Belmont Club

Night of the living dead

The NY Post says the autopsy found Michael Jackson had nothing in his stomach but half-dissolved pills. His emaciated body was a network of needlemarks and scars weighing barely 112 pounds on a 5′ 10″ frame; and the whole skeletal assembly was surmounted by a head bald but for a scant covering of peach fuzz, a fact artfully disguised by wigs worn on all his public appearances. The Post writes:

“He was skin and bone, his hair had fallen out, and he had been eating nothing but pills when he died,” a source close to the singer’s entourage told the paper. “Injection marks all over his body and the disfigurement caused by years of plastic surgery show he’d been in terminal decline for some years.”

There were four fresh injections around his heart, presumably from attempts to pump adrenaline into it to jumpstart it, the paper said. Three of them had penetrated and damaged his heart wall, while a fourth struck his ribs, the paper reported. He also sustained several broken ribs while authorities administered CPR during his final moments Thursday.

If any man in Guantanamo Bay prison had been found in this condition there would be cries for a war crimes prosecution. But since Jackson succumbed to that most socially acceptable and lucrative of ends, death by celebrity, the real question is whether anyone — anyone at all, bar some fall guy — will be found guilty of anything. If the Post’s report is accurate, the conspiracy of silence that kept this information secret, that prevented Jackson from being confined in a hospital and allowed him to commit to fifty performances in London is staggering. This guy lived and died in the middle of a big city; he was among the most watched human beings on the planet and yet everything that was publicly known about him was either a lie or so shaded a truth as to be virtually indistinguishable. How any investor could be induced to bet hundreds of millions of dollars on a series of Farewell Concerts featuring a man in the condition of a Holocaust concentration camp victim is something that could never have happened without some major league disinformation going down.

These information lockdown artists were geniuses. Where were these masters of deception over the decades when US codes, missile designs and nuclear installation data were falling down behind copiers, suddenly appearing in China or being accidentally published in open source? If these guys were put in charge of counterintel, Barack Obama could abolish the entire US Armed Forces and replace them with the Girl Scouts and no one would be the wiser.

One might be forgiven for imagining that the elite media system actually works quite well: that it can keep a secret when it wants to; that secrets only leak when it is convenient. When massive liquidity problems impend, when tax bills disguised as climate change fixes are introduced in the dead of the night, when totally incompetent people are foisted on an unsuspecting public, it can hide the information quite effectively. If these horrible autopsy results are real then I hope it starts a fire that doesn’t stop until everyone associated with this incident goes down. Here’s one slogan from the sixties that hasn’t gone out of date. Burn, baby, burn. It isn’t that I like Michael Jackson particularly, but no human being should be beset by bloodsuckers this bad.

Ian Halperin wrote in the Daily Mail that Michael Jackson said, a week before he died that “‘I’m better off dead. I’m done.” Maybe he was right.

It’s close to midnight and something evil’s lurking in the dark
Under the moonlight, you see a sight that almost stops your heart
You try to scream but terror takes the sound before you make it
You start to freeze as horror looks you right between the eyes
You’re paralyzed

The foulest stench is in the air
The funk of forty thousand years
And grizzly ghouls from every tomb
Are closing in to seal your doom

And though you fight to stay alive
Your body starts to shiver
For no mere mortal can resist
The evil of the thriller

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