It will probably come out that some combination of opioids forever stopped Michael Jackson's heart. An accidental over-dose, an unforeen reaction - some palatable explanation that clears those around him of any responsibility, and paints him as a confused, weak, and very flawed man who turned to drugs as an escape from the pressures of celebrity.
But I am here to tell you that Michael Jackson was murdered. And I know who killed him.
Cowards, that's who - and people who worship money as their only God. People who should have cared enough for him as a person to do right by him, but in the end, cared more about themselves, and refused to do he needed them to do.
How is it that people can become so iconicly famous that those closest to them are too terrified to tell them "no"? How is it that certain celebrity can make outsiders view them not as a human being, but as a commodity and a means of self enrichment?
The people who loved Michael as only family members and extremely close friends can, just couldn't bring themselves do what was needed to end his dangerous drug addiction. An intervention, tough love - I don't know, but whatever it would have taken to get him clean. Did his fame burn so brightly that they feared being left outside its light, more than they valued his life? They enabled and supported his addiction, all the while knowing it would likely eventually kill him.
His doctors must have recognized the emotional instability that drove him to seek more and more plastic surgery, but in violation of their Hippocratic oath, they performed operation after operation. No matter that each stroke of the scalpel rendered him more cartoonish and less beautiful. The money was just too good. They enabled his obsession rather refusing to treat him and insist he get the psychological help he so obviously needed.
His personal physician, whom I'm sure facts will reveal contributed to Jackson's sudden end - even if only peripherally, should have thought more of his patient than his pocketbook, and made sure he got the medical help he required instead of the drugs he craved.
I hold these people all responsible for his death. He was a treasure, albeit a damaged one. He needed help. He got obsequience instead.
The vultures that call themselves his family, his friends, and his physicians have indeed killed their goose, the golden eggs upon which they depended are a thing of the past. I hope they're happy.