Kimberly Steele

Sean Combs is a dead man in more ways than one. Not only is it highly likely he will be Epsteined soon; he has been mortified to any pursuit outside the lower astral plane for a long time. Sean Combs has managed in one short lifetime to run away from every possible instinct of human decency. Self-realization is not something he has ever tried to do. Combs is a parody of the demonic, managing Luciferianism and Ahrimanism in equal measure. In his slack jawed, dead-eyed expression, we can glimpse a reign of terror that has ruined countless lives. Like a perverse form of the Midas touch, Combs's influence has sullied whatever it could reach, including billions of ears that never got to hear beautiful, meaningful music because Sean Combs and his henchmen stood at the threshold of mass distribution. Combs was the troll that sat under the bridge, demanding flesh, blood, and tribute from all who passed.

Sean Combs represents death in yet another way: he is the endcap of a long, sordid era of what has passed for entertainment for the last 50 years. Like the former planet Pluto, Sean Combs was worshiped when he first arrived upon the scene. His rapidly shrinking clout has diminished into a descent to lowly status in a remote and warped orbit.

Omigod, Who Cares?

As someone who never cared for hip-hop, I did not know Sean Combs‘s past. Sources say he was born in the late 1960s in Harlem, making him a Gen Xer. His father was a low level drug dealer who died when Sean was two years old. His mother, who was not a woman of means, allegedly sacrificed and hustled in order to put her son into an elite Catholic school. Between his grandmother and his mother Janice, legend has it that the two were able to see Sean through to Howard University. Combs quit Howard U after two years, when it became apparent he was destined for success in the entertainment industry. Like his father before him, he became involved in drugs and drug deals. He always had a flair for predatory capitalism until the day it circled around to royally bite him in the ass.

From the very beginning, it seems Sean Combs had a monstrous ego. He earned the nickname Puffy supposedly because he puffed out his chest in order to appear larger. Anger is often the marker of subconscious fear, and I hypothesize that Sean Combs has lived a life of suppressed terror. In the early days, his ambition to become popular was such that he hosted college parties that regularly drew 1000 people. He was very good at posturing. Via elite trappings and compulsive name changes, Combs managed to convince himself and others that he was a star. He won three Grammys for absolutely nothing, with his most famous number featuring him whining/mumbling to the riff from the Police's Every Breath You Take. One listen to any of Combs's "songs" at it becomes apparent that his intelligence is mostly entrepreneurship, theft, and low cunning and not music in any way, shape, or form. It hardly mattered; he had thirst, and in the late 20th century, thirst mattered a great deal more than musicianship... Example A, Madonna. Driving his stardom was a pathological need to spread himself around and the urge to run like hell from the terror of honestly facing and processing his own sins.

Combs himself once said the only end for a drug dealer was either death or prison. He has ended up with the letter option. For Combs, being reduced to lowly prisoner status was a fate worse than death. I speculate this little chunk of jail time only the first consequence in a banquet that will spread across multiple lifetimes for him, but of course I could be wrong, and I cannot bring myself to care about his suffering. He made his 50 foot bed. There are rumors that his prison guards chuckle as the once high and mighty mogul has to make the awful choice between eating feces-laden food or starving to death. It’s a known fact that pedophiles and rapists are shown no mercy in prison, and Sean Combs apparently ticks both boxes.

So how did he get here? Well, it did not happen quickly. Combs was untouchable for 30 years. He became a household name in the 1990s, when a much younger Jennifer Lopez, who had yet to take on the obnoxious J Lo moniker, clawed her way to Hollywood relevance by riding around as Sean Combs’s arm candy. Combs made a splash by exploiting artists who had what he lacked: talent. Combs used the power of rivalry, exploiting gangland scandals in order to inflate his own image and to create free publicity. When Combs was unable to use the talents of artists who he wished to subordinate, he (allegedly) had them assassinated and then bragged about it. To an outsider like myself, the assassinations of Tupac Shakur and the Notorious B.I.G. looked like the typical Chicago gang crapshow only writ larger and with more money. Such things would have merely been a blip on my personal radar, but Combs was so good at what he did, he managed to infect every single part of musical entertainment with his own personal vision and model of fame. Not for a minute did hip-hop and its extortion/gangland business models stay within its lane. Anyone who remembers hip-hop and rap from the 1980s probably recalls how humorous, witty, and downright intelligent it was, despite its cheesy sounds and low budget origins. Fossils like myself remember when musical entertainers knew how to be humble. Sean Combs's vision ended all of that. Hip-hop and wrap that brought over the top egomania and drama to the most average of artists.

He Interrupted White Female Artists Before It Was Cool...

I remember when Ol' Dirty Bastard interrupted folk pop singer Sean Colvin's time when she won a Grammy for Sunny come home. Colvin, crowded out of her brief accolade for her one hit wonder, was forced to defer as the entitled, drug-addled ODB stole the spotlight, mentioning that he deserved the award more than Diddy who had won moments before. Before Kanye commandeered Taylor Swift's award in 2009, the dead-in-2004 ODB preceded him to mutter and grumble about whatever boring inanity was going on in his own flustercluck hip-hop world world.

White girl Colvin’s stolen moment became a microcosm of American music, which morphed into an extremely specific set of images depicting a warped version of dominant American blackness. Just as American movies came to be inundated by overblown production and superheroes and princesses rehashed for the umpteenth time, American music became ALL BEYONCÉ ALL THE TIME. The foundation of this so-called black culture was a propensity to whine. Black genres that had once proliferated a variety of styles from heavy metal to old-school wrap to ethereal jazz, narrowed down to a constant regurgitation of three to four pet themes:

1) Narcissistic sexuality.
2) Narcissistic unneeded wealth.
3) Narcissistic egomania/ I’m better than you.
4) Narcissistic drug use/drug violence.

Every single song by every single rap or hip-hop artist for 30 years revolved exclusively around these three or four themes. The syndrome was so pervasive, it infected songs well outside of its genre and is still robust to this day. One only needs to examine the pop crews of lily white banker's daughter and billionaire Taylor Swift to find at least three out of four of these themes at work in every single heavily co-written and co-produced song.

Ironically, it is said that Beyoncé is so insecure that she demands tribute from other artists whenever they win music awards. The artists must say "this award is owed to Beyoncé" while onstage accepting their Grammy/MTV Music Award/Whatever or she will have a hit put out on them. Conspiracy theory has it that the insufferable wretch was responsible for the premature deaths of Michael Jackson and Aaliyah. Neither artist thanked Beyoncé for their various accolades, at least not publicly. It does seem kind of odd that many artists, including Adele and Lizzo, randomly thanked Beyoncé at awards shows as if she was some kind of deity. Who's the fairest of them all????

Little did I or any normie know that Sean Combs sat atop one of the mightiest and worst astral pyramids: the popular culture casting couch. I labored under the delusion that entertainment still contained some remnants of meritocracy until I was at least 40. Boy, was I wrong.

There is no merit left in any form of mass media entertainment. None. Zero. The reason is simple: all of Hollywood, all music moguls, all politicians, and all media pundits are either sick, murderous pedo perverts or have been compromised at events thrown by sick, murderous pedo perverts. The entire system is based on honey traps, blackmail, and debasement. There is no getting around it and becoming a household name: these two things do not coexist.

Sean Combs had no musical talent. His expertise was in blackmail. Sean Combs is like his friend and likely romantic partner Jay Z -- neither have the musical talent the gods gave a vacuum cleaner. All of the king's horses and all the king's men could not convince the world that Sean Combs and Jay Z had any artistry between them. Their creativity seems to have been confined to coming up with clever ways to overpower and rape other human beings.

Float Like a Butterfly

Case after case continues to surface as avenger-lawyer Tony Buzbee cherry picks from likely thousands of choices of Sean Comb's horrific assaults on women, men, and children. The stories are beyond grotesque. Sean Combs allegedly promised a 9 year old a record deal and then raped him in the recording studio. He drugged and violently raped a woman with a TV remote control for daring to insinuate in an overheard phone conversation that he had some other rapper killed. He then proceeded to have his goons gang rape her until she almost died. Rumor has it that Sean Combs lusted after Justin Bieber shortly after his adolescent Youtube debut. After allegedly grooming and serially raping Usher at the age of 15, Combs orchestrated the grooming and eventual capture of teenaged Bieber, eventually brutally initiating the naive kid in a 48 hour marathon session of depravity.

All of the above seems like conjecture until one realizes the mammoth pile of evidence, including no less than 120 plaintiffs in Buzbee's stable as the onslaught against the former Diddler mounds.

Combs has a pattern that involves drugging with spiked drinks and trank-laced baby oil, assault and gang rape, and either leaving the victim for dead or so brutalized they require an IV drip from loss of bodily fluids. The woman he raped with a television remote lost all bowel and urinary control according to her affadavit. Combs also likes to threaten peoples' families, and he does this in retaliation to hurt fee-fees.

One wonders where Combs possibly got his mostly homosexual rage. He is still a momma's boy, and it is interesting as well a bit suspect to witness his ongoing relationship with his mother Janice, who defends him as innocent. I suppose if I was a mother, I would not want to face having given birth to an alleged psychopathic rapist. I believe Combs was abused during his education at the Bronx all boy's Catholic school Mount Saint Michael Academy. The school had its fair share of pederast scandals in the 1980s, plus one Reverend Bernard Lynch who was brought up on charges of molesting a student that he claimed made a pass at him first. Gross. The school has had various complaints since then, including a priest named Brother Lee who allegedly abused a 15 year old boy and an assistant principal who was thrown in jail for his large kiddie porn collection. Overall, there seems to be no shortage of scandals at Mt. St. Michael. Perhaps Combs was diddled at the Academy. Maybe he was diddled elsewhere. Or maybe his rage sprang organically with no origin story at all. At any rate, Sean Combs was a sick, twisted serial rapist and killer with no sense of proportion.

Chicken or Egg?

When a man sits atop a great astral pyramid, there is the question of who exactly birthed that pyramid. Combs did not originate the casting couch/kompromat model even if he did perfect it. The casting couch/kompromat pyramid was not new in the era of Babylon. The novel part here is the discovery of the type of person it takes to begin such a pyramid: the non-artist. The non-artist may be good at many things, but art is not one of them. Most non-artists are content to appreciate and consume art. The sweetest and most earnest of non-artists are the fans who use the artist's oeuvre to study and eventually become great artists themselves. Not every non-artist can show that kind of patience or discipline, and of course humans being human, you are always going to have some non-artists who allow their jealousy of artists to make them insane. In the case of a Tony Mottola, Clive Davis, Jeffrey Epstein, Harvey Weinstein, or Sean Combs, the jealous non-artists uses their clout and massive unearned wealth to lord over the artists as gatekeepers. On the surface, the trade might look like a simple one: the artist trades sexual favors (and potentially marriage) for great commercial success. If only it were that simple! The jealousy of non-artists is so horrid, it regularly drives the ones with money and power to enslave and destroy the artists they keep. For Sean Combs, it was not enough to roofie a young person and rape them a la Bill Cosby or Roman Polanski. No, from the looks of things, Combs drugged his guests and then had pedophile orgies that involved animals, the ingestion of vomit, blood, and feces, foster children supplied by CPS as "party favors" and infant sacrifice. Epstein may or may not have gone as far: he seems to have had a Peter Nygard/John of God style baby farm at his Zorro Ranch location.

The jealous non-artist is a type of vampire who seeks to feed on the artist's etheric energy. The reason vampires of this sort like them young is because young people skew etherically male and so do artistic types. Artists are often stereotyped as long haired and girlish because long hair and femininity are both outward signs of etheric maleness. Physically, we are usually the opposite sex of our etheric bodies. By building an empire on the etheric, the vampire becomes physically stronger and far more empowered to amass wealth by hijacking the artist's charisma. By taking the artist's etheric maleness, the vampire creates the glamour of having the astral equivalent of a big dick.

Though I fully intended everything Diddy to fit in a single essay, it is clear to me that I feel compelled to take a deeper dive into the rabbit hole. Thank you for your patience as I look forward to sharing my further meditations upon this subject with you.