Oh, I know how you lived.

I know where you began,

and how you crawled your way up

into the pockets of the rich,

the powerful, and the perverse.

I know how you lured your prey

the vulnerable young

into your den of debauchery,

forced yourself and others upon them

and threw them out on the streets

like used, broken dolls -

casualties

of your greed and lust.

They were going to school.

They were going to go to college.

They were someone's daughter.

They were someone's sister.

They could have had normal, happy lives.

But now, they won't

and never will.

And when they came back to haunt you,

to demand justice

for the unspeakable acts of evil,

you pulled the black strings you tied

around the necks of your corrupted puppets,

and got away with it,

time after time and time again.

But this time, you’re going down.

All the people you know,

your so-called “friends”,

or should I say

your fellow paedophiles in power,

will not come to your rescue.

Oh, on the contrary,

they cannot drop you fast enough

or denounce you with stronger words

and feign ignorance of your beastly ways.

I can’t tell you what’s coming

but all I can say is this:

You’re going to pay,

and so will the others,

for all that you’ve done,

and I will be there,

yes, that’s right, personally,

to look after you

for all eternity.

The worst man is still a man, and one can flip the gender for Nannie Doss or Lucrezia Borgia. The reckoning makes that truth clear. Consider Adolf Hitler in his bunker, when he knew the Reich was truly gone. He died in terror, in pride of his achievements, in love with Eva Braun. Half rabid with fear, he still possessed shreds of that charisma that could have moved and aided millions, had he not chosen to burn millions instead. I heard it all in his voice. He was, to be clear, evil. Thoroughly so. Still, if one read his thoughts as he aimed the gun at himself (and I did), a little part of him imagined another life, painting landscapes along the Rhine. I’d ballpark that part at four percent of him.

I collect them: reckonings. Someone needs to.

That, of course, is why I sat on a 727 about to touch down in New Jersey on July 6, 2019: Jeffrey Epstein’s “Lolita Express.” He took me for a journalist profiling his philanthropic endeavors. They always explain me to themselves somehow; running from the Moscow mob, Rasputin believed me a woman he had “purified” a few nights before.

“You can’t pigeonhole the future,” Epstein said, clinking the ice in his tumbler. “It doesn’t belong to science, or architecture, or art, or technology – no matter what the Google crew would tell you. It’s the nexus.” He pointed his finger for emphasis, then noted the paltry level of liquid in his glass. He raised the finger upward, and the stewardess approached with more pomegranate juice. He never drank; he’d seen too often what drink would do, growing up near Coney Island.

“The future is in the nexus,” he said. “That’s why I’ve given so much to the MIT Media Lab. You have to believe in something. I believe in the future.” The stewardess dropped in more ice cubes. Epstein said, “Thank you, Stacey,” as she walked away.

“You’ve given elsewhere, too,” I prompted.

“I have. I have…” He watched the ice cubes swirl in the deep red. “I made my first donation to Harvard nearly thirty years ago. For Rosovsky Hall, the new Hillel building. My name’s on the plaque there.”

“Does that matter to you? The name on the plaque.”

“No. Sort of…” Another sip, another moment watching the cubes. “Everyone dies, you know. Someday I’ll die. Stacey there. The pilot. You.” Three out of four, I thought. “A man wants to leave something. Something that will last. Matter.”

Buildings rushed by quickly outside the window, but I waited. Questions channel thinking. To truly know a person, one must silently wait.

“We all need to balance the scales,” he said.

He turned to find me when the feds and the NYPD accosted him, but I was already gone, and already he had mostly forgotten me. I’d collected his reckoning; I knew who he was.

There was fear, as always, and anger. A little bit of regret, even on the flight. The question of legacy truly mattered to him; I felt it as he talked of the future. If one listened to his words very closely—and many people had—one could hear that genuine concern and zeal; so loudly that one might not realize how much Stacey’s backside preoccupied him, or recognize how viciously part of him wished to own her.

I’d ballpark that part at 88 percent of him.

You know the end is coming, what would be called a ‘happily never after’. So you need some questions answered. They’ll sound prying, forcing a withered rose to open its petals, but they won’t give it away, if you tread carefully.

The first one you ask is the most obvious. It’s multifaceted, smashed into the confines of a few one syllable words.

“Why do you do this?”

His lip curls into a smirk. As if you should see the answer already, like you’re stumbling around blindfolded.

The plane is humming, purring, like a sleeping cat. The plane is preparing to descend, descend into an undoing.

Your palms are sweaty. That’s always been a problem of yours, but now, it’s impossible not to notice. You grip the leather armrests, hoping they’ll hold your sanity down.

You nearly expect him not to respond, to laugh it off and shove it away, but he speaks, keeping his head turned away, shielding it from your judgement.

“What drives humanity is the want of what you can’t have. But I have it all. So, I find joy, motivation, in the next best thing. I want what is wrong.”

This makes sense. It’s slimy, disgusting, like a bucket of toads, but it makes sense.

This will be painful. Well, on to the next question.

“Do you regret what you’ve done?”

This time he actually laughs. Explosive chuckles that bounce around the plane’s cabin.

“No. I never will. The world is meant to be exploited. I’ve been taking, taking, taking, and it’s been giving, giving, giving. Sometimes it throws things at me, sometimes I have to put in a little effort. But I always get what I want. I’ll suck this world dry, if it’s going to let me.”

There’s more, but the plane is swooping down now. On to the final question, the one you can ask now because you’re so close to reality.

“What if you get caught?”

A sigh. A breathy, exhausted one. A twinkle in his eyes.

“I won’t. I have money. I know they say ‘money can’t buy everything’. That’s true. But you know what?”

He pauses.

“It can buy enough. Money can’t buy love, but it can buy compliance. It can’t buy happiness, but it can buy distraction. It can’t buy back the past, but it can buy silence in the future. Money is everyone’s undoing. Throw enough at a problem and you can get it to disappear. I can’t fall, because I can rebuild my pedestal in an instant.”

And then he’s done.

These questions had caused a big bang, of sorts. Your loathing had been miniscule, nearly invisible. Now, everything had expanded into infinity, making a giant, bubbling mess.

He deserves this.

The plane lands, coasts down the runway. You’re excited now. Justice will be served. This man considered the world to be his playground, and someone set fire to it while he wasn’t looking.

It will burn.

The flight attendant at the gate looked at my face, looked at my ticket, looked back at my face and then down at my carry on bag, abruptly putting her arm, and as back up, a foot attached to a leg straight out in front of me, blocking my entry onto the jetwalk.

“Your carry on bag is oversized.” She said to me, with the deadpan look of a serial killer, quickly printing out an insta label for my bag to be checked and crudely taken away from me by a uniformed guy that magically appeared out of some cloud, slapping on the black printed label with swift demonic fingers, in my opinion exercising a complete disregard for humanity.

“What do you mean it’s oversized? I use this bag as a carry on all the time.” I retorted in a tone unbecoming of any proud mother’s daughter. I was tired, it was hot, the guy in front of me had either just cut one or he hadn’t showered, neither of which I cared to assume but I had no other option. The thought of spending even an extra minute at baggage claim after the flight felt like a death sentence. Yes. I was being dramatic but so was Miss Megalomania with the airplane silver pin, tight white tie and even tighter bun. My bag was not oversized.

A sweet young lady behind me with very white teeth that winked gave me a gentle tap on the shoulder and offered a considerate definitive warning. “Don’t mess with one of them or they will throw you off the flight.” She could tell I was in fighting mode by my tone and my snorting and if it wasn’t for her reminder, I don’t think I would have been able to comply by keeping quiet and moving forward in line with the other sheep.

When I got inside the cabin, Mr. Stinky Pants sat down in a single digit seat, and my seat, 19B was a comfortable distance away, so there was that, but then again I had not yet had the pleasure or so be it the displeasure of meeting my seatmate for the flight, 19A. Before I looked at his face, intentionally avoiding any eye contact, on auto pilot I reached for my invisible bag realizing; Damn it. My kindle was in there. So much for reading. I hope this guy doesn’t try to chat me up. His hands were securely on either side of his knees as if there was a valuable between them he was hoping to protect and he kept his eyes on his knuckles like they were his classroom pupils. It was then that I looked at his gray stubbled face. I sorta had to as I was climbing over his lap.

….Jeffrey Epstein? Seriously? Isn’t he currently under investigation for sex trafficking? My first impulse was to call security, but obviously, security already checked him in. I wondered if his carry on bag was overstuffed and I wondered if he would remember me from that party ten years ago. When he heard I was a psychic and clairvoyant, he had asked me to leave his home immediately using a lame excuse, politely but ever so swiftly avoiding any eye contact, offering me a limo driver and a gift card to a high end spa, leading me to the front door with a firm but gentle touch on my arm. The same scenario had happened to me before. I know the type. It’s always intentional and suspicious when a person refuses to be in my company to avoid one of my reads. What were you trying to hide from me that night Mr. Epstein, huh? Are you guilty of the charges against you? Now you’ve got nowhere to hide other than in the crapper so we’ve got the time. Two hours and forty six minutes to be precise. How bout a read?

For a second I thought he might be trying to read my thoughts, but that could have been just a pinch of leftover paranoia kicking in after my near miss with the check in attendant. 19A didn’t say hello and neither did I (friendly skies is a long forgotten slogan) and he seemed to have no clue he had met me before at one of his parties. Why would he remember me? I’m sure I was no more important to him than the determined fly singling out his right middle finger ignoring the other nine. Jeffrey kept bending his finger, lifting his middle knobby knuckle rhythmically, and each time he did the fly circled up towards his mouth. Continually taking control with a puckered lip exhale forcing out a puff, he emphasized the “p” which landed in my ear as annoyingly as the fly repeating his landing right back on that finger relentlessly, coming at him like Mohammad Ali, so many times I lost count. I’ve never gotten a read on a fly, but there is a first time for everything.

It was then that I decided to speak, not understanding why I even bothered. At this point we were already into the flight an hour. Perhaps it was because something unknown was blocking me from his thoughts, and I never back down from a challenge. Maybe it was the fly blocking me or some type of double teaming going on against me between the two of them….Could have been. Then again, maybe I was stuck in a delusion of persecution.

“Why don’t you just swat at it already.” I said to him in the same exact tone I used towards the flight attendant.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Our eyes locked. It was then that I connected with his memory. I saw it all. Everything. Flashing at me like a fast forwarded movie, including the sequel which was gonna happen when he got off the plane. For obvious reasons, when I have not been asked to read someone, I keep what I know close to the vest, between my lips alone, and well hidden behind my eyeballs, letting the vision of what I can’t unsee hang to cure like raw meat. Horrified, but unafraid knowing there was going to be a set of handcuffs slapped on him in the not too distant future, I said,

“Why don’t you let me take care of that for you.” And before he could protest, I swatted fast and I swatted hard, harder than Ali, and did not miss; I never do. Swatting. Another one of my unusual talents.

“Hey! Ouch! What do you think you are doing?”

“Just killing a pesky fly. Helping you out. You do know that fly was disgusting, he was dirty and he deserved to die, right?”

He turned his head away from me but not before he flicked the dead fly off his middle finger. A drop of red pigment from its seeing eyes was left behind. And as we sat the rest of the flight in silence, I was not worried. I knew his fate and as it turns out so did that fly.

As we glided through the dark clouds to a private island, my mind became restless. I tried to hide my distaste behind a smirking smile. I pretended to enjoy all the conversations, the crystal champagne, and expensive caviar.

Life seemed lavish flying under the sun.

But inside my chest, my heart was screaming loudly as if it wanted to break my bones and fall down from the sky without a parachute.

Mr. Jeffrey Epstein, arched his hands on the expensive leather chair and pulled back his seat and signed effortlessly, nibbling into a delicious grape and cheese loaded on the big tray. The catered food could feed a room full of hungry people.

He smiled at me and whispered slowly into my ears while tapping on the pictures on the big screen. 

“When we land, you’ll be a member of the high circle,” he said confidently.

“You get to meet big celebrities, royalties as well as the most powerful men on earth. Just like them, you’ll enjoy the companion of younger girls. It’ll be like heaven on earth,” he said sipping his champagne from the crystal glass.

I wanted to vomit looking at the photos of those underage girls. It was heart-wrenching. They couldn’t have been more than 14 or 15 years of age. Some of them even looked way younger than 10.

I could feel my rib cages cracking in soaring pain. Imagining the heartaches, shattered lives and broken families were unbearable. But mostly, the loss of innocence in those beautiful girls’ eyes was nerve-wracking.

My daughter is a year older than them, and if Anybody ever hurts her like the devil sitting next to me, I couldn’t even imagine what I’d do to him. I’d just cut off all of his limbs, and snap his neck like a stick. 

“Are you alright,” he says, staring into my eyes as if he read what was nagging me inside.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I replied, trying to disguise my disgust.

I lied.

I had to obviously, say something that’s not suspicious.

“Sometimes, when I get excited in the air, I tend to get airplane sick,” I concluded.

I wish I told him he was the one making me nauseous. But all I kept thinking was the end of the road for this man with such a dark heart was coming up soon, and I should bear his company for just a little while.

The truth was, I wanted to shove him off the airplane, as we were flying 30,000 feet above the ground.

As we climbed down, the pilot announced that we were about to land.

When we descended over the green pastures and clear blue water, I let out the toxin poisoning me during the long flight and inhaled a breath of relief, and danced with this thought until we touched down. 

No, I won’t, you repulsive monster. Besides, when we land, you won’t ever see a light of a day again. You will instead be sleeping in a small block cell until you die. If it was up to me, you deserve more than a cold concrete; I’d badly tortured you and let your soul rotten in hell for eternity, you evil and wicked son-of-a-bitch.

midnightink 8-5-2020

I take my seat in first class, and as if on cue, a bright, vivacious flight attendant appears in the aisle. “Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Epstein?”, she purrs to the man next to me, batting her eyes in such obvious way, that I have to stifle a laugh.

“How about a whiskey on the rocks?”, he coyly plays along, adding a quick wink, almost imperceptible unless you were watching closely.

She replies bashfully, “Of course, Mr. Epstein. It’s always a pleasure to have you flying with us.” She turns to me as if an afterthought, “Ma’am? Something to drink for you?”

“You know what? What the hell. Whiskey on the rocks sounds great. I’ll have what he’s having,” I beam my toothiest grin at her.

“Of course, I’ll be right back.”

I quickly glance at her name tag before I reply, “thank you, Delilah.”

I note that Delilah’s vibrancy seems to wane almost instantly when she engages with me. Perhaps Delilah is friendly with Epstein because she’s waited on him before, perhaps on many flights. A more probable reason is that the airline considers him a VIP and therefore always provides him with this level of attention and service. After all this time I’ve spent chasing Epstein, it wouldn’t surprise me if it came to light that the pilot or even the airline executives owed Epstein a favor or two, guaranteeing him exceptional service from the youngest, most doe-eyed flight attendants. After considering this for a moment, I’ve resolved that of course, there are likely many flight attendants that serve Epstein, all carbon copies of Delilah, all strikingly beautiful in that young, naïveté kind of way. I realize I’m unintentionally staring at the young woman’s backside as she walks away because I can feel Epstein glance at me and his ensuing gaze follow mine. I shudder internally as my face settles into a light scowl. Stealing a furtive glance at his expression, I can see that his eyes are now hungrily fixed on her hips in her pencil skirt, sashaying and bending to take orders from the rest of the first class elite.

“What a pleasant woman,” Epstein says as he turns to me, snapping me out of my trance. His cool, blue-grey eyes scan me up and down, assessing in that way that’s characteristic of sociopaths—somehow reserved while also feeling as if they’re boring holes through you. Despite all of the intel I have on him, I get why young women fall into his web. His aura of confidence and importance is so wholly unbreakable that even if every internal alarm bell were to cry out in protest, I can guarantee you’d question your ability to assess whether to trust this person, rather than why your body tells you that you shouldn’t.

I knew we were assigned seats next to each other on the flight back from France, but I’m still taken aback by how quickly he’s decided to talk to me. The years I’ve spent training for this moment evade me, as I find it nearly impossible to erase the smugness from my face. I give a thoughtful pause by clearing my throat, the same way you might pause to consider whether you really need that second cup of coffee when offered a refill at brunch. He might have thought I was considering whether perhaps this flight attendant really was pleasant or not, but it was merely so I could suppress the last decade of my work from my expression before I replied.

“Yes, this airline does tend to have the best flight attendants, in my opinion,” I warmly reply, making eye contact with him for the first time. Seeing my face from the front seems to spark something in him, his brows furrowing slightly.

“You look familiar. Have we met before?” He asks.

For a moment, I begin to internally panic, thinking I’ve gone and blown my whole cover. This is the last leg of this mission, and though it is nearly over, his recognizing me as the person who has been following him for the last 10 years could be a detriment to our case and therefore, would be catastrophic. In that moment, the realization that we’ve finally got him washes over me, calming me like the falling ocean tide. I’m reminded that my partner and the rest of our investigative team will be waiting at the gate to arrest him as soon as we touch down at the Teterboro airport.

“I just have one of those faces. I get that all of the time,” I shrug.

If his eyes were lasers, they’d have already burned through me. He must be skeptical of my response because he’s still sizing me up and down. Thankfully, the bouncy Delilah flits her way over, breaking his concentration.

“Here are your drinks! If there is anything that we can do to make your flight more enjoyable, please don’t hesitate to call me over.” Although this is directed at both of us, she’s staring at Epstein. When their eyes meet, I notice her cheeks redden slightly, and she lets out a soft giggle. I blink my eyes a couple times, so as to keep them from rolling into the back of my head. This interaction seems to have cut the tension between us because Epstein turns towards me and lifts his glass as if to cheers. I mimic his gesture and ask, “so what are we cheers-ing to then?”

He throws his head back in a carefree fashion and replies, “how about to a long, prosperous life, full of adventure?” The irony is not lost on me and because of this, I’m able to smile genuinely in return.

I nod my head slightly, lift my glass, and agree, “yes, to a long, prosperous life, full of adventure.” I clink my glass with his and take a sip of the brown liquor, its sweet, warmth sliding down my throat and spreading through my chest.

This interaction seems to satisfy Epstein’s curiosity about me because he doesn’t pry again. He continues to sip his whiskey and instead returns to his work on his laptop. Little does he know, he won’t need that anymore when this flight is over.

Although I’ve been following Epstein and investigating him for the last decade, this is the first time I’ve actually been up close to him. In the past, it was too risky. But now, the thrill of knowing he will be behind bars at the end of this flight leaves me intoxicated with the exhilaration. At the same time, there’s a strange bittersweet-ness about it all. It’s been a long, arduous process to catch him, and his case has been the one that has consumed me the most since I started working with the FBI. At the same time, I’ve found it to be somewhat interesting, even enjoyable at times, to be Epstein’s shadow, well, besides of course all of the child trafficking and sexual abuse. It’s hard to describe what it’s like to chase an enigma like Epstein for so long. To have finally succeeded in catching him feels like the biggest reward of all and yet, I am also anticipating the purposelessness that will come once he’s caught. How could any FBI mission ever top this one? In reality, they can’t.

The rest of the flight is without incidence, and despite my exhaustion, sleep evades me. I occasionally find myself staring at Epstein’s relaxed, sleeping face, and I wonder if he knows his entire life is about to change. He must have known this day was coming at some point, right? Although probably not, as all of the evidence I’ve collected against Epstein would suggest. He’s just that kind of man.

As the plane begins its final descent, my heart starts palpitating. I’ve been waiting for this day for so long, and I will finally see this man in handcuffs for the atrocities he’s committed. My emotions, a strong mixture of pride, excitement, anticipation, anxiety, overwhelm me as we taxi up to the gate.

The plane parks and Epstein immediately jumps out of his seat to grab his carry-on from the overhead compartment. I stay seated for a moment longer, saving this moment of suspension, while at the same time knowing that we’ll meet again on the other side of the gateway. This time I won’t be another passenger on the flight but his arresting officer.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Jeff,” I say, peering up at him from my window seat.

Epstein looks at me perplexed, his mouth ever so slightly agape. Before he can get out of the aisle, the passengers behind him start pushing him towards the exit, hastily attempting to exit the plane. Even as he gives in to their pushing and begins moving, he turns back to look at me and calls out, “I didn’t get your name, but you too.”

I don’t even bother to yell back at him, as he’s already at the front of the plane, saying his goodbyes to the effervescent Delilah, whose adoration for Epstein is so eminent, I have to look away.

“You’ll know my name soon, Epstein. Real soon,” I whisper to myself, as I collect my bag and make my way off the plane.

What kind of luck do I have on a plane with a smirk I can’t erase,

with an abusive underage child trafficker smiling in my face?

Looking at me as if I could be a potential client.

Money talks, bullshit walks is the defiance.

He’s telling me how he has his own island.

If I had the right price, he could give me a challenge.

He says “Nothing but beauty surrounds me each day.”

If I joined a club on his island, I could have it that way.

Maxwell interrupts and offers some advice.

She says “It is very prestige, we don’t invite you twice.”

You see, Maxwell screens all the potential victims they use.

Epstein tests them out before he decides to choose.

He leans back in and says “It all can be trusted.”

But as soon as the plane landed, His nasty ass was Busted!!!!

   “Are you relaxed?” I ask.

     Jeffrey Epstein looks up at me. His eyes are hungry.

     I’m going to let them starve.

     “Hell yeah,” he says. He spreads his legs and loosens his tie. I feel a pang of panic. What if it doesn’t work? What will he do?

     “I’m ready for you, sweet cheeks,” he says, and I put on my fakest smile. I reach into the pocket of my dress, searching for the one object that will save me from him.

     I find it, and it rolls into my fingers on its own.

     “Close your eyes,” I say. He does.

     “Now imagine me naked,” I say. He shudders with pleasure. “Easier done than said,” he says. I want to slap him, hurt him, but I need him to be relaxed. Otherwise, the hypnotism won’t work.

     “Can you see me?” I ask. Epstein nods his head, his eyes still closed. “Ohh yeah.”

     “Three. Two.”

     “What?”

     “One.” I snap my fingers. Epstein’s face becomes as blank as paper. He has an erection; I shudder, disgusted.

     “You will stop. And think,” I say. I hold up the object from my pocket: a little ball of amethyst crystals. With most hypnotisms, you cannot make a person do anything they don’t want to do. With these enchanted crystals, however, I can make them do anything I want.

     “You will think about all of the girls you violated. Every. Single. One.” 

     For a second, Epstein has that hungry look again. But that’s about to change.

     I squeeze the ball of amethyst, and I see his expression darken. He flails in his seat, but he doesn’t leave it. I won’t let him leave it. He’s caught like a fly.

     “Do you see them?” I growl. “Do you see what you’ve done to them?”

      “M-make it stop,” says Epstein. “I don’t want to be—no, stop—”

     “Do you understand what you did?”

       “Please, make it stop!” he cries. He flails again, jolting left and right from a phantom abuser.

     I drop the ball back into my pocket. Epstein slumps as if nothing had happened.

     I say one more thing before I loosen my hold on him.

     “Die,” I say, tracing the shape of a noose on his arm with my fingernail. He nods, as if in agreement.

     The private jet comes to a stop.

     I let go of my grip on him. He snaps out of it, his legs again splayed, and he looks at me like a cheetah would look at a helpless gazelle.

     “So are we doing this or not?” he says impatiently. I smile that phony smile again. “We’ve landed,” I say. Epstein peeks out of the window, then sighs in disappointment. “Maybe we’ll do this later, then,” he purrs.

     But I know about the police outside. I know where he’s going next. And I know that Epstein’s going to hell, regardless of who he pays off.

As I blend in with the group of girls, a gaggle of stunning young ladies from around the world, I know for a fact that to the casual observers I have practically morphed into a state of invisibility. No one will know who I am.

A snap judgement will be made the minute they lay eyes on me and no one will perceive a threat. They will see the mass of dyed hair; the fake tan, the jewellery dripping off me like baubles, the mini skirt, the long legs and they will see me as just one of the girls, as if we are a symbiotic part of a collective mass operating with a hive mind, distinguishable only by varying shades of lipstick.

It's what's known in my business as a legend.

It goes beyond a disguise, it's who I am for this mission.

For this mission I am just one of girls: one of Jeffrey's girls, whom he somehow managed to summon to his private jet, for God knows what, with the full knowledge and blessing of corrupt members of law enforcement. Who else would be on his way to incarceration in a private jet, drinking champagne with a bevy of women and Harvard-educated attorneys at his side?

The mood is all rather festive as I climb aboard and the plane takes off, literally flying above the law in brazen luxury , metaphorically raising a middle finger to all the principled people below and all their self-righteous moral judgments.

Unfortunately for Jeffrey, I work for one of those principled people: a very rich and powerful woman, who knowing the corruption that plagues this country, sometimes takes the law into her own hands.

And I help her do it.

Jeffrey oozes charisma as he regales his coterie of friends and advisors with inflight tales of recent court appearances and interviews with police, as one would relate anecdotes for a stand-up comedy skit. No mention of his victims, not an inkling of remorse, no acknowledgement of his crimes- I know this job won't weigh on my conscience like some of the others.

"How about a drink my dear?" He calls to me as I'm standing nearest to the bar area. (Yes this plane has a bar). I smile at the irony, as unbeknownst to him, he just requested his own death.

I flick my fake hair , flash my pearly white veneers as if competing with all the cats of Cheshire and pour him a glass of bourbon. Thanks to some deft slight-of-hand skills, no one notices when I add a prepared vial of synthetic poison; a bespoke blend of lab- concocted toxins, which apparently tastes like limes and take the glass of death on the rocks over to him.

My hand doesn't even waiver as I pass him the lethal liquid.

"You have beautiful eyes." He says, taking the bourbon and drinking it .

"Thank you." I reply with a fake southern accent but with genuine sincerity, as I've always been a little insecure about my eyes ... I also feel it's a polite courtesy to acknowledge someone's final words.

I watch as he sips.

His eyes linger on me and my eyes linger on his lips.

Suddenly his face contorts. He grabs his chest in agony, eyes wide, struggling to breathe .In just a few seconds, he suffers a massive heart attack, keels over and dies.

My work here is complete, so I scream and without a complete understanding of events, the rest of Jeffrey's girls scream too.

An emergency landing later , with much ado, much panic, more screaming and even more crying we all disembark and I slip off into the night, throwing off my high heels and fake hair as I run.

When the FBI start their investigation ,they don't have much to go on. A false name. An abandoned wig. No distinguishing details....

Just a general description of a girl.

Jeff looked almost bored on the call with his legal team. Despite having just been told that he was one media cycle away from being the most high profile criminal in the world, he remained collected and just as calm as when we boarded the jet an hour ago. As I typed on my laptop, Epstein looked over to me, put a finger gun to his head, and pulled the fake trigger. He threw his head back, rolled his eyes, and slumped in his seat, all while his lawyers spoke on the other end.

"Ok, Alan," said Epstein. "I'll see you at the arraignment. Give Carolyn my love." He hung up the phone, let out a long sigh and looked to me. "This might be worse than the Miami charges," he said, nodding towards the 1926 Macallan scotch on the top shelf of the planes bar. Called it, I thought as I stood to retrieve the bottle.

I had been Jeffrey Epstein's 'assistant' for six months, but it took me half that time to learn his response to all things, whether slight inconvenience or a significant setback. Have a glass of scotch.

"Henry," he said, as I grabbed the whiskey.

I paused with the bottle in hand. "Yes, sir?"

"Grab two glasses."

Nodding, I grabbed two whiskey tumblers, placed them on the bar, and poured the world's most expensive booze into each glass evenly. The irony of it was not lost on me as I dabbed a single drop of clear liquid into his drink while he looked out the plane's window.

A half-million-dollar bottle of whiskey and he was sharing it with the person that was seconds away from signing his death warrant.

Having spent half a year on this assignment, I grew to know Epstein better than myself. His friendships, business associates, relationships, and of course, his leisurely activities. See, it wasn't the friends or associates that were disenfranchising. I either worked for or had dealings with many of the people in Epstein's social circle. The extracurricular activities are also something you come to expect when you serve in the militant branch of a worldwide cabal of evildoers.

I knew from the time I joined the organization that I'd be involved with the worst kind of people to maintain the order of things, but Epstein took it to another level altogether. Not just how young the girls he chose were, but how often he abused them. Epstein was insatiable. Night after night, a different girl with the same timid and terrified look on her face. The only solace I pulled from the entire six months with him was the fact that I was going to kill him at the end of the operation.

"Here's to real friends," he said, holding up his glass. I obliged and clinked my tumbler to his.

"To real friends, sir," I responded, taking a small sip as I watched him do the same. The scotch had an almost indescribable warmth and after finish. It was amazing. Not something to slam down for a quick buzz, but something to be tasted, to be savored. I was counting on that.

Good, I thought, as I watched him swill the liquid around in his mouth. I needed the compound to enter his system sublingually as opposed to through his stomach. The blood vessels under the tongue made for a much faster distribution route of a toxic agent. I set a timer on my watch for 5 minutes, removed my jacket, loosened my tie, and rolled up my sleeves.

"I might be going to jail for a few months," said Epstein. "But if you want your job when I'm out, then you shouldn't get too comfortable." He dismissively waved his hand at my appearance. "Please don't lose your professionalism just because I shared a glass of high-end scotch with you." He said, taking another sip.

I ignored his suggestion and walked back over to where I had been sitting. I closed my laptop, pulled out my field case, and set it on the table in front of my seat. I took one last gulp of whiskey and then entered the numeric code for the briefcase.

"It's not Jim Beam for fucks sake!" he yelled upon seeing me down my drink. "You're the best assistant I've ever had, but you're showing a real lack of judgment at the moment." Epstein straightened up in his chair and gave me a stern look. "I'm sorry, but are you ignor-"

I held a finger up to my mouth for him to stop talking while I focused on entering the last digit on the metal lock. The latches popped open.

"There," I said. "This combination has always been the same, but I can never remember the damn thing." I shook my head at my own forgetfulness as Epstein continued to give me a bewildered look. I opened the briefcase and began evaluating my inventory as I continued speaking. "Have you ever heard of MKULTRA, Jeff?" Epstein looked even more lost. Opening and closing his mouth to respond, but the words just wouldn't come. I answered for him.

"Everyone has," I said. "Hell, most of the stuff you use on your underaged companions are chemicals that the CIA used in their experiments." I began removing the necessary equipment from my briefcase and carefully set each selected tool on the table. Epstein pressed the call button for the flight attendant when he saw me place a syringe and small vial on the table.

"Your flight attendant hasn't been on this plane since we left the ground, Jeff," I said. He frantically looked towards the cockpit. I held out my hand to signal 'by all means' as his eyes darted from me to the cockpit door and back to me. He didn't waste a second balking at the invitation and immediately attempted to get up. Just as he moved to take his seat belt off, my watch began to beep.

The compound I put in his scotch had spread through his entire system and was evident from his inability to remove his seatbelt. His fingers stupidly fumbled over the metal clasp as he dramatically blinked his eyes, attempting to focus on the menial task at hand.

"Here," I told him. I stood up, reached over, and unlatched his restraint buckle. The moment I sat back down, he shot up from his chair towards the cockpit door, took one step, and collapsed face-first on the carpet. He began to maniacally giggle as he tried lifting his head from the floor. Paralyzed from the neck down, he was only able to raise his head just enough to look my way and rest his face back on the carpet.

"You think a little LS-... LSD isss gonna make me spill my-... spill my-..."

"Guts?" I finished. "No, I don't." I picked up the needle, plunged it into the vial's rubber top, turned the container upside down, and withdrew its contents into the syringe. "Now, assuming you're about to lose all of your speech function, I'll finish what I was saying." I held out my open palm as an invite for him to keep speaking, but Epstein remained like a corpse. His mouth agape, saliva flowing freely from his bottom lip, forming a puddle on the ground. "I thought as much,"

Epstein's body remained motionless, but his eyes never stopped following my movements. I pulled a knife from my briefcase and knelt next to him. Upon seeing the blade in my hand, he began to protest with guttural grunts.

I grabbed his jacket sleeve at the wrist and ran the blade across it vertically, stopping at his shoulder. I tore the jacket and shirt under it open, exposing the bare skin on his arm. I sat the knife back on the table, grabbed the syringe, flicked it to expel any bubbles, and buried it into his upper arm's muscle. The liquid gradually disappeared as I slowly pressed down on the plunger with my thumb. I capped the needle, placed it back into my case, and carefully pulled out an old leather book with runes etched into the book's front.

"As I was attempting to state earlier, you seem familiar with MKULTRA. I'm sure LSD and a handful of psychotropic drugs make for amiable victims and fuzzy witnesses in the courtroom." I opened the leather book and began searching for the appropriate page. "What you probably aren't overly familiar with is project MKOFTEN." I looked over the top of the book to see Epstein still conscious but paralyzed.

"MKOFTEN was on track to be the CIA's most significant discovery, but they shut it all down. Christians in the government weren't big fans of Uncle Sam using the powers of darkness as a weapon, nor were they thrilled about the government's entanglement with the occult in any way."

I came to the chapter I had been searching for and carefully scanned the dead language on the pages.

"If you shut something down because it's doomed to fail, then that's one thing, but shutting it down because it's doomed to succeed? That's myopic cowardice." I looked down to Epstein to see his eyes rolling into the back of his head. I reached my leg towards his head and tapped his face with the sole of my shoe. "No, no," I said. "You have to be somewhat conscious for this part."

Epstein groaned as his eyes came back into focus. I continued silently mouthing the incantations to practice before reading the spell aloud. Over and over, I silently mouthed the writing to myself. Latin was already a challenging language for me, and I had seen what happens when a word was misread during a summoning spell. Add that to the fact we were flying in a pressurized metal tube at thirty-eight thousand feet, and I was taking zero chances. Despite Epstein's many sins, I still pitied him for what he was about to endure. The home office referred to them as Interdimensional beings, or IDB's, but I just called them what they were. Demons.

See, I've never personally bought into the "interdimensional beings" rhetoric, and that's what makes me so proficient at my work. I don't treat these practices, spells, or things like some science experiment. I treat all of it with reverence, and I never take pleasure in doing it. Demon possession is not only physically painful but the absolute peak of mental torture. The entity that takes over your body can see every aspect of your mind, and you can see every aspect of theirs. That's where the whole 'mind meld' term starts getting tossed around, but in reality, it's not some mutual partnership between the possessor and the possessed.

The IDB enters the subject's mind, takes the proverbial wheel, and calls the shots until it's task is complete. Let's say someone has a dozen caches of incriminating information on high powered individuals. If we can isolate that individual and incapacitate them without physical harm, they then become prime hosts for an IDB.

Again, I state. It's a demon I'm referring to, not a trained soldier. They only follow orders because they're bound to do so, and if those bindings are even a little loose, it's bad news for everyone involved. So as I read, I did so loudly and slowly, enunciating each syllable, carefully finishing each sentence. The lights in the cabin began to flicker, the bottles and glasses behind the bar started to rattle, and the entire plane began to shudder.

I read the last line of Latin on the page, and the lights went out altogether. The engines briefly sputtered, and the plane began to dip. Just as I started to think I had messed up the spell, the engines powered back up, and the lights came back on to reveal an empty spot on the floor where Epstein had been laying. I turned to see him standing behind the bar, mixing himself a drink. He looked up with a deadpan expression and met my gaze.

"Everything you need is on three separate thumb drives," he said in a monotone voice. "One is on his yacht, one is at the house in New Jersey, and the last is on his private island."

"Perfect," I said. "As always I thank you for your time, I know it's valuable."

"Will there be anything else?" It asked.

"A month from now, Mr. Epstein will give into despair from the weight of the charges against him and hang himself."

It nodded and walked back over to where Epstein had been sitting. It calmly swirled the liquid around in its glass and looked out the window at the lights below. I had spent six months as Jeffrey Epstein's assistant, and I can honestly say I preferred the company of an actual demon.