Ben Peek (benpeek) wrote,
Ben Peek
benpeek

Michael Jackson, Again

This morning, my mother came over. One of the first things she asked me if I had watched the Michael Jackson funeral.

I didn't, but she did. Apparently his coffin was golden.

Anyone else fancy a refresher course on the kind of man Michael Jackson really was? Good. Let's go back a few years....

"The accuser, now 15, remarked that 'Sometimes Michael would also give wine' to the New Jersey siblings ... which Jackson called 'Jesus Juice'." As a novelist you know a linguistic bullseye when you see it and "Jesus Juice" is just too good. It is exactly what a quasi-religious paedophile would call wine he has transferred to a Coke can and is trying to get a child to drink. When I heard that detail during the trial it literally stopped me in my tracks.

Jordy Chandler, Jackson's first accuser, gave detectives a detailed description of Jackson's genital area, including distinctive "splotches" on his buttocks and one on his penis. The boy's information was so accurate he was able to locate where the splotch moved to when Jackson's penis became erect and the fact that he was circumcised. Jackson was brought in and his genitals duly photographed. Soon after this shoot (surely one of the stranger photo sessions endured by the singer) was matched up to Chandler's description, Jackson suddenly agreed to settle Chandler's civil claim out of court for somewhere north of $20m (£12.2m).

At this juncture, some details recounted in the affidavit of Gavin Arvizo, Jackson's second accuser, are also worth remembering: "Jackson told him [Arvizo] that boys have to masturbate or they go crazy, and related a story about a boy who had sex with a dog. Jackson, he said, then told him he wanted to show him how to masturbate."

...

Let us picture what was, by all accounts – that of the staff, of the parents and siblings of various young accusers – this grown man's idea of a good time. We descend into the chilled, darkened bowels of Neverland, passing the Mickey Mouse posters, the discreet alarm systems (rigged to give advance warning of anyone approaching his chambers), we punch in the keypad security code required for access to the inner sanctum and we find the King of Pop: he lies on an enormous bed, numbed by opiates, smudged with wine or bourbon ("Jim Bean" one of the boys called it, a malapropism that might be charming in other circumstances) and surrounded by half-naked pre-pubescent boys.

A laptop is showing pornography, opened bottles of Pinot Noir and SKYY vodka are strewn around. Jackson is watching Disney's Fantasia over and over again, drifting off up to the ceiling as a wave of the Dilaudid or Demerol hits him. He cuddles the nearest boy. His newest, most special friend. The medical bag in the corner glistens darkly, filled with brown tubs of prescription candy and pre-loaded hypodermics. Man, sweet dreams for the King of Pop.


That's John Niven, giving Jackson a send off.

Link.

(crossposted)
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