By Taylor Lewis
A midsummer malaise has set on MAGA.
Fresh off the triumph of dumping Generation Alpha’s Social Security payout into ICE brigades, Trumpers received a cold splash of water to their scrunched, ruddy faces. And it didn’t geyser from a Banana Boat-lathered Tim Walz cannonballing into a mildewish public pool.
This may come as a shock, or be depressively cynical, but, dear reader, you deserve the truth: sometimes—more often than not—politicians break a vow to voters. I know, everyone from George Washington to Jefferson Smith to Steve Rogers to Ned Flanders scoffs at the notion of a man, elected by his fellow citizens and swearing duty upon the Holy Bible, scraping a pledge. But the homo politicus is a craven creature, a bender of facts, mixer of truth, mouther of prattle, muddier of clear waters. As an infamous operator once put it, “unless you fake sincerity, you’ll never get anywhere in this business.”
The inherent mendacity of democracy became all too apparent for Trumpy tubthumpers when the President, including his top posse, dropped any interest in revealing the exploits of Jeffrey Epstein, the late human-trafficker.
For the uninitiated, Epstein was long rumored to have been a kind of concierge for an elite harem frequented by rarefied men, including the three Bills: Clinton, Gates, and Richardson (former governor of New Mexico). More outré potin holds that he was a hand of one or various intelligence agencies, particularly Mossad, who organized high-profile trysts for the purposes of future blackmail. The latter is unproven in every way: objectively, and within the minds of its exponents who spot spooks lurking behind every nefarious happening. But what is known is that Epstein palled around with big names in big industries, and they weren’t just sitting around palatial Swedish chalets swirling glasses of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, talking the odds of Travis Kelce putting in another season. Nubile flesh was the recreation, which is why Epstein’s closest confidant, Ghislaine Maxwell, is serving two decades in the bin.
Despite feting with the fat-walleted overclass, including one debauched member of the British crown, the jewel-strung pimp couldn’t evade the law forever. He was eventually charged with operating an elaborate cathouse circuit, tossed in the clink, only to top himself in his cell one dark, inscrutable night in 2019.
Such was the official narrative during Trump Term One. We’re being treated to the same exact movie during Term Two—the writers not bothering to alter the storyline even slightly. At least, J.J. Abrams would have changed some element!
Attorney General Pam Bondi and FBI Director Kash Patel are hewing to the original line that Epstein met his end by his own hand in that Manhattan hoosegow. Moreover, the Department of Justice issued a memorandum concluding that no “incriminating client list” is sitting secret in the bowels of the Robert F. Kennedy Building, locked behind a fortified cabinet drawer, sheafed within Oswald’s CIA surveillance file.
Contrast the staid documentary conclusion to the words of the Attorney General only four months prior. “It’s sitting on my desk right now to review,” Bondi assertedwhen asked about the Epstein Rolodex on Fox News. But now? She parlously screeches: “There ain’t no Epstein files and there never was!”
In similar slimy fashion, her cuffing compadre Patel speculated in a 2023 podcast interview that the Epstein rolls were being kept dark and that ineffectual congressmen should hike up their “big boy pants, and let us know who the pedophiles are.” Perhaps Kash can use some of his children’s book royalties to purchase a pair of Gap chinos and demonstrate his own fortitude by yanking them up to his armpits.
The President himself is implicated in the callet cabal, though the extent of his involvement is disputed. Former First Pal Elon Musk accused Trump of being named within the Epstein chapbook but has since walked it back. Regardless of past affiliation, Donald Trump suggested last year he might order the declassification of the smut binder, though he was wary of its “phony” contents. But when recently pressed about its release, the President begged off the enjoiners in his inimitable idiom: “Are you still talking about Jeffrey Epstein? This guy’s been talked about for years… are people still talking about this guy, this creep?”
Well, yes, Mr. President. Your tough-talking, Glock-toting, baton-gripping, chain-swinging, board-with-nail-wielding enforcement brass promised voters scores of pedo pates on pikes. Was it all just a load of boob bait for the bubbas? So much chum for hopeless paranoics? Empty deliverance for backwoods cousin-marrying fundamentalists? Scads of mindslop shoveled onto internet-addled conspiracists?
The answer is: OF COURSE NOT. President Trump is obviously compromised; his inner circle too cowed to reveal the sick, twisted truth. A more menacing force is at work. A demonic shadow haunts the nation’s moneyed set. It’s going to take the nextpresident, one with an adamantine spine, to finally root out the perverse evil that preys on the innocent.
Come 2029, the American people, filled with despondency over the predations of the rich, will elect a new paladin unbowed before well-heeled concupiscence, prepared to divulge the seamy fetishes of the unrepentant aristocratic elect.
The anguished cry of the dashed voter: We’ll get ‘em next time! Trust the plan!
Free the People publishes opinion-based articles from contributing writers. The opinions and ideas expressed do not always reflect the opinions and ideas that Free the People endorses. We believe in free speech, and in providing a platform for open dialogue. Feel free to leave a comment.
