A Letter to Friends

Dear friends,

I write to you today in the spirit of sincere contrition. I was just informed last night that my name appears in the Epstein files. I am deeply embarrassed, both on my own behalf and on behalf of those of you - my friends and colleagues - who fear becoming tainted with the Epstein fracas by proxy. I would like to assure you all that I am very chagrined by this development and would like you all to know in no uncertain terms that I am in no way implicated by association with Jeffrey Epstein and his disgusting, amoral activities.

In order to clear my name, I need to explain how I came to be unjustly tarred by association with Epstein's clique. It all began on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday in 2011, when I stepped into a high-end bar in SoHo. (The bar also happened to be the East Coast headquarters of the Mossad, but that is not relevant to the rest of the story, and I will not be bringing it up again.) I was greeted jovially, as usual, with many of the regulars yelling out "Big Sleazy E!" (that being my nickname in the New York club scene.)

Melania Trump was seated at one of the tables; she waved at me and then beckoned me to join her. I did so, and she said "Hello, Evgen!" (She said this to me in Slovene, but she could have said it in one of the many other languages she is fluent in, having learned them in order to further her career as a high-end prostitute.)

I seated myself, and Melania and I spent some time discussing completely innocuous things, such as Slovenia, Fashion Week, the S&P500, the logistics of transporting large livestock across international borders, and the ups and downs of the prostitution industry, in which Melania was at the time employed. But eventually, a lull developed in the conversation; I took a sip of my Shirley Temple, while Melania took a puff on her cigarette, waved at one of her prostitution clients - who had just been seated at the bar - and leaned in closer. "Evgen," she said to me. "Do jou vant to yoin me for fün time this veekend?"

I thought I knew what she was referring to, and was about the excuse myself, for I have been banned from most of the Dungeons & Dragons clubs in the greater tri-state area for griefing, poor sportsmanship, and a refusal to accept the revised 1997 stats for the vulnerability of chthonic creatures to moon magic. However, Melania somehow detected what I was thinking, and clarified: "Nö, nö, iz not dat. I haff vrend I vould like jou to meet. Hiz name iz Yeffrey."

Before I knew it, I had been whisked to the 42th Street Heliport, where a vintage 1935 Yankee Clipper was waiting to take us to what the yellow press has unfairly and pruriently dubbed the Molestation Archipelago (which is in fact not an archipelago but a single island, and was in complete innocence named for the great 16th century French navigator Etienne Gaspard Marie de St. Molê et Statión.)

Our arrival at the island was delightfully festive. I was given a lei of endangered Malaysian orchids, and a commemorative ceramic beer stein in the shape of the head of Henry Kissinger (confusingly, I was also given a commemorative bong in the shape of the head of Ben Stein.)

I attended an icebreaker with Melania, during which I made many new friends, as she introduced me to a great many of her prostitution customers that she had met during her career as a prostitute. I was having a fascinating conversation with a faceless gentleman in a black robe who was telling me something about the Day of the Cull, during which the oceans will turn to ash and the stars will fall from the sky, and also about the great injustice of the Obama administration's capital gains reforms, when l I was surprised to see a fully nude Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas stroll through the room and vanish through a door labeled "Underage Sex Orgy Room."

At this point, I wish to very strongly aver that I was under the misapprehension that "Underage Sex Orgy" was some kind of board game, like a naughty version of Settlers of Catan. As I personally prefer card games and roulette, I had no interest in this putative game, and therefore did not enter the room, nor is there any evidence that I entered the room, or performed any activities in the room, of which I disclaim any and all knowledge. Again, I would like to emphasize that I do not like board games. Melania then led me to another, different room draped in red velvet tapestries and lit with great golden candelabra, as well as an ebony click that ominously tolled the hours. Jeffrey Epstein was there, seated on a Louie Quinze chair, with several [REDACTED] draped upon him, writhing erotically and [REDACTED] his [REDACTED], while enthusiastically [REDACTED]. Mr. Epstein was busy providing tax advice to P. Diddy, but he took a moment to greet me cordially and offered me a taste of the 1949 Cabernet he was sipping with a crazy straw out of a Palestinian toddler skull. I was very impressed by the vintage, and Mr. Epstein snapped his fingers and had a nude, glistening [REDACTED] bring me a skull as well.

I'm afraid that from this point downward, my recollections become somewhat hazy; I emptied my skull multiple times and also partook of several delightful truffles wrapped in gold foil and sprinkled with crystallized fent. (Which I by the way strongly recommend - it really cleans out the sinuses!) Later in the night, I also had some freshly-harvested adrenochrome injected into my pineal gland, after which I frankly cannot remember the rest of the proceedings, except for a brief visual of a nude Martha Stewart leading a blood-smeared associate Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas by a leash while [REDACTED] scattered begonia petals and chanted a strange, guttural song in a language not meant for human throats.

The next morning, I had a lovely continental breakfast, after which I thanked my host, Jeffrey Epstein (whom I found seated on a throne of skulls near the outdoor barbecue pit, providing corporate-law advice to Pope Benedict XVI) for his hospitality. I then returned to New York on the same flight as Melania Trump, who was eager to get back to the city (as she had multiple prostitution clients waiting for her services as a prostitute.)

As you can see, my interactions with Jeffrey Epstein - while unfortunate - were entirely uncontroversial and 100% ethical. I was at no time (before the recent email leaks, that is) aware of Mr. Epstein's unsavory reputation, and I never personally witnessed or participated in any [REDACTED] during my [REDACTED], nor did I have [REDACTED] of his engorged [REDACTED]. In conclusion, I would like to thank all my friends and colleagues for their continued support, and their well-founded skepticism in the face of these gross, intolerant, cancel-culture-y attempts to smear a perfectly innocent man who had done nothing more unsavory than accompany a well-respected local prostitute (AAA-rated by the Better Business Bureau!) for a relaxing weekend of spearfishing, investment advice and [REDACTED].

Thank you,

Eugene

Eugene Ipavec was born in what was at the time Yugoslavia and has lived in Orange County for the last thirty years. He has been published in the Santa Monica Review.