The Golden Boy, the Iron Cage, and the Smell of Fear!!

Jeffrey is finally behind bars at the MCC, and the Hamptons have never felt so quiet, or so profoundly nervous.
It’s a pitiful sight, really.
All that gilded wealth, the private islands, and the “important” friends have suddenly developed a severe case of collective amnesia.
Since Saturday’s arrest at Teterboro, the air in Manhattan has felt heavy, like the thick, static humidity before a storm that refuses to break.
It’s a sad little dance we’re watching: a billionaire sitting in a concrete box while his world-class social circle collectively tries to hold its breath until they turn blue.

There is something deeply fishy about the way our ruling class is reacting.
Just yesterday, he stood in court facing charges that could lock him away forever, yet his high-society “brothers” are scurrying like basement silverfish now that the light has flickered on.
The fallout is already getting messy: Labor Secretary Alex Acosta is dodging questions about that sweetheart deal from 2008, while names like Prince Andrew, Bill Clinton, and Donald Trump are being scrubbed from social circles faster than a bad Yelp review.

It’s mellow out there today, almost casual, but the subtext is striking.
These elites, the ones who lecture us on morality while hitching rides on the “Lolita Express” are holding their breath.
Whether it’s the political power of a former President or the royal immunity of a Duke, they’re all hoping this stays a one-man show.
But a Rolodex that thick, featuring the likes of Alan Dershowitz, Bill Richardson, and Les Wexner, doesn’t just disappear.
It’s pitiful to think they believed the party would never end.
I have this nagging, quirky little itch at the back of my skull that suggests Jeffrey won’t be needing his passport, or perhaps even his toothbrush, for very much longer.
This whole situation smells like a three-day-old tuna melt left in the July sun.
The ruling class is terrified of what happens if the “Golden Boy” starts talking to save his own skin.

Stay tuned. Or don’t.
Something tells me the lights in that cell might go out sooner than we think.

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