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Obituaries Society

Ghislaine Maxwell found dead in apparent suicide

“Hanged in her cell.” — CO Report

  • DOX NEWS: Reports of the death of Jeffrey Epstein estate madame casts doubts as to whether the names of more powerful offenders will ever come to light.
  • Infamous “little black book” still with authorities.
  • Leaders warned of “sweeping implications”

NEW YORK—Early reports state that guards working at Brooklyn Metropolitan Detention Center in New York have discovered the body of former Jeffrey Epstein estate madame and prolific human trafficker Ghislaine Maxwell. The correctional officer’s report states that following a power outage, two guards later found Maxwell hanging in her cell, after being left unattended as workers investigated the cause of the outage. She was 60.

Her family said they feared for her life in February, when Jean-Luc Brunel, another associate who worked with human trafficker and child rapist Jeffrey Epstein, was found dead in his Paris cell.

Reports indicate there is no footage of the event.

Warden Jeremy Whitlock said, “The batteries in the cameras monitoring Ms. Maxwell’s block failed, and so no footage of her suicide was obtained.”

Ghislaine Maxwell, pictured with Jeffrey Epstein, is dressed like the Captain of child abuse.

Internet watchdog groups and skeptic tanks think Jeremy Whitlock says a lot of things, and have sounded the alarm. A group known pejoratively as “truthers” are reportedly amassing a caravan of campers and minivans, with the stated intention of moving their group of an estimated 300 transients onto the White House lawn by next weekend.

The group, calling themselves the Maxwells, hopes the stunt will draw attention to the obvious protections from justice established by a global elite class of criminals. Unfortunately, the tired and drug-addicted people involved do not seem ready to say words like that out of their slack-jawed, open mouths. Standing tall, and waiting ahead of them is a theatrical regimen of National Guard troops, armed and looking for anything out of the ordinary. However, the Maxwells are not deterred.

Jamie Jo Corne (Jamie Brinkman)
Trailboss Jamie Jo Corne

A Maxwell, and user calling herself Trailboss: Jamie Jo Corne (TBJJC) registers orders to a loyal following of federated truck drivers, over a media platform recently launched by Donald Trump. She also uses a CB radio to spread her message, the post says, which is “received by a cacaphony of ‘amens’ and 10-4s.”

“We’ve heard all we need to hear about the so-called facts,” Corne writes in her statement. “This molester died, and she knew all the names of the world’s most elite child rapists, and we’re supposed to believe she did it at the exact moment that the fucking lights went out? What’s it going to take to put a fire under the asses of every senator, statesman, and known devil-worshipping child sacrificer in the capitol?”

The post received hundreds of likes and reposts, which is a lot on Truth Social.

Ghislaine was survived by her four siblings. Brother Max “The Beast” Maxwell told reporters, “She was innocent, I tell ya. Innocent. All this child trafficking QAnon bullshit can suck my cock. Suck my cock from here to Timbuktu. Now fuck off!”

[Editor’s note: these remarks were left out of the Hate Radio Morning Edition broadcast, but are included here for posterity.]

Sick fans mourn the loss of the most prolific known human trafficker and rapist Maxwell. Devotees know that Maxwell, in addition to hurting children – and perhaps overshadowed by the cruelty of her crime – also went after men.

Information taken from court documents reveal that Ghislaine was admired in certain circles for her second life as a serial rapist, approaching over 36 men on various social media websites including Myspace, Facebook, and YouTube. Her posts included detailed information about her favorite manipulation regimes.

After first bamboozling a target with sex-bombing, she would then crank the hate down on them with a practiced emperor-palpatine like command. By stages she would break their will down to nothing. Finally, she would lure them into abandoned buildings, cut their dicks off, make plaster castings, thus adding to her collection of limp penises, and thus increase her own perverse enjoyment.

“It was fucked up,” says Albert H. Troiler, the lead investigator wrote in his report to the New York District Attorney after working the case. “You never seen nothing like it.”

Proceeds from The TerraMar Project, a foundation Maxwell created to conserve the world’s oceans, are being turned over the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, a portion of which the Gates say will be spent toward ‘Save The Children.’

Melinda French Gates, former wife of Bill Gates, said “We want to regulate the trafficking of children. Make sure it’s done ehtically, legally, so people can be safe about it. No more black markets for children, but safe spaces, with legal barriers to abuse.”

The coronor’s report might not come out for months, as investigators process new details, still coming in.

“Or we mignt never hear nothing at all,” Corne writes. “They might just sweep this whole thing under the rug, and pretend for 20 years like she’s still alive and well, up there in Brooklyn, hanging out with her rich prisoner friends.”

Categories
Health Status Quo

Got a case of the Mondays? A weekend drug bender could be “Miracle cure”

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Fight the power. Fist of justice. 10 percs in the open palm. Sleepy Warriors. Party every night. — Doctor’s Orders

Categories
Entertainment Religion

Prank turns deadly when silly string ignites during a Satanic ritual fire

Related news (ignore this stuff)

  • Evil John Lennon and Sinister Paul McCartney go triple platinum after writing hit banger, “Got to Get You Into My Strife.”
  • Mark David Chapman demonstrates how a practical joke that seems like a harmless lark can quickly turn deadly.
  • Chapman sprays them with silly string, which is fun, until an exposed candle ignites the pile of string.
  • The pop duo embraces, creating a single flame.
  • What happens next will leave you horrified!
Ukraine nuclear bomb blast detected
Final images from Earth.

CLASS I BORDERLESS NATION — My table top is lit by some makeshift candlelight. It’s black. A pile of burning what is certainly wax. It’s so I can write. Unrolling my papers, my scattered pages fall to the floor. These are my documents. The candle suffocates me with its black smoke, but it conceals the light.

A screeching interrupts my thoughts. It’s them.

This is where I am. God help us everyone. What’s happened to our world? Here is how I think we got here. This scorched hellscape. This nothing zone where plants no longer grow, and them: In Their Satanic Majesty, they soar in wicked dominion.


Here is what happened.

Evil John Lennon, man as he was, stood upright, never smoked at all, and has a proclivity for being exceptionally kind to his women and wives.

Sinister Paul. Now here was a man with his shit together. Tattooed and ugly, the “Badboy of Great Britain” Paul McCartney drank it, shot it, snorted it or worse. On his free time, he savagely tortures good souls in Hell.

Together with Rude Ringo and George “Rotten Crotch” Harrison, they wrote the number-one charting hit masterpiece “Got To Get You Into My Strife.” A fun jingle about pulling others into their dark underworld, when played backwards, its psychedelic harmonies become nightmarish spells that when heard, turned rabid fans tame, at the band’s command.

They used this to gain control of the Western Territories, decimating it as they claimed more, until so little of the nations remained, borders all but became meaningless.

Ringo said, “I should get paid for all the time I stand around, slapping my hips and my thighs, like I’m playing the drums, innit.”

John, exhaling cleaner air than what he breathed in, took off his sunglasses, and he turned to me, done signing my book.

“Next,” John said.

Even today, I crave the dismissal. I looked back at John one last time, knowing he was the Devil himself.

Paul, too. The son of a bitch that swooped down from the sky, and with his talons spread open wide swooped down, and scooped out my eyes.


I must have unlocked their powers. No, it certainly happened then. As I “sought revenge” for my ego bruising, I burst and hoped to surprise them. Hoped to catch them unawares in a playful bit of fun, just to let them know, I’m down with the Devil, and I really like their hateful style. I stopped by the party store, and picked up two cans of Silly String. What a gag!

I met them at a candlelit ritual, held every full moon. The town gathered here. As I struck out alone, deep in the forest is where first I saw it: Two flat pink ribbons, rippling in the night, sailed over me like some twirling owl.

As I got closer, the din of voices carried. Familiar voices. I crept in closer. I heard the voices of a teller, a teacher, my wife and a preacher. Not sure what that was about, it will come to me later. There! Ringo was dancing. Paul played the lute, and Linda, still missing that leg, danced. What a hoot.

I sensed an owl watching me as I approached closer, and closer to John, locked arm-in-arm with his band-mate Evil Paul, at an unbridled Satanic ritual pentagram dance. Around the candlelit center they’d go. The owl’s gaze turned, next, to them. All at once, the chanting stopped, everyone turned suddenly and they all looked at me. Heck, I like the Devil.

Surprise! I yelled, and I jumped out from a shadow. I hosed those Brits down with my silly string, blasting both at one time. Everyone turned to me, dumbfounded.

Ain’t I a stinka?

A familiar voice, the airy, nasally, unmistakable voice of John Lennon spoke to me.

“Mark David Chapman?” John asked.

I froze.

“You know me?” I said.

“Of course,” John replied. “I remember everybody I dismiss from my presence. Come here you old brute.”

He tried to pull me in for a hug, but I back away, not wanting to get silly string on my expensive 19th Century peacoat.

Being good-natured as he was, Evil John took it well enough in stride, that is until he took one step backward and – unable to see – stepped on a candle. His clothing ignited and in an instant, his entire body, including the face, was fully engulfed in flames. The fire clung to the string, and melted on his skin like a bubbling napalm jelly.

That is when Paul must have felt the calling. John turned to his songwriting partner and, burning calmly, opened his arms. They hugged. One laughed to the other, as they embraced and both started to burn.

The owl flew away.

Just like that, the party exploded into dance, and as the bodies were writhing, and as the devils came entranced, the fires of old Hell itself seemed to be rising, climbing through the dirt. A beast cried out, demonstrating the true source of thunder.


Now as I lay here suffering, waiting for the night creatures to take me, or the windstorm of bloodsands to weather down my flesh, the scene plays out, over and over again in my head. My instincts drag me to life. Meanwhile, I pray Death may snatch me from this living nightmare, cast like projections from the eyes of the Devil himself, burned onto film of the ritual fires, and rolling into me like four blurry waterfalls, peeking over the ridge.

They are still out there. I still hear their wings beating on the horizon.

They know where I am.

They hunt.

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