Corporation.
Robert was called “rogue,” “crook,” “bully,” “thief,” “megalomaniac,” and “gangster.” The press told lurid tales of his sex orgies with midget Filipino hookers.
He was seen as a 310-pound aberration gorging on spoonfuls of caviar. An erratic and cruel tyrant who used Turkish towels for toilet paper. Journalists wrote that he was a spy for the K.G.B. or Mossad or Czech intelligence—or all three.
“My daughter Ghislaine has no money, no trusts, no funds anywhere.” her mother Betty told Vanity Fair. “Neither of [my children] had any money. Their father never gave them any money.”
Their assets were frozen. His son Kevin’s house was put up for sale, as were the Lady Ghislaine and the Gulfstream IV Jet. Their passports were seized.
A friend told The Times of London, “[Ghislaine] had always been the life and soul of the party wherever she wanted to go in the world and never had to worry about money.” Now she was the broken child of a monster, his name forever synonymous to scandal. “She was catatonic,” the friend said.
Forced to vacate her huge company-provided residence, she moved into a small apartment. When a friend came to visit, Ghislaine told her, “They took everything—everything—even the cutlery.”
Little did she know how many more times things in her life would shift from silver spoons to hard times. A woman brought up in luxury, she had everything taken from her, before she came to the United States to begin again.
“He wasn’t a crook,” Ghislaine told Vanity Press. “A thief to me is somebody who steals money. (…) Did he put it in his own pocket? Did he run off with the money? No. And that’s my definition of a crook.”
“I’m surviving—just,” she said. “But I can’t just die quietly in a comer. I have to believe that something good will come out of this mess. It’s sad for my mother. It’s sad to have lost my dad. It’s sad for my brothers. But I would say we’ll be back. Watch this space.”
Ghislaine Maxwell was also being hunted by the tabloids. The Maxwell name was so detested in London that she is said to have had to walk around in a blond wig so people wouldn’t recognize her.
Ghislaine Maxwell’s reinvention didn’t take long. Maxwell moved to the United States just after her father’s death. Her photograph boarding a Concorde to cross the Atlantic caused outrage – her father had just defrauded pensioners out of 750 Million Sterling Pounds.
According to the Mail on Sunday: “Unnoticed by almost everybody, traveling with her was a greying, plumpish, middle-aged American businessman who managed to avoid the photographers. It is to this man that 30-year-old Ghislaine has turned to ease the heartache of her father’s shame.”
“His name is Jeffrey Epstein.”
“Whose house is this, Ghislaine?” a friend asked her in the early 1990’s. “Who lives here?”
My friend,” Maxwell replied.
“Well, is he banging you?” the friend demanded. “What’s the scoop here?”
A trust fund is said to have provided her with an income of $145,000 a year. A far cry from her previous seemingly unending wealth. She “never, ever had any cash. Lots of credit, of course, but no cash”, one friend recalled to the press.
And yet, she lived the high life. She was known in New York as the “female Gatsby” for her lavish entertaining. Had a “reputation for being charming and funny, and a glittering lifestyle straight out of the pages of a society magazine”.
She was now “far from the ever watchful eye of the British press,” Hello! magazine wrote in 1997.
“She is proud of the fact that her new life is all down to her own hard work and has her elegant apartment to show for it,” the magazine mistakenly added. One day, she would “get married and have kids. But it has never been a focus: My focus is my business.”
Ghislaine’s presence added more fuel to the question: “How did Jeffrey Epstein amass his fortune?” For one of the most propagated theories is that Maxwell’s father Robert bankrolled him with funds hidden from the UK authorities.
Jeffrey Epstein built a 21,000-square-foot mansion on a massive ranch in New Mexico, which – he boasted – made his New York townhouse “look like a shack”. He named it the Zorro Ranch. He also acquired a 72-acre island in the Virgin Islands and an 8,600-square-foot home in Paris, with a specially built massage room.
She had found a path back to the lifestyle she’d lost when her father died. “She was used to living very well,” says a friend who knew her then. “She didn’t want to go back to where she was.” All she had to do to keep it was to give ‘the monster’ what he wanted.
Maxwell was expected to drop everything to serve Epstein.
She had to keep everyone in line, because one misstep would unleash the wrath of Epstein, one of the few people who could make Maxwell cry. “He would be screaming over the phone,” recalled an Epstein victim, “and she would burst into tears.”
The New York townhouse became a social nexus; guests could have included members of the Kennedy and Rockefeller clans, “along with the requisite sprinkling of countesses and billionaires,” according to The Times of London.
She was “a modern-day geisha” in a “domain filled with the richest people in the planet. “It’s a world frequented by young half-naked girls in bikinis, billionaires and lavish lifestyles, but it borders on the grotesque. You are never really sure what is going on behind closed doors.”
Royalty was specially prized, which is why her friendship with Prince Andrew became so treasured. In 2000, Maxwell and Epstein attended a Prince Andrew’s party at the Queen’s Sandringham House estate in Norfolk, England. It has been reported that the event was in honor of Maxwell’s 39th birthday.
And yet, Ghislaine began trying to distance herself from Epstein long before he went to jail. In the early 2000s, she hooked up in California with a man much richer than Epstein: Ted Waitt.
Waitt lived in a seven-bedroom, 14-bath mansion in La Jolla, sailed the world aboard a 240-foot mega-yacht, the Plan B. It was equipped with a helipad, Jacuzzi, elevator, gym, and HAD AN ONBOARD SUBMARINE, which Maxwell soon was licensed to pilot.
After Epstein went to prison in Florida for a short period, Maxwell saw the silver spoons turned into hard times again.
Acquaintances that crossed her path reported how she was almost unrecognizable. She was not stylish and attention grabbing anymore, seemed determined to go unnoticed. Her face had no makeup. There was a hint of gray in her black hair, she put on some weight.
“I was so shocked by her look,” a friend recalled to the British press. “I didn’t recognize her.”
She even gave up her once proud name, sometimes introducing herself to new acquaintances only as “G.”
“Where are you living, Ghislaine?” the friend asked. “I lost touch with you.” Maxwell suddenly went blank. “Oh,” she replied, “a little bit everywhere.”
December 2014: Virginia Roberts Giuffre filed a motion in the Southern District of Florida describing Maxwell as Epstein’s “primary coconspirator and participant in his sexual abuse and sex trafficking scheme.”
Maxwell made a huge mistake, issuing an “urgent” statement to the media dismissing the claims as “obvious lies.” That allowed Giuffre, to sue Maxwell for defamation in federal court in New York, a lawsuit “widely viewed as a vessel for Epstein’s victims to expose the scope of Epstein’s crimes,” according to the Miami Herald.
Maxwell affirmed her innocence with fury, at one point of her testimony banging her fists on the table. She also, according to charges filed by the DOJ SDNY, committed two counts of perjury.
2019: when the SDNY reopened the criminal investigation into Jeffrey Epstein, Ghislaine was far away, living the high life.
She met with her friend Prince Andrew in Buckingham Palace, and participated in “Cash & Rocket”, an annual charity road rally. Between races of the rally, she joined the super rich in attending a Masquerade Ball in London’s Victoria and Albert Museum, as well as a White dinner at La Reserve in Geneva and the Red party at the Yacht Club de Monaco.
Those were to be her last reported events. Cash & Rocket scrub Maxwell’s photo from its website once Epstein was arrested and the scandal assaulted the headlines again.
On July 6, 2019, Epstein was arrested by federal agents at Teterboro Airport, arriving from Paris. The FBI raided his mansion, and charged him with sex trafficking of minors.
“Epstein’s pimp girlfriend, Ghislaine Maxwell, a very well-connected Brit socialite cannot just walk free,” actress Ellen Barking tweeted the day after Epstein’s arrest. “This woman is his pimp. She pilots planes [sic] to and from the island. I know because she told me.”
Maxwell again went into hiding, unreachable during legal proceedings. It surfaced in December 2019 that Maxwell was among the people under FBI investigation for facilitating Epstein’s crimes.
She was faced with a tabloid frenzy even bigger than the one that accompanied the death of her father. She again uprooted herself and tried to start over in Manchester-by-the-Sea, a quiet village 30 miles north of Boston, she lived for a time in the $3 million, five-bedroom colonial home of Scott Borgerson, CEO of CargoMetrics, a hedge fund investment company involved in maritime data analytics.
Since Epstein was found dead in jail, last August, she is reported to have moved 36 times, out of fear for her safety. Credible Death threats arrived by social media, email, phone, text, and postal service. It began in earnest with Epstein’s arrest, multiplied with his death, and accelerated in the months that followed. They soon became a routine part of her life.
She hired a professional security firm, with operatives that are veterans of intelligence and law enforcement agencies.
This photoshopped photo of Maxwell surfaced last year to mislead the public into thinking she was in Los Angeles. Frank Report was the first to report the photo a fake, a story that went viral.
“Where in the world was Ghislaine Maxwell? Everyone, it seemed, had a theory, each wilder than the last. She was said to be hiding deep beneath the sea in a submarine, which she was licensed to pilot. Or she was lying low in Israel, under the protection of the Mossad, the powerful intelligence agency with whom her late father supposedly tangled. Or she was in the FBI witness protection program, or ensconced in luxury in a villa in the South of France, or sunning herself naked on the coast of Spain, or holed up in a high-security doomsday bunker belonging to rich and powerful friends whose lives might implode should Maxwell ever reveal what she knows—all the dirty secrets of the dirty world that she and Epstein shared.”
(Vanity Fair – Jul 3, 2020)
Maxwell remained at large, beyond the reach of attorneys, tabloid reporters, and a 10,000-pound reward from The Sun in London.
“It’s a little bit like Elvis—you get lots of reports but they’re hard to verify,” a victim attorney said in May.
She was periodically said to have been spotted around the world, usually in places where she was not. Reporters scoured the globe. Some said she was in Russia trying to get a Oligarch to protect her. Others pointed to Israel or Brazil, China, Singapore, the Middle East, England.
She was “both everywhere and nowhere,” lamented UK’s The Guardian.
On August 2019, she was apparently photographed eating a burger and fries in the Cahuenga Boulevard, in the San Fernando Valley. She held The Book of Honor: The Secret Lives and Deaths of CIA Operatives. Given Ghislaine and her father Robert’s alleged ties to Intelligence Services, this choice does not seem accidental.
Papers were running out of incredible stories to account for her disappearance. A bizarre new theory emerged she could be hiding in a submarine which – as we saw – was not downright impossible, since she DID have a license to pilot underground vehicles.
On July 2nd 2020, Maxwell was arrested by the FBI and NYPD in the small New England town of Bradford, New Hampshire. It is situated at driving distance of the NYSD. They finally found her in a luxurious four-bedroom, 4,365-square-foot home on a wooded lot, called Tuckedaway.
Ghislaine Maxwell was charged with six federal crimes: luring and enticement of minors, sex trafficking of children and perjury.
The crimes took place between 1994 and 1997, the years of her “intimate relationship with Epstein,” when she “assisted, facilitated, and contributed to Jeffrey Epstein’s abuse of minor girls.”
One of the three unnamed victims was “as young as 14 years old when they were groomed and abused by Maxwell and Epstein, both of whom knew that certain victims were in fact under the age of 18.”
FBI assistant director William F. Sweeney Jr. described Maxwell as “one of the villains of this investigation,” who had “slithered away to a gorgeous property” in New Hampshire, where she was “continuing to live a life of privilege while her victims live with the trauma inflicted upon them years ago.”
“I am optimistic about my future,” she said in 1997, “and believe things will continue to improve for me as time passes.”
Now, according to sources close to her, “I don’t think [Ghislaine] sees there is a future,” came the reply.
If found guilty of all charges, Maxwell could face a prison sentence of 35 years. She denies the accusations, and has pleaded not guilty to all six charges.
She will await trial locked up in the Metropolitan Detention Center, in Brooklyn. A dreadful prison that is as removed from her previous “silver spoon” upbringing as it’s possible in the US. Hard times.
She used to be a larger than life character, who once hosted a dinner for NY socialites on ‘the fine art of giving a blow job’. But then, she really blew it.
A report from a source familiar with the Metropolitan Detention Center gives a glum picture of Ghislaine Maxwell’s present conditions.
She is in the women’s section and believed to be confined to a solitary cell. Because of the past history of the MDC, it is not impossible to suspect that Ghislaine could be having sexual relations with one or more corrections officers, either male or female. Her available wealth would permit her to buy some privileges directly from the corrections officers who could smuggle in items for her.
MDC has a history of guards, male and female, enjoying sex with prisoners and smuggling in everything from alcohol to cell phones to drugs. While she is not enjoying what anyone would call a privileged life, and is most likely [because of Covid protocols] confined to her cell, dank and cold [in summer] perhaps as much as 23-24 hours per day and possibly getting only one hot meal per day, our source says, with her wealth and talent to charm, if there is any privilege, any opportunity, any luxury to enjoy at MDC, she is enjoying it.
Of course, she is probably under near-constant surveillance, for no guard wants to go to prison for letting her get murdered or commit suicide – as did her former lover Epstein. It is not known how frequently she is meeting with lawyers in special rooms set aside for the purpose. But an MDC source tells Frank Report that prison officials are known to eavesdrop on those conversations with lawyers and defendants and do so on high profile cases. Whether they report to the prosecution what they learn is unknown.
In the end, Maxwell has a hard road to hoe and will remain in the brutal and unsanitary MDC until she stands trial or makes a plea deal or dies. The possibility of additional charges other than those currently charged against her – for hebephilia crimes in the last century – remain a possibility.
The late Jeffrey Epstein was a convicted hebephile, a person who has urges for post pubescent but under the age of consent children. Is Ghislaine one also? And are there others, famous and prominent men of power who have indulged as Jeffrey and allegedly Ghislaine have done?
The ace in the hole for her, obviously, is, if she has info on other prominent hebephiles that the DOJ for its own partisan or PR reasons might like to selectively prosecute, she can trade that info for a lenient sentence and hopefully not be murdered for doing so.
Her former lover, Jeffrey Epstein, might have committed suicide, as the Mainstream Media and the US Govt. urges you to believe, but there are some who find the coincidences, cameras being off, bones broken indicating he was strangled, guards happening to fall asleep as they were assigned to watch the most famous prisoner in the world, such that that it just might cause reasonable people to doubt the official narrative a little more than the corporate media and prison officials would wants us to doubt.
The same fate might befall Ghislaine and we may never know just what she did. Whether her crimes were confined to herself and Epstein or whether there was a vast network of hebephiles joining in – or – in fairness to her – she is innocent as she claims, something that a trial, if she makes it to trial, might help us determine.


stretcher during the funeral service in Jerusalem’s main convention hall on Nov. 10, 1991. The body is laying on a stretcher, draped in a white Jewish prayer shawl with black stripes as is it tradition of Jewish burials in Israel. (AP Photo/Natik Harnik) Ghislaine is fourth from the left.


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submitted by ALiddleBiddle to Epstein [link] [comments]

[F4A] [1×1] [romance]

Hello I'm looking for a long term roleplay partner for a romantic roleplay set sometime in the 1930s or 1940's. Just be literate and write at least two paragraphs or more. Mostly SFW and in 3rd person.
First idea: Its the mid 1930s and Hollywood glamour is all the rage. I play an actress and you work on the movie lot(you can pick anything, camera man, work in the costume department, writer etc). My character has done a lot to get to where she is including sleeping with others for roles. We meet on set and slowly start falling for one another.
Second idea: You're a detective who's currently investigating the homicide of an old oil tycoon. Naturally his young beautiful wife(my character) who happens to be the sole benefactor of his wealth is the main suspect.
Third idea: You're a gambler who's been caught cheating in casino. You manage to talk your way into not only getting away with all your fingers but also a job from the casino owner and form an uneasy partnership with him. He introduces you to his new wife (my character), we happen to be ex-lovers.
Others ideas are welcomed and encouraged. Pm me
submitted by LoveStruckPrincess to Roleplay [link] [comments]

And now for the one that's going to get me in trouble with the 007 purists. A deeper look at the World is Not Enough (1999)

Hey folks! I'm planning on watching all 23 of the James Bond films between now and the release of Spectre in November. 007 films have always been my guilty pleasure and I thought it might be worth trying to have a more analytical discussion about them. If you all are interested, I'll be posting one of these discussions/reviews every 1-2 weeks. So here goes!

THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH (1999)

Preface

Before I get into the meat of my review, I'd like to take a moment to deliver a little preface to this piece. While doing my research for the World is Not Enough, I was intrigued to see it rated as such a mediocre film on IMDb (6.4). Curious to get a second opinion, I checked Rotten Tomatoes. Similarly rated (51%). So I began a task that I'm rather excited about. When these reviews are all said and done, I will be posting a sort of debriefing post. In this post, I will be doing an analysis of the films and how they are ranked among different sources. I've found eleven current 007 film rankings including ones from Peter Travers, AMC, Moviefone, and many more. In all ten lists I found, WINE never ranked higher than 13.

I've always known that the general 007 community views this film to be in the average-to-lower tier. This was my first time watching WINE since I was young so I went in fully expecting to have a pretty lousy (albeit entertaining) film on my hands. On the contrary.

Before you scroll to the bottom to how I stacked it up amongst the other films, keep one thing in mind. I have strived to be fair to multiple facets of the filmmaking process when reviewing these films. Classics like Dr. No and From Russia With Love weren't spared from their technical deficiencies just because they were iconic or had a fun story. Although it's difficult to do so fairly, I also try to judge the films, not necessarily against themselves but against their contemporaries. So obviously the cinematography from GoldenEye will blow Goldfinger out of the water. But I hope to find a decent balance between two contexts (historical and within the series). So while I certainly wouldn't argue that in the context of James Bond lore, WINE is a superior film to, say, From Russia WIth Love, it's imperative to remember that my rankings consist of more than just what makes a good Bond film. It's about what makes a good film, period. With that in mind, let's discuss the World is Not Enough.

Story

To start things off, the cold open of WINE is fantastic. While it doesn't pack in every Bond trope like GoldenEye did, it still covers a lot of ground. You've got a handful of gadgets including the exploding gun and hidden glasses detonator. The opening scene in the banker's office has plenty of tense dialogue and silly double entendres. It provides an extended look at the inner workings of MI6 and a more personal look at M and her relationship to the plot. The entire sequence is directed with a high level of energy and technical proficiency and it concludes with one of the most entertaining and action-packed boat chases that the franchise has to offer.

In general, the script employs several devices that are either new or are using in refreshing ways. For one, it's nice to have a film in which Bond is injured from the get-go and that injury is used throughout the film as a constant reminder that this man is no Superman. Even his typically flawless actions are turned against him at times. One of my favorite moments of the film is when 007 evades a group of oncoming snowmobile paratroopers. He tricks one into flying straight off a mountain bluff and we get the signature Bond smirk as the faceless villain plummets to oblivion… until he activates a backup parachute and begins to turn around and head straight back for Bond. At this point we cut back to Brosnan who delivers a frown with genuine disappointment (and puzzlement?) at his failure.

Writers Neal Purvis and Robert Wade (who have penned every Bond film since WINE) continually hold Bond accountable as a real human being. Each situation individually judges how Bond will act or react. He isn't consistently cocksure throughout every scene. Another notable sequence is when Bond, who has allowed himself to get caught up in assuming the identity of a Russian scientist, suddenly and very much unexpectedly finds himself face to face with the villain mastermind of the film. 007 acts very much like a real human would in such a situation. He is caught off guard and knows he must act, despite there being literally no plan, reinforcements, or safety net in place. And Brosnan shows it. His actions are deliberate, though you can see the agitation and fear in his eyes.

Part of what sets Pruvis and Wade's screenplay apart from the previous films is their expertise in setting up a twisting and turning narrative. The previous film, Tomorrow Never Dies was particularly guilty of having a plot that consisted of a linear pattern of an obstacle, followed by Bond overcoming it, followed by another obstacle, followed again by Bond overcoming it… and so on. WINE feels much different from that. The characters craftily cross, double-cross, and outwit one another constantly. Bond isn't just skilled at shooting things, he's savvy. He goes undercover (my favorite trick in the espionage bag), fakes his death, and turns villains upon one another.

WINE shares villain duties between Renard and Elektra King. Renard is fascinating as he plays more of a role than the henchman, but isn't quite the primary villain. In the context of the villains, he is a welcome change. He is no megalomaniac, he isn't out to purge the world of people he deems unfit to survive, and he isn't just some petty drug lord. He is a man with nothing to lose. The bullet-in-the-head gag is a little campy but it makes for some fascinating character motivation. King is similarly a refreshing take on a reprised role. The female-owner-of-a-deceased-family-member's-company schtick isn't new. It was used with Stacey Sutton (geologist taking over for an oil tycoon) in A View to a Kill. There have also been countless smaller female characters that we are to believe are highly qualified scientists, secret agents, and so on -- including WINE's own Dr. Christmas Jones who we'll get to momentarily. Every one of these characters feels exactly like what they are: a sexy pinup model playing a scientist in the world's biggest budget but ultimately most unsatisfying porno. You can't help but roll your eyes when former Playboy model Gloria Hendry cries and whines about not being a proper CIA agent. Sophie Marceau, who plays King, is an entirely different matter. When her character demands satisfaction for the merciless murder of her father, Marceau has the aplomb to pull it off.

But it's not all perfect. Marceau still falls flat at times. Her tender moments still feel as forced as many of the actresses of films past. Her rapport with Brosnan is so-so at best. At least it's not as bad as… well everything involving Denise Richards and Dr. Christmas Jones. I don't know any of Richards' other work so I can't properly judge her as an actress but the writers did her no favors when it came to the stupid dialogue and the fact that even 30 years after Pussy Galore, a lesbian will still throw 25+ years of sexuality to the wind as soon as Agent James Bond comes along. Make no mistake, this disaster of a character was a complete group effort. The costume department didn't do her any favors either when they dressed her up like the spitting image of Lara Croft, Tomb Raider.

Sadly most people think primarily of Dr. Jones when they reflect negatively on this 19th installment of the 007 franchise. There is of course plenty of camp to be found elsewhere (helicopters with enormous buzz saws, flying snowmobiles, and weak 2nd- and 3rd-Act dialogue) but ultimately I feel that this film receives a bit more criticism than it deserves.

Look and Sound

All aspects of the technical side of WINE are on par with the previous two Brosnan entries (GoldenEye, Tomorrow Never Dies). I found the camerawork to be especially exciting during the action sequences and the lighting doesn’t disappoint. Once again I am totally in love with the set design.

I am particularly fond of David Arnold’s score. It frequently reprised classic Bond themes during action sequences to heighten the excitement. In a way it almost allows most of the campier elements of the film (the boat “driving” up London alleys, for instance) to be accepted as part of “classic 007” tradition.

A recurring pitfall of WINE was the uber-‘90s sound design. The film had a nasty habit of using generic tech-y sounds every time a computer or monitor was used. A minor gripe, sure, but it really got silly after a while.

Callbacks, Recurrences, and Tropes

WINE covers some pretty traditional Bond tropes. There are, of course, the title song, wild title sequence, and gun barrel sequence. There is a great ski chase (which I believe brings us to six), a card game (number 11, though really Bond didn’t play cards in Diamonds are Forever, I still count his casino trip), and a peculiar henchman. The gold-toothed Mr. Bouillon doesn’t have a significant or particularly memorable role, but it’s good to know that such henchmen are still around. We also get the 11th instance of “shaken, not stirred,” (fifth uttered by Bond himself) and the 14th instance of “Bond, James Bond.”

The returning cast includes Judy Dench returning as M, Samantha Bond returning as Moneypenny, a rare reappearance (just the fourth) of Chief of Staff Bill Tanner, and the second of Robbie Coltrane as Valentin Dmitrovich Zukovsky.

The most notable recurrence is Desmond Llewelyn in his final performance as the perpetually exasperated, always quick witted, gadget guru, Q. Llewelyn decided to retire after 17 appearances in the Bond franchise, spanning 36 years. In a horrible twist of fate, he died in a car accident mere weeks after the release of the film.

His involvement in the James Bond franchise is one that can never be overshadowed. The only person who was in even remotely as many Bond films was the original Moneypenny, Lois Maxwell. Maxwell had started only one movie prior to Llewelyn but had retired 14 years prior to him. The fact that in 1999, we watched as the ever-bemused Q chided Pierce Brosnan’s James Bond is astounding to me. This is the very same silver haired, tweed jacketed Q who once amusingly lectured a young Sean Connery on the proper usage of an ejector seat button in 1964.

If you ask the average film goer to name a few key aspects to a James Bond film, it’s likely that the term “gadgets” will be in nearly every list. The gadget briefing scenes were a standard for any 007 film worth its weight and Q was there nearly every step of the way. It is profoundly endearing to hear Llewelyn utter Q’s catchphrase, “now pay attention, 007,” to James Bond one final time. And one can’t help but smile as he sagaciously gives a few last pieces of advice before departing (both the scene and the franchise), with a smirking Agent 007 watching him go.

Overall Impression

All in all, I am baffled as to why this film receives as much criticism as it does. Certainly it has issues. Dr. Jones is an entirely worthless character, belonging with the Mary Goodnights and Tiffany Cases the of the world. There are moments of silliness, but nothing more audacious than anything found in the ‘80s. People claim that the script is convoluted or boring. I say that it is a vast, vast improvement over its predecessor, Tomorrow Never Dies — and again, just about anything we’ve seen for a few decades (with some exceptions).

All in all, I rather enjoyed the film and look forward to seeing if any other WINE fans would like to emerge from the closet in agreement or if I am just entirely off my rocker. To the comments section!

Quick Hits

Category Score Note
Writing 8 Complex, twisting, turning, engaging. Dialogue weakens considerably in Acts 2 and 3.
Directing 8 Snappy camera movement compliments the action well.
Acting 7 Brosnan is at his best, Marceau is more good than bad, but this category suffers greatly from Richards’ performance.
Cinematography 8.5 Nothing groundbreaking for the time, but a thoroughly solid showing nonetheless.
Production Design 8.5 Lamont continues to deliver a believable world with amusing gadgets.
Score 7.5 The score is ripe with excellent usage of the 007 theme, but points are lost for the distinctly ‘90s sound design.
Editing 8 Sharp editing works well with the action-oriented directing.
Effects 8.5 No complaints here.
Costumes 7 Not bad overall, though the travesty that is Dr. Jones’ outfit is hard to overlook.
Personal Score 8

Score - 79 / 100

Film Score
GoldenEye 86
Goldfinger 85
On Her Majesty's Secret Service 82
The Spy Who Loved Me 80
The World is Not Enough 79
From Russia With Love 76
The Living Daylights 75
You Only Live Twice 73
License to Kill 72
Dr. No 70
The Man with the Golden Gun 68
Tomorrow Never Dies 68
Live and Let Die 66
Thunderball 61
A View to a Kill 59
Moonraker 59
For Your Eyes Only 55
Octopussy 48
Diamonds Are Forever 37

Bonus Category!

So for each movie my wife and I will be enjoying a spirit or cocktail that relates to the film. I know we've now done a few of these in a row, but they're just so darn easy, iconic, and tasty. Martini -- shaken, not stirred.

• 4 measures vodka
• 1 measure dry vermouth
• Lemon (garnish)

Combine vodka and vermouth in a shaker. Shake over ice. Garnish with lemon, if desired.

So what do you folks think? How does the World is Not Enough fare in your opinion?

submitted by sdsachs to TrueFilm [link] [comments]

What's happening around town (Wed, Apr 26th - Tue, May 2nd)

Tulsa's event list.

Wednesday, Apr 26th

Thursday, Apr 27th

  • 😂 Adam Hunter (Loony Bin - Tulsa) Thru Sat, Apr 29th
  • 🎭 Annie Get Your Gun (Tulsa Performing Art Center - Tulsa) Start Time: 7:30pm Annie Get Your Gun Apr. 20-22, 27-29 at 7:30 p.m.; Apr. 23, 29 at 2 p.m. :: John H. Williams Theatre Annie Oakley is the best shot around, and she manages to support her little brother and sisters by selling the game she hunts. When she's discovered by Col. Buffalo Bill, he persuades this novel sharpshooter to join his Wild West Show. It only…
  • Ben Neikirk Band (The Hunt Club - Tulsa) Start Time: 10:00am
  • 🎭 Calliope Musical (Blackbird On Pearl - Tulsa) Start Time: 9:00pm
  • The Dixie Swim Club (Broken Arrow Community Playhouse - Broken Arrow) Thru Sun, Apr 30th Broken Arrow Community Playhouse brings "The Dixie Swim Club" to life, as local actresses put themselves…
  • 🏆 Drillers vs Travelers (ONEOK Field - Tulsa) Last Day Start Time: 7:00pm vs Arkansas Travelers 2 Works For You $2 Tuesday / Happy Hour!
  • Easton Corbin (Hard Rock Hotel & Casino Tulsa - Catoosa) Start Time: 7:00pm 777 West Cherokee Street, Catoosa, OK 800.760.6700
  • Ego Culture (The Hunt Club - Tulsa) Start Time: 10:00pm
  • Fitness on the Green: Bootcamp (Guthrie Green - Tulsa) Start Time: 5:30pm
  • MANUS: ab.sum I am away - Re-envisioned Architecture by Amy Rockett-Todd; Precarious Arrangement by Angela Piehl (Hardesty Arts Center (AHHA) - Tulsa) Thru Sun, Apr 30th Start Time: 10:00am
  • Scott H. Biram (Mercury Lounge - Tulsa)
  • Steeped: The Art of Tea (108|Contemporary - Tulsa) Thru Sun, Apr 30th Start Time: 12:00pm
  • Text Without Message - Christopher Wool (Philbrook Downtown - Tulsa) Thru Sun, Apr 30th Start Time: 11:00am
  • TIDAL SHIFT, Prints by Art Werger (Hardesty Arts Center (AHHA) - Tulsa) Thru Sat, Apr 29th Start Time: 12:00pm
  • WGC 4th Anniversary Celebration MOVIE IN THE PARK: ALICE'S RESTAURANT (Guthrie Green - Tulsa) Start Time: 7:00pm

Friday, Apr 28th

  • 😂 Adam Hunter (Loony Bin - Tulsa) 1 day left
  • The Dixie Swim Club (Broken Arrow Community Playhouse - Broken Arrow) Thru Sun, Apr 30th Broken Arrow Community Playhouse brings "The Dixie Swim Club" to life, as local actresses put themselves…
  • 🏆 Drillers vs Naturals (ONEOK Field - Tulsa) Start Time: 7:05pm vs Northwest Arkansas Naturals News on 6 Friday Night Fireworks
  • Green Country Classic Ranch Rodeo & Trade Show (Claremore Expo Center - Claremore) Day 1 of 2 Watch as 16 ranch teams from all across Oklahoma compete in exciting rodeo events such as wild cow milking, team…
  • Kenny Rogers (Paradise Cove @ Margaritaville - Tulsa) Start Time: 8:30pm
  • MANUS: ab.sum I am away - Re-envisioned Architecture by Amy Rockett-Todd; Precarious Arrangement by Angela Piehl (Hardesty Arts Center (AHHA) - Tulsa) Thru Sun, Apr 30th Start Time: 10:00am
  • Musiclynx Showcase (The Hunt Club - Tulsa) Start Time: 9:00pm
  • Pony Disco Club (Soundpony Lounge - Tulsa) Start Time: 9:00pm
  • Pre - Rok Party (The Shrine - Tulsa) Start Time: 8:00pm
  • Ok, So...Tulsa Grand Slam (IDL Ballroom - Tulsa) Start Time: 8:00pm Our previous monthly winners, 11 in all, will compete in a friendly competition for the "BEST STORYTELLER IN TULSA" Cash/prizes for best story/teller and runner up. The theme this night is (TBA) and each storyteller will have 5-6 minutes to wow the audience with a compelling and interesting true snippet of their lives. The doors will open at…
  • Stage One Dance Competition- Tulsa Regionals (Cox Business Center - Tulsa) Thru Sun, Apr 30th Start Time: 2:00pm
  • Steeped: The Art of Tea (108|Contemporary - Tulsa) Thru Sun, Apr 30th Start Time: 12:00pm
  • Text Without Message - Christopher Wool (Philbrook Downtown - Tulsa) Thru Sun, Apr 30th Start Time: 11:00am
  • TIDAL SHIFT, Prints by Art Werger (Hardesty Arts Center (AHHA) - Tulsa) 1 day left Start Time: 12:00pm
  • WGC 4th Anniversary Celebration Weekend (Guthrie Green - Tulsa) Thru Sun, Apr 30th Start Time: 5:00pm
  • The Young Vines, Roots of Thought, Manta Rays and The Brothers Moore (The Vanguard - Tulsa) Start Time: 7:00pm The Vanguard and Bros. Houligan Presents...The Young VinesRoots of Thought, Manta Rays, The Brothers Moore, LOCAL TBAFri 4/28Doors: 7:00 pm / Show: 7:00 pm This event is all ages

Saturday, Apr 29th

  • The 15th Annual 80's PROM (Cain's Ballroom - Tulsa) Start Time: 8:00pm ON SALE FRI 1/13 10:00 AM CST Get a new wave haircut and prepare for the raddest event in the city...it's the 15th Annual 80's PROM! • What to expect: Attendees​ arrive in over the top 80's costumes, some dressed as pop icons, characters, bands, toys, anything you can think of from the decade. While some of the guests go all out, others keep…
  • 80's Prom (Cain's Ballroom - Tulsa) Get a new wave haircut and head to Cain's Ballroom for the annual 80s Prom, the most tubular event in…
  • 😂 Adam Hunter (Loony Bin - Tulsa) Last Day
  • Birds Of Chicago (Woody Guthrie Center - Tulsa)
  • The Black Lillies (Guthrie Green - Tulsa)
  • 🎓 Chandler Park "IT’S A BABY!" Baby Shower (Chandler Park - Tulsa) Start Time: 10:00am All Ages Free Baby shower welcoming young families to parenthood! Educational event for expectant families offering topics important to the well-being of new babies. All expectant mothers and fathers invited. Participants are provided with workshops on growth and development, nutrition, and safety. Vendors from local organizations will be…
  • Cherry Street Farmers Market (Tulsa) Thru Sun, Oct 22nd Start Time: 7:00am
  • 🏃 Catoosa Community 5K Run/Walk (Catoosa High School - Catoosa) This is a fundraiser for Wells Middle School
    http://www.catoosaps.net
  • The Dixie Swim Club (Broken Arrow Community Playhouse - Broken Arrow) 1 day left Broken Arrow Community Playhouse brings "The Dixie Swim Club" to life, as local actresses put themselves…
  • 🏆 Drillers vs Naturals (ONEOK Field - Tulsa) Start Time: 7:05pm vs Northwest Arkansas Naturals News on 6 Friday Night Fireworks
  • 🎭 The Drunkard and the Olio (Tulsa Spotlight Theatre - Tulsa) Start Time: 7:30pm
  • 🏃 Collinsville Fit & Fun Downtown Run (Downtown - Collinsville) Fun Run to start at 8:30a and 5K to start at 9:00a. See Collinsville from a whole new perspective...run it!
  • Tulsa Flea Market (Expo Square - Tulsa)
  • 🏃 Golden Driller Marathon (River West Festival Park - Tulsa) The Golden Driller Marathon and Half Marathon will take place the day before the OKC Memorial Marathon. This race is a great way to become a marathon maniac or half fanatic.
    All finishers will receive a fantastic GOLDEN DRILLER medal!
  • Green Country Classic Ranch Rodeo & Trade Show (Claremore Expo Center - Claremore) Day 2 of 2 Watch as 16 ranch teams from all across Oklahoma compete in exciting rodeo events such as wild cow milking, team…
  • Ken Risewick Catfish Bash (Keystone Lake - Sand Springs) Compete to catch the biggest and best catfish Keystone Lake has to offer at the annual Ken Risewick Catfish Bash. Check…
  • MANUS: ab.sum I am away - Re-envisioned Architecture by Amy Rockett-Todd; Precarious Arrangement by Angela Piehl (Hardesty Arts Center (AHHA) - Tulsa) 1 day left Start Time: 10:00am
  • 🏆 Myers-duren Harley-davidson: Smoke & Guns IV (BOK Center - Tulsa) Start Time: 7:00pm
  • Oklahoma Gun Shows (Expo Square: Exchange Center - Tulsa) Day 1 of 2 The Oklahoma Gun Show at Expo Square in Tulsa is sure to have the products you are looking for with a wide selection of…
  • Oklahoma Nonprofit Excellence (ONE) Awards (Tulsa Renaissance Hotel & Convention Center - Tulsa) Start Time: 7:00pm array of missions.” To purchase tickets or for sponsorship information for the 2017 ONE Awards, please call 1-800-338-1798 or visit okcnp.org. The Renaissance Tulsa Hotel and Convention Center is located at 6808 South 107th East Avenue, Tulsa, Oklahoma 74133. Oklahoma Nonprofit Excellence (ONE) Awards
    April 29, 2017, 5:30pm-9:30pm…
  • Tulsa Punk Rock Flea Market (The American Legion Post 1 - Tulsa) Day 1 of 2 Immerse yourself in punk rock culture for a day, or join forces with fellow full-time punk rockers at the annual Tulsa…
  • Roughneck Roller Derby vs LeFlore County (Ninowski Recreation Center - Broken Arrow) Catch the buzz as the Roughneck Roller Derby girls put on an electrifying dance of athleticism and grace as the jammers…
  • RPM (The Hunt Club - Tulsa) Start Time: 10:00pm
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Sunday, Apr 30th

  • Andrew McMahon In the Wilderness (Cain's Ballroom - Tulsa) Start Time: 6:00pm Advance $25.50 | Day of Show $27.50 | Door $27.50 | Mezzanine (21+) $40.50 Each ticket includes a $.50 charity which will be donated to the Dear Jack Foundation , which advocates for and supports initiatives that directly benefit adolescents and young adults (AYA) diagnosed with cancer. There is a $2 fee that applies to each ticket purchased at…
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Monday, May 1st

Tuesday, May 2nd

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Slaughter Theatre Part Two

I looked at the man with unwilling disdain, he was hardly the most approachable character. In the background I could see staff miserably toiling, the sun was hot, and the men looked dirty and overworked.
'So...' Fortyn Kildare insisted, 'Like I said. All the information about the murder was provided at the time. What exactly are you hoping to dig up now??'
‘Well there’s nothing TO dig up’ I smiled, ‘The body was dumped in plain sight. I don’t really need any information about the death Mr Kildare. Have you had anyone suspicious working on your staff in the past two years?’ ‘As I told the bloody cops—’ Fortyn cursed; ‘Every cunt that works here is suspect. We’re working twelve hour days here Mr investigator. Don’t suspect you know what this kind of work is like, but this isn’t exactly the best job out there. We attract all kinds here.’
I had to squint temporarily from the glare of the sun bouncing off a metal girder.
‘Don’t you have some kind of a union Mr Kildare?’. Fortyn glared menacingly, then leant over to speak more softly; ‘Too right we do. Matter of fact, there’s been a lot of action lately. Just like the old days you know. Well, they’re trying to pull a shifty on the working class again.’ ‘Oh yeah, really?’ I prompted. ‘Damn straight it is…Ever since Howard’s work choices, these new contractual cheats, you can sign a form that agrees to just about anything. They’ve got fake companies set up to take care of the unions, and we’re all working twelve hours. If you complain they’ll send you off site, or sack you. My great, great grandfather was there at the rallies— back in 1856 —when the Stonemasons won the eight hour day you know. They think they can pull the wool over our eyes, but we’re regrouping. Just like the old days, down at the docks. In the casino’s. The Unions are coming back. You better fuckin’ believe it—— What’s wrong with that eh?’
I could see that Fortyn Kildare was not going to be particularly helpful, and his tangent interests showed pretty clearly that he knew absolutely nothing about the murder. I didn’t want to waste my ten minutes, before Pex escorted from the premises, but I asked Kildare one last question for good measure, ‘Have you ever heard about Slaughter Theatre— Mr Kildare?’ The ocker man almost spat the words ‘NO!’ at me, and I quickly consoled the impatient mullet donning gruff that I wasn’t going to take up any more of his time; ‘Thanks for your help’.
I walked slowly in a maudlin fashion back towards the front fences, as other tradies had begun hollering and leering at me….trudging over dirt and loose stones. I couldn’t think of much else to look at, the exhausted workers around me didn’t seem worth bothering. My own inner monologue was echoing the sentiment expressed by Drendyl Pex— that this pursuit was little more than a wild donkey chase. A mad conspiracy theory. Nonetheless, what Pex had said about the two crimes displaying traits of a potential serial killer had got me thinking, and I realised I needed to get home and do some more research on the press surrounding the Alice Goddard murder.
As I was walking out the gate, I noticed the receptionist, (who was apparently not a receptionist) smoking a cigarette out on the street, and my sleuth’s intuition told me it was worth staying for one last round of questioning. I approached her calmly. ‘Let me guess, Vogue menthol thins.’ The woman turned, breathing out smoke and pouting, the thin white cigarette in her hand fell down to her side; ‘How did you guess?’ She asked. ‘Ex smokers hunch.’ I replied, ‘I have a sixth sense when it comes to horoscopes and cigarette brands. It comes with constant investigation. You get to know people’s types.’ ‘Is that right?’ The woman responded amused but cynical, ‘What star sign am I then?’ ‘Judging from what i’ve seen of you’ I said thoughtfully, ‘I’d say Gemini, there’s more to you than there seems.’ The woman raised her eyebrow, partially impressed; “May twenty. Just off the mark Mr Dronefire. But you were close. My mother always told me I was a cusp Taurus.’ ‘Ms Weabley isn’t it?’ I checked. ‘Lisa’ she replied, holding out her hand in an informal re-greeting. ‘Mr Pex tells me you work in occupational health and safety here. So you must have a pretty good handle on what’s occurred on and off this site.’ ‘Listen Mr Dronefire, you really ought to speak to Mr Pex in regards to—‘ ’Mr Pex told me I could speak to you, I assure you, this place is not under investigation. Actually I was just wondering if you’d ever seen a film crew working on the site. Maybe a stupid question.’ ‘Huh?’, Lisa changed her tone drastically, ’Now…. why would you ask that?’ ‘I’m trying to track down someone who may have shot a video here.’ I continued, ‘You have had a film crew here then?’
‘Yes. I mean…’ Ms Weabley stuttered and thought for a moment, she had a strangely compelling face, especially when deep in thought, mousey blond hair falling over her creased forehead… ‘We do promotional marketing. Social media videos.. and….’ ‘—Would you have had any film crew in the yards any time near July last year?’ I asked. ‘Yes.’ Lisa replied anxiously, ‘We were particularly active mid last year, then it slowed down, didn’t film anything September till Christmas.’ ‘Do you have a regularly production crew you work with?’ ‘Not right now….No…but…’ Lisa contemplated it, ‘We did have a specific crew back then. Sure. Hey… I can send you the production call sheet with the contacts of everyone who worked on those jobs, will that help?’ ‘Brilliant, yes. Thank you Ms Weabley.’ We exchanged contact details and I returned to my car, shortly I was back in the air conditioning of my Valiant Charger, on the road for an afternoon drink in Fitzroy. I had a taste for that rum Mr Pex had given me, and managed to track one down at the old rum house, Gunnery white spiced. Seven rums later and the investigation had pleasantly left my mind.
Dreams of falling men in suits, alien flowers and twisting vines tangled in a web. Monday morning and my paranoia was back in full force, when the email from Lisa Weabley showed up in my inbox.
The call sheet Ms Weabley sent was amateurish and brief, but it did give me a list of people to call.
I spent that morning dialling numbers. There was no director listed, which I found marginally strange. The cameraman, Mark Virafi must have changed his number in the past year, because the number listed on the call sheet had a disconnected Telstra message, or it was bad data entry. Next on the list was an editor, by the name of Lumborg Hames. I didn’t get through the first or second time I called. Left a bunch of voice mail messages and texts, and finally got a call back around lunch time. He was a very softly spoken guy, definitely your introverted, creative type. I told him a simple version of my background to the case, and he agreed to meet up for a chat in a Richmond cafe. He lived on Gwynne St in Cremorne, down towards the water. From my understanding it was only a short distance from Stephenson Street where notorious criminal Dennis Allen once lived.
I met with Lumborg Hames on Tuesday. I was sitting in the Red Dog cafe, and i’d grown starving before Mr Hames arrived, so I ordered a big breakfast. When Lumborg arrived I was hoeing into a bacon and hash brown sandwich covered in baked beans. Mr Hames stood awkwardly around for a while, looking back and forth nervously until I noticed him and called out; ‘Mr Hames?’.
He was a big guy, very wide in girth, having what some might describe as a ‘neck beard’, a fluffy coating over numerous chins, and his beady-but-kind eyes looked out of round glasses. He was wearing the sort of cheesy comedy T-shirt you might have found at Granny May’s in the nineties, text said something dumb like ‘Whatever you want. The answer is NO’. Lumborg nervously sat in front of me, and I apologised for ordering before he arrived, but he told me in his wafting soft voice that he had already eaten. When the waitress came over he ordered a coffee, and I followed his lead. ‘Thanks for coming Mr Hames, I do appreciate you giving me your time. I know you're probably a busy editor.’ ‘Not really’ Lumborg confessed, almost too candidly, ‘I work freelance, between jobs at the moment, so…..i’ve got time.’ There was an awkward silence, where I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to feign empathy, or just pretend like his job insecurity was normal. Luckily Lumborg quickly broke the silence; ‘Sooo…. You want to know about when I was working at the Three Vertice construction company I guess?’ ’Sort of…’ I replied, not even a hundred percent sure what I was doing myself here yet;
‘But first… humour me… Have you ever heard of something called ‘Slaughter Theatre’ Mr Hames?’ The robust and timid man, suddenly perked up in his seat, his large belly almost jiggling somewhat, ‘Ha… well I didn’t think this chat would get so interesting so quickly. Sure, I know about the trilogy. I work in production, it’s like workers lore.’ ‘You think it’s real?’ I asked directly, feeling my way into Mr Hames psychological profile. ‘Pssssh…No.’ Hames said, ‘If only. No……i’ve never seen any of the alleged footage if that’s what you’re asking. Although i’ve heard plenty of rumours,…worked with people who claim to have seen it…worked on it….’ ‘Interesting. When you were working at Three Vertice construction company did anyone mention Slaughter Theatre?’ I continued... ‘Huh?’ Hames looked at me curiously, ‘Funny you should ask that. Well…first up.. I should tell you, I never actually went to Three Vertice Construction yards.' 'What?' 'I was working on editing some test filming they were doing, that much is true. But everything I did was based out of Hapless Creative Studios in Brunswick. That’s the production company who outsourced freelance editors for the Three Vertice job. I mean, I saw a lot of the construction yards, I watched the same footage about a million times over, you know. But physically I never set foot there.’ ‘Right,’ I said, not having considered this, ‘But you were in contact with other production staff? You must have dealt with Mark Virafi, the cameraman, at least…. i’m guessing?’ ‘Oh sure. Mark came in all the time, to give me the SD cards with the footage on them… you know…’ ‘It’s funny’, I said, ‘I couldn’t get through to him, Mark, I mean…do you know if he’s changed his number?’ ‘I haven’t spoken to Mark in over a year, actually….I ….heard something ….happened to him….. earlier in the year. A car accident or something.’ I tried to trace my line of reasoning for being here, had to keep drilling if I was going to hit oil; ‘What about Drendyl Pex, did you ever meet him?’ ‘The Director?’ Lumborg asked? ‘No…' I replied skeptically, 'The owner….. of Three Vertice Construction.’ ‘Oh…. right…’ Lumborg gave a strange look, ‘To be honest, the moment you asked me about Slaughter Theatre my mind went somewhere else. See the truth is, I…… I did have massive conversations about Slaughter Theatre whilst I was working on the construction videos. You…probably… should speak to my friend Ted Stevens… my understanding… he’s worked for …Mr…Pex quite a bit in the past— in fact that’s how I got the job at TVC in the first place. Ted lives in Richmond not far from here, I can take you round to his place, i’ve been meaning to visit him for a while—to see if he’s got any work going—‘ ‘That would be great.. Do you think you could call him now?’ ‘Sure…. um…’ Lumborg was strangely and increasingly hesitant, pulling out his old school mobile phone, then pausing and lowering it again; ‘…you’re not squeamish or anything are you?’ ‘How do you mean?’ I asked. ‘Well— it’s just. Ted, and his partner, the company they run….. well it’s kind of a porn company. There’s a good chance they’ll be filming and…. well I just wouldn’t want you to feel weird about—‘ ’That’s fine— I have no problem with that…‘
That afternoon turned out to bear strange fruits indeed. I drove, whilst Lumborg directed me to the house, (and home office studio) of Ted Stevens and Dorothy Lench, an odd and highly eccentric Melbourne couple I was about to learn way more about than I ever bargained for. They lived on a fairly well to do street of Richmond, with nice terrace houses lining the leafy streets. As we left the vehicle Lumborg told me that he had called Ted, and they were expecting me, but he suddenly grew strangely timid, and it took a moment to draw it out of him, he was anxious about being on a pornography set, and wanted to know if it was ok if he left me to it. Of course, I consented him to depart, and shortly I was knocking on the strange ornate door, with the delicately carved metal knocker shaped like the logo for the 1992 ‘Bram Stoker Dracula’ film.
I heard shuffling footsteps slowly coming to the door, and finally the mahogany opened to reveal a strange man, with a quiff of black hair with a grey streak, a pink nightgown, slightly open to reveal a hairy chest…. and bunny slippers; ‘Oh helloooo…. you must be Mr Dronefire? I’ve just been speaking to Lumborg…’ the man observed. ’Ted Stevens?’ I asked confounded, not expecting a man of this…. calibre to answer the door. ‘Marvelous…. an actual private investigator… what a fantastic character study..’ Ted said… ‘We have P.I’s in our productions all the time, but i’ve never met a real one… Dorothy? Dorothy?? You have to come and meet our real life— Private Dick…’ A feminine voice called out from a room far down the long hallway, and shortly thereafter a bright, and sprightly figure hopped and scampered down the hallway, she was wearing a costume straight out of the Rocky Horror Picture Show, puffy red skirt and fishnet stockings. Dorothy Lench had far less enthusiasm in her face however, she pouted mysteriously, but her eyes scrunched up in a kind of scowl. ‘Whadda we need a P.I for? We’re shooting a bleedin’ outback scene, it’s a bloody desert fuck…not a noir….’ ‘Im terribly sorry..’ I interjected, ‘I hope i’m not interrupting your work. I’m doing some inquiries into an urban legend surrounding a series of videos——’ ’Oooh fuck me…’ Dorothy burst out laughing, ‘He is a real Private Dick isn’t he. Mandy, what’d’you think of our new Dick?’ A voluptuous blonde, naked from the waist up, with thick, heavenly hair bobbing around her shoulders was now walking up the hallway. I felt my eyes drop nervously to the floor, enchanted by the bare woman’s beauty, as she came closer, her features grew more and more recognisable. Ted meanwhile had draped a long, fluffy scarf around me like he was decorating a christmas tree, his large grin showed an innate mischieviousness, and the freckles on his face added to this impishness; ‘Forgive us, we get terribly excited when we have guests on set. Production can be very stressful, you understand, we work hard, we play hard. Now Mandy, I think you are making our friend here VERY hard.’ I blushed, unable to contain my secret awareness silent; ‘Forgive me. uh….madam… But you’re Mandy, from the “Mandy is randy Down Under” series, aren’t you?’ I blushed. ‘Mandy Thumbridge.’ The buxom blonde stated proudly, ‘You’re a fan of my work?’ ‘I’m aware of the—’ I confessed. ‘Oh come now—‘ Ted scolded, leaping about the room like a mad pixie, ‘Be honest young man, it’s ok to admit to watching pornography. Besides this woman is an artist. You needn’t be ashamed to confess that you like art. Need you now?’ ‘She’s a wonderful actress’ I allowed. ’She’s a goddess` Ted elaborated, ‘All we school boys can do is worship, at the altar of Venus…’ as Ted Spoke, Dorothy Lench had returned to the room carrying an actual carving of the Greek Goddess, placing it in the centre of the hallway, the two mad producers then proceeded to dance around the statue in their grotesque costumes. Mandy Thumbridge, the porn star, meanwhile crossed her arms over her bare chest and turned a mocking expression and lippy pout. She was pure eroticism, I found I had to avert my gaze continually.
Ted was evidently quite high, and had become totally distracted, both from his work, and from my investigation, and he was now completely absorbed in his strange ritualistic dance around the statue of Venus. As he chanted, and mimicked cliche native American gestures, he murmured strange turns of phrase, which sounded as though they had come out of an abandoned script for some demented horror production; ‘Gods, pixies and elves, dancers on the periphery of our imagination, we are married to the Goddess of lust, bring us our givings, before ol’ Cronus, god of time cuts our days short, and ends this marvellous Saturnalia, ho….hum… ho…hum…. Shiva the destroyer, grant us this day of sin….’ ‘Excuse me—‘ I interrupted, quite fed up with the parlour games, ‘I certainly don’t want to rain on your parade, but i’m afraid the reason for my visit is a rather sombre one. I’m investigating two murders which occurred in the last two years.’ Ted and Dorothy stopped their joyous dance, and came to a standstill, as Mandy scrambled to put on a bra. ‘Well… that’s a bit of a buzzkill, isn’t it?’ Ted scoffed. ‘Mr Stevens’ I asked impatiently, ‘Are you aware of rumours surrounding a snuff video known as ‘Slaughter Theatre’ or the Slaughter Theatre trilogy. A cold expression suddenly took over everyone’s faces, Ted grimaced and Dorothy began to lurk in the background. ‘Well…. of course we have…. Mandy learned about death that way, didn’t you babe?’ Ted commented rather coldly and cruelly. The beautiful Miss Thumbridge suddenly burst into tears, and covered her face with her hands, retreating to one of the other rooms. I could gather the momentum to do little else than stare spellbound.
‘I’m afraid that’s a rather sore subject matter Mr Dick’ said Ted, as he and Dorothy fell into a faux traumatic hug with one another.
I indicated with a gesture that I was going to follow Miss Thumbridge and ask her some questions; ‘Do you mind if I—‘ Dorothy and Ted both waved their hands as if to tie their hands from it, ‘Go ahead’ Ted said anxiously.
As I walked down the hallway I could see a large production set in the far room, filled with cardboard cutouts of cactuses and other cliche desert backgrounds. I could hear sobbing emanating from one of the side rooms, and moved to open the door. The room I entered was also decked out as a kind of film set; a science fiction style scene of alien geography of a foreign planet, with a lush queen sized bed out of place in the middle of the mars-like terrain. The walls and roof were black, with recognisable stars and planets in the background. Mandy was sitting on the expensive pink bed and weeping profoundly. I was relieved to see that she had covered up.
I sat next to her on the bed; ‘Miss Thumbridge’ I said gently, ‘I’m very sorry that you obviously have something deeply sad which has affected you. But I must push you, as two young women have been murdered, and anything you know about this snuff trilogy may help get to the bottom of the crimes.’ Mandy looked up through large, manga eyes, her face flushed and covered in tears; ‘Of course I want to help’ she sobbed. ‘You obviously have some kind of story about this.. you worked on—‘ ‘— I don’t know if it was a body… you see all kinds of things on set. You don’t always ask questions. Especially when you’re a naughty picture actress. Sometimes it’s just nice to have a real part, where you don’t have to take your top off and perform oral sex, y’know?’ ‘What pictures are you talking about Mandy?’ I asked, ‘You feel like you saw something unusual on one of the sets you worked on?’ ‘I don’t really feel comfortable talking about it’ Mandy looked down coyly. ‘Just give me something to work on Mandy, anything? The name of the people who filmed you. Something…’ I begged. ’It was…. i’m sorry… i’m sorry… I can’t… Talk to Ted and Dorothy… they know as much as me…. please….’ Mandy burst into tears again, and I rubbed her back consolingly, then quietly, I departed the bizarre outer-space set.
Ted and Dorothy were now sitting on couches in the main foyer, their body language had become closed and they were no longer happy or enthusiastic looking. I walked into the centre of the foyer, trying to appear vulnerable. ‘Mandy is very upset, but she seems to think that the two of you might be in a better position to tell me about whatever compromising scenario she was placed in on one of the sets.’ Ted looked at Dorothy with appreciable mental strain, both were not liking the angle of questioning, so I tried to take an alternate route to the destination, interrupting their thoughts; ‘You two are married, or in an open relationship? I don’t mean to pry….’ The question worked perfectly, exactly as I had hoped. The two clearly thrived on sexual controversy, and loved nothing more than to gloat their eccentricities to a conservative audience; ‘Typical assumption you’d expect from a CIS white male, unfortunately Ted and I don’t fit so neatly into your census form boxes.’ ‘My partner Dorothy identifies as gender fluid, bisexual,’ Ted said proudly and pretentiously; ‘And as for myself, I mostly prefer the description of Pan——sexual, if one must have a sexual tag-line at all. I’d suggest that your prejudiced question itself was an act of violence… but no doubt you’d brand me a social justice warrior, and jump online with your white supremacist friends, or bring your thug cronies around to lynch us, or brand us satanic pornographers and call the police.’ ‘Mr Stevens, I meant no offence.’ I said, ‘I only ask, because i’m interested in Mandy. Do you often participate in the sexual acts in your films yourselves? Is Mandy frequently called to engage with unknown actors or actresses.’ ‘Everything we do at our studio is extremely safe…’ Ted snapped, my plan was working, ‘We have never compromised our actors or actresses, or made them do anything that wasn’t stated clearly in their contracts when they agreed to work… as for other studios, Pex and his crew… I have no responsibility for what happens.’ ‘I’m sorry…’ I asked, ‘Drendyl Pex?’ ‘Sure.’ Ted said without thinking, ‘You didn’t know he was a director? Surely you must have realised that Three Vertice Construction was a front for other business ventures.’ ‘Drendyl Pex works in the porn industry?’ I asked. ‘Drendyl Pex runs the porn industry…’ Ted affirmed with vitriol. ‘And Mandy, she’s worked for Drendyl…’ ‘Listen….’ Ted said standing up, ‘I’m very happy to help a friend of Lumborg Hames, but I don’t think i’m going to be able to help much more with your line of questioning.’
Slowly, but surely, Ted escorted me to the front door, as Dorothy ignored me, and sobbing still reverberated through walls —from the other room.
I left the Stevens house feeling even more highly strung and on edge.
———————————————————————————————————————————————
The next few months were an all consuming blur, fully strung up on the case, I investigated every avenue of intrigue I could. I spoke to countless people in the creative industry who were inadvertently linked to Drendyl Pex. There were many rumours and bizarre stories about the eccentric secret head of the vice industry in Australia. Legends had Drendyl Pex known to wear velvet capes, and strange masks during his directorial stints, orgies and wild parties.
I spoke to someone who had worked on scripts for Drendyl Pex’s production company, the bizarre horror stories had grotesqueries straight out of the Grand Guignol. Every mention of the plots created by Pex’s crew, never failed to embellish the perversity, utter distastefulness and horrendously realistic gore depicted in the films.
Nonetheless, I grew tired of all the hapless hearsay. So many accounts presented the facts of the trilogy, as something that could and had been found, countless times, in second hand stores or on the shelves of private VHS collectors. So I began to spend my weekends trawling through garage sales all over Melbourne, I called private collectors, searching through their immense VHS and DVD collections. I met the owners of ex-video store rentals, went to reverse garbage yards and pawn shops, but never once came across the mysterious VHS tape emblazoned with red letters.
I knew I was getting close to the truth, but something about the things I was learning made me abysmally afraid. Another strange occurrence happened when I showed up at a media industry party. I had attended the event only because I knew certain people who were connected to Pex’s alleged productions were going to be there. Ted Stevens brother was there, Gerald, a producer, also a number of actors who had worked in the same pornography films as Mandy Thumbridge.
It was a costume party, rave, in a secret nightclub decked out in the third floor of the heritage-listed, historic, Royal Exhibition building. As I walked through highly intoxicated and drug addled crowds at the rave I was awestruck by the bizarre costumes and ornate antique decorations adorning the hall. I passed a couple dressed as Azaria Chamberlain and a full-sized man-dingo costume, then came a group of Australian Prime ministers, their intricate plastic masks were quite impressive; Bob Hawke, Robert Menzies, Gough Whitlam. Electronic music played as I walked through the crowds, trying to observe whilst still blending in, a group of drunken louts had noticed me and were laughing and pointing, their costumes; a biker, a soldier, an indigenous warrior and a doctor —resembled a kind of Village People ensemble, all the while strobe lights provided a sinister ambience. One of the girls the village people men were with was wearing a Madonna style cone shaped bra, and was drawing a lot of hollering, wolf whistling and attention towards her. Meanwhile, a g-string donning Hitler was sitting on the bar, bearing fishnet stocking clad legs and talking to a group dressed as the Bali Bombers, and behind them there seemed to be the entrance to a much seedier part of the club.
I had seen Gerald Stevens earlier, along with other producers and creatives, but many of them had disappeared, and I began to think that perhaps Pex’s creatives were lurking somewhere out in the back of the club. I wasn’t sure if I would be permitted to enter, sure enough, as I tried to make my way, a solid looking gentleman dressed all in black blocked my way. ’Sorry sir, it’s invite only in our VIP section’. I tried the only argument that sprung to mind ‘I work for Drendyl Pex’ I said as confidently as I could. This actually seemed to work. The man barely questioned it at all, stepping aside and allowing me to pass through without identification.
What I found beyond the gates was more extreme and otherworldly than I had foreseen. The guests were similarly clad in outrageous costume, but there was much less casual reverie, and a lot more bizarre ritual in the back rooms. A woman dressed as an S&M fetishist whipped a cut-covered man dressed as Jesus on the cross. A group of Australian convicts with their legs bound in iron chains were similarly whipped by naked porn stars. Beyond the arches of the room, more pornography was being filmed on old style cameras. There were elaborate glass cubes attached to the ceiling, acting as erotic dance stages, where strippers holding multiple machine guns entertained jeering men beneath. My mind focussed in on a particular corner of the room, which was decked out like a gothic castle, sitting on red leather chairs, a group of men dressed as army officers were harassing a young and innocent looking school girl, who didn’t seem a natural fit to the scenes of debauchery around her.
I approached the soldiers cautiously, eaves-dropping on their conversation with the innocent looking girl. At first the conversation seemed typical enough, the soldiers egging the girl on, trying to persuade her into participate in something, perhaps some kind of illicit act. ‘Come on, please.’ They taunted and begged. But then a more sinister undertone came across in the conversation, that the nature of what the men wanted the girl to participate in became all the more menacing. Wether or not the suggested role play was linked to anything I had learned or not, suggestions that the girl be the soldiers ‘sacrifice’ to the god of dark matter, was more than I could take.
I shortly intervened, grabbing the girl by the arm and escorting her out of the strange party. She was annoyed at first, almost struggling, but later she seemed relieved I had given her the means to escape the uncomfortable scenario. Her name was Wendy Soames. I felt astoundingly like an overbearing father figure, but as I probed the girl about what the men had wanted her to do, and she explained that they were trying to get her to film herself being naked and being sacrificed in some sort of mock snuff film, I felt relieved I had acted as I did. I helped the girl to a cab, and solemnly contemplated things.
Back at home that night, I found even more to dwell upon.
I had been re-examining the files given to me by my private client. It was part of an old case I had been working on, the client who had wanted me to look into the murder in St Kilda was the same client who had wanted me to investigate a corrupt police officer by the name of Kenny Lothar. They were paying big money. What I was looking at now, was evidence that suggested a link between Kenny Lothar and Officer Barrington, my police contact, given that Barrington had supplied me with the details about Drendyl Pex, this was all starting to induce my paranoia. Could Barrington be linked to the exact police corruption he was adamantly preaching about? I had also found evidence that Pex was only a small time player in something much bigger, that he was on the payroll of very high income corporate players in Australia and abroad, big American media and gambling personalities, tycoons worth more than the Packers.
I had the most dreadful sense of peripeteia.
Rushing out that night, I had to learn the truth, had to find more information about Drendyl Pex, and his seedy company.
I knew I had to drive out to the construction site in Footscray that night. Which is precisely what I did.
The lines on the highway flew by in ominous and precise beats. A pyramid of tarmac stretched out endlessly before me.
Finally I arrived at Three Vertice construction.
Scaling the fence, I entered the empty yards, resolving to break into any of Pex’s various office spaces and search for some convincing evidence that rumours about Pex were true.
The yards were dark, and shadows played tricks on my mind. In a stark moment I was sure I had seen a masked and cloaked figure swish by in the darkness towards a precarious tower overlooking the tallest hills of the yard.
I broke into the trailer I had been in with Pex previously, rifling through drawers and sacking cupboards, but I found little of interest. Wherever Pex kept his paperwork, it wasn’t here.
Finding nothing, the strange tower on the hill returned to my memory, and possessed or infantile I walked zombie like back down the muddy slopes towards the silhouetted tower against the near full moon.
Quickly and anxiously my hands found the steel rungs of the ladder, and the clinking metal echoed as I climbed.
I tried hard not to look down at the long drop, into the oddly placed vat of wet cement beneath me. Continuing up the rungs of the tower, until I was nearly at the top. Finally I met my destiny, climbing into the dark space at the top of the tower.
I could see nothing in the darkness. Hear nothing, but my heart palpitating in my chest, and my heavy breath rasping wildly.
I felt the pain, before I heard the sound. It all happened so quickly, my thoughts only registered three facts; my fingers covered in blood as I reached at the holes in my chest. The darkness, no face, nothing visible — except the silver ---of a police issued handgun, shining in the darkness.
I was already unconscious by the time my plummeting body hit the wet cement beneath. Sinking into oblivion.
Read more of the exploits of Pharlap Dronefire P.I here; https://www.reddit.com/libraryofshadows/comments/7izl7a/the_melbourne_ritual/
submitted by GoityePowerhouse to libraryofshadows [link] [comments]

Trump stuffing RNC speaking slots with sycophants and family members

So the list of RNC speakers is coming out, and it's worse than anyone thought. The list is very short on reputable politicians and up-n-coming Republican candidates and long on Trump's circle of acolytes, celebrities and people with the last name Trump. I could only find 2 such speakers at the 2012 RNC, Ann Romney and Clint Eastwood. Almost all other speakers were RNC officials, candidates for office or elected officials. Romney had no shortage of children or celebrity backers who wanted to speak, including one real-estate tycoon Donald Trump, who didn't speak at the convention.
For comparison, here's some of Trump's speakers:
Family
Employees
Entertainers, Sports
Actual Billionaires
submitted by VPLumbergh to hillaryclinton [link] [comments]

Some insight into Trump's affair with Marla Maples in 1990

I was just reading a little bit about Donald Trump's divorce from Ivana. I came across an interesting article from The Washington Post which has Donald Trump being quoted firmly denying that he had been having an affair with Marla Maples.
Here are some interesting tidbits that show just how far Donald Trump will go to keep his sexual escapades a secret.
Trump had a detail of bodyguards to keep a tail on Maples and to help Trump rondevu.
"The New York Post says today that Trump had three beefy bodyguards keep a 24-hour tail on his alleged mistress, actress Marla Maples, to make sure she never ran into his wife. Citing "a high-ranking source in the Trump Organization," the paper said the squad followed Maples from New York to Atlantic City, spiriting her in and out of Trump hotels and casinos for clandestine visits by the mega-developer."
Lying about the affair
"As Maples, 26, continued to deny through friends that she is the Trump Tower home wrecker, Trump also grew more explicit in his denials, telling USA Today flatly that "there's no affair.""
A weird exchange with a reporter about the affair
"When Marcia Kramer, a platinum blond political reporter for the Daily News, asked him for an interview in Palm Beach, Trump replied: "They will think I am having an affair with you. Anyone who is blond and attractive, they think I am having an affair with.""
Trump attacking the columnist who broke the story about Trump's marriage problems
"The Queens-born tycoon also declared that he wants the Daily News's star gossip columnist, Liz Smith, fired because, among other things, she is "hurting them, Ivana and the children." Smith fired back that Trump "created this situation, not the media.""
And
Mr. T. "Liz Smith is being used, she was played like a fiddle," he thundered to the News. Trump also said Smith had "disgraced the industry," was "making up quotes" and "writes whatever comes into her head," adding: "I may bring suit against her."
Really this just shows that Trump has lied in the past about his sexual indiscretions and his default response is to blame the media. There seems to be no lengths that Trump won't go to in order to try and cover up things that could be a scandal as it is shown with him having bodyguards escorting Maples to meetups for sex.
submitted by bigus_dikus to EnoughTrumpSpam [link] [comments]

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