Sean “Diddy” Combs (Pt. 2): The Explicit Story Behind the Indictments
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This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. On September 16th, 2024, federal authorities charged Sean Diddy Combs with sex trafficking, racketeering conspiracy, and transportation to engage in prostitution. Combs pleaded not guilty to all these charges and is currently, at the time of this recording, behind bars awaiting trial.

These federal charges were preceded by a lawsuit brought against Combs in November of 2023 by his former girlfriend, Cassie Ventura. The Ventura lawsuit alleged sexual assault and physical abuse charges as well. Combs settled this lawsuit within days, setting off a wave of similar lawsuits from different victims, male and female, alleging abuse. Combs denies all of these allegations.

The horrific details in this episode are not imagined or manufactured by the author. They are ripped directly from the pages of the federal indictment as well as from the original Ventura indictment. Again, all charges denied by Sean Combs. The federal allegations will be litigated in court sometime in 2025. Until then, this is the story of Sean Combs, according to some of his alleged victims and biographers. Mellotron.

This is a story about disgrace. The ultimate disgrace. About a gangster born from another gangster. About a murder. A stampede. An incredible rise to success and power. About indictments and abuse and control. This is a story about Sean Diddy Combs.

And, depending on who you believe, either his girlfriend or his victim, Cassie Ventura. It's also a story about music, or about a music mogul. A music mogul who made a lot of money off of some great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show. That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Mellotron called Do The Astro Slide MK1.

I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift. And why would I play you that specific slice of basic AF cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on November 23rd, 2023. And that was the day Cassie Ventura filed a lawsuit against Sean Diddy Combs, alleging rape and abuse and setting off a legal nightmare for the hip-hop mogul. On this episode...

Gangsters, murder, indictments, abuse, control, and the ultimate disgrace, Sean Diddy Combs. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. You're born in Harlem in 1969.

You don't know him, but the world is on fire. In the ghetto, where you live, is on America's pay no mind list. Your father, he takes work as a driver for the notorious gangster, Frank Lucas. Yes, that Frank Lucas. The one Denzel Washington would later portray an American gangster. For a minute there, or so the story goes, your family's doing okay. And then the heat comes down, and your father is forced to snitch.

That doesn't go so well. Your dad is gunned down. The streets know where the bullet came from, and the streets know why. Gangster drivers who get all loose-lipped with the feds don't last long in Harlem. Neither do you and your mom. She moves you both 10 miles north to Mount Vernon, far enough from the city to have some sort of normalcy, but close enough to feel its pull when the suburban boredom sets in. Boyhood is tough, but not as tough as it would have been in Harlem.

Your mom gets by as a single mother. You get by on your mom's hustle and your daddy's charm. But whatever this life is, as you hit adolescence, it's clear to you that it's not enough. You aspire to more. You put your mother's hustle and your father's charm to work. In college, at Howard University, you throw parties. Massive parties. One such party results in a stampede. Nine people die. Somehow, you get away with it.

You drive harder into the paint with your career. You promote hip-hop and R&B artists for Andre Harrell's Uptown Records, Mary J. Blige, Jodeci. Soon, however, Andre gets an idea in his head. He thinks your ego is growing out of control. He fires you. It doesn't matter. You have an ace up your sleeve, the notorious B.I.G., a heavyweight talent from Brooklyn whose first record you stake your career on.

It works. Biggie Smalls' debut, "Ready to Die," is a massive hit.

So is your new record label, Bad Boy. You, your label, and your talent are controversial for many reasons. The critics think your production is whack. Beef is the order of the day. The media blows it all out of proportion. Your loudmouth friend, the beautiful and talented Tupac Shakur, makes an enemy of you and Biggie. Tupac has gone down. And then, so has Biggie.

Still, you take all of it in stride. You release your own album. Now you're the star. Your debut single goes to number one. Your debut album debuts at number one. A first for a hip-hop record. You cannot stop it.

Success as a talent promoter, success as a label head, then as a star. You spin it all into more success. As an actor, as a television producer, you start a clothing line, a vodka brand, a television network. By the year 2022, you're a billionaire and your hustle never stops. All the while, you've worked hard, but you played even harder. You heard the stories. Back when you were coming up,

The men who knew your father cursed Frank Lucas, the man believed to be responsible for your dad's death. And they praised his rival Harlem gangster, Nicky Burns.

Unlike Frank, who patterned himself after a boring boardroom executive, Nikki had style. Nikki rocked a different tailored suit every night of the week. Floor-length furs, luxury cars, a fleet of luxury cars, multiple homes, and multiple apartments scattered about the city, each for a different woman.

Nicky was a gangster, sure, but he was also on the cover of the New York Times Magazine, decked out in his finest swag, looking like the motherfucking pimp king hustler that he was born to be. He loved the image because you were born to be a gangster, born to be a pimp king hustler as well. So you co-opted Nicky's image for your own.

And when you finally made it, when they let you in, into the private corridors of power, where the whispers became a little more full-throated, where the man who pulled the strings dished on how the real players let off steam, you were all ears. Alan Carr was a talent guy turned producer, just like you, but from back in the 70s, and his parties were still being talked about.

Everyone got laid at Allen's parties. Didn't matter if you were openly gay like Allen or a gangster like Nicky Barnes. Didn't matter if you were Rod Stewart or Rod Steiger, Diana Ross or David Geffen. The debauchery at Allen's Hollywood home parties was everywhere. The muscle-bound men, different kinds of hustlers than the ones you were familiar with.

Legend was that Allen had him bust in. A-listers, pool boys, starlets, whatever kind of sex you wanted, it was there for you at Allen's. Because if you were at Allen's, you'd earned it. You were in the entertainment business, and you were ascending. Some took it too far. When you're afforded that type of pleasure, when whatever you want is available to you whenever you want it, how do you draw the line? ♪

The internationally famous Russian ballet dancer Rudolf Nureyev had no line. In Hollywood, in 1974, he was being feted. Alan Carr was going to make sure Nureyev had whatever he desired at his party. So right there at Alan's, out in the pool house, while the party swung in that west coast summer breeze easy kind of way,

while Mick Jagger talked up Sidney Poitier by the pool, while Alice Cooper and Salvador Dali shared a joint off the patio, watching Mae West sip her cocktail. With Joan Didion and Dominic Dunn watching it all, Rudolf Nureyev's screams of ecstasy gave Al and Kara's outdoor sound system a run for its money.

As you heard the story years later, those moans came from the pool house where, outside, a line of 25 hustlers waited to take on Nureyev inside. Word was, the ballet dancer had them all in succession that afternoon, while the drinks and the gossip spilled out by the pool in equal measure, all nonchalant-like. That kind of hedonism was next level.

Alan Carr, Nicky Barnes, hell, even Bill Clinton. That dude got his in the White House while married. America found out and dude was like, yeah, so what? I'm the first black president. The fuck are you going to do about it? And he got away with it. Okay, that's not exactly how it went down, but in retrospect, it might as well have been. At the end of the day, Bill Clinton was gangster.

You were a gangster as well. And you saw yourself in the same light as you saw those other gangsters. Bill Clinton, Nicky Barnes, Alan Carr. Your parties would be just as legendary. Your parties would be just as hedonistic. You and your ascendant A-list friends from the world of entertainment would also have whatever you desire. Half a million dollars. That was the cost of the party.

Well, for most of it anyway. And most of that money went toward the build-out. And most of that build-out went toward the mirrors. Mirrors on the walls, all of them, and on the ceilings.

And when the herbs split around midnight, and the freaks came out, and the strippers turned into sex workers, and when the party favors arrived, and when the drugs kicked in, and when the heat in the house was literally turned up, and when the sweat started to glisten under the strobes, and when the clothes just started to fall off, and the bodies started to stick together on the dance floor,

It would just start to happen naturally for you, for your friends, A-listers and comers alike, hangers-on and even family, whoever. Who are you to judge? You earned your hedonism, just like the gangsters before you. This was your time, your chance to get your freak off.

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Hey, discos, if you want more Disgraceland, be sure to listen every Thursday to our weekly after-party bonus episode, where we dig deeper into the stories we tell in our full weekly episodes. In these after-party bonus episodes, we dive into your voicemails and texts, emails, and DMs,

and discuss your thoughts on the wild lives and behavior of the artists and entertainers that we're all obsessed with. So leave me a message at 617-906-6638, disgracelandpod at gmail.com or at disgracelandpod on the socials, and join the conversation every Thursday in our after-party bonus episode.

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It was disgusting. Blood, feces, semen stains. Cleaners used a blacklight to spot the unseen, settled grime. It was everywhere. On the walls, on the floors, even on the ceiling. Your parties, freak-offs as you called them, as your staff called them as well, were a mess to clean up. And if you were being honest, they were a bitch to put on.

A lot of work went into them. All of it seemed like a Herculean effort just to get off. But that was your new reality. Being the gangster pimp king hustler that you now were. Your line had been pushed so far that your freak-offs were the only way you could satisfy yourself. Sex with multiple women at once, and with men as well. And increasingly, you taking care of yourself while you watched other men have sex with other men. And with your woman.

She was beautiful and talented. Cassie Ventura, just 19 when you met her. You were 37. You put her on the fast track at Bad Boy. Bad Boy was a machine. Plug in the talent and the machine would do the rest. Fame hit Cassie so quick. To her, it was like she'd become a different person entirely. Who was this new pop star staring back at her in the mirror? And how had she gone from a random club girl trying to get the DJ to spin her single to a billboard charting artist in just seven short months?

Her talent had a lot to do with it, but her boyfriend, being one of the most powerful entities in the music industry, also helped. However, flexing your power came with a price. You were not a stupid man. You weren't going to make Cassie a star without getting what you wanted in return. There were rules. Actually,

there was only one real rule. And it was this: You controlled everything. And not just when it came to Cassie's career. You controlled her personal life as well. Where she lived, how she traveled, who she traveled with, what she drove, what doctor she saw. Hell, you even had her doctor send over her medical records for you to review. You paid for her apartments. One in Manhattan within walking distance of your place and another in LA also close by your home.

You paid for her car, for her food, for her makeup, her clothes, and in effect, the money you provided along with your position as head of the record label that employed Cassie Ventura. In totality, you controlled her life entirely.

You made sure the drugs you took were the drugs she took. By this point, you were addicted to prescription painkillers, so you instructed your staff to keep pills readily available for you wherever you went. And you took them at all times, especially when you drank. So when Cassie drank, you made her take the pills as well.

Drugs and alcohol were a must during the freak-offs. And now you were hosting mini-freak-offs. And they were easier to pull off than the major bashes with hundreds of sex freaks. You could host a mini-freak-off at a hotel on the fly while you were traveling, and the cleanup would be minimal compared to hosting at your home. Cassie would later allege that her participation at these mini-FOs, as you were now calling them, was mandatory.

Increasingly, for you, watching your beautiful girlfriend perform sexually with other men was what did it for you the most. And as others have claimed, the men had to be of a certain type. Big, black, and massively endowed.

Cassie did what she was told. What else was she gonna do? It's not like she had a choice. You were in control, as a gangster pimp king hustler should be, and as Cassie Ventura now claims. You even had her source the hustlers from various websites, and had her work with your staff to arrange for the hustlers to travel to your homes and to various hotels where you were now hosting these mini-freak-offs, effectively forcing your girlfriend into sex trafficking, or so the allegations state.

Cassie claims that for a period of your relationship, you insisted on a freak-off every week. You Svengali'd these affairs in their entirety, insisting Cassie search for the Hustlers online using the search term "large black penises" and also insisting Cassie paint her nails white to better contrast against the color of the Hustlers big black... Well, you get the picture.

Sometimes, the freak-offs lasted for days. The drugs, the alcohol, and the copious amounts of Astroglad kept it all humming. But now, this particular mini-freak-off was nearly over, and you'd taken care of yourself for a final time, and were now insisting that Cassie continue with one of the male sex workers. She was going through the motions, and so was he.

You didn't care. The only way you were getting what you wanted now was to make sure your girlfriend kept having sex and remained distracted. Which was what was happening. At least that's what Cassie alleges. Claiming that that's when you went through her bag. And then her phone. And just as you suspected, there were messages from another dude. Another musician. The rage hit you like an ice pick, slowly piercing your skull, but somehow, in the moment, you swallowed it. And you kept it buried.

For a little while anyway. January, 2009. Los Angeles. This party sucked. It was nothing like the parties you threw. Alan Carr would have been bored, that's for sure. You watched Cassie from across the room. Who was she talking to? Another music manager? Why? What the fuck was she talking to that dude for? She had a manager. You. You ran her career. She was yours. Why the fuck was she talking to that dude?

In the Escalade, on the ride home from the lamest party you'd been to in a long time, Cassie had no answers. That's when the rage reappeared. That feeling in your skull was too much. As Cassie Ventura would later allege, you then assaulted her, pushing her onto the floor of the SUV and kicking her viciously, stomping on her face. Your bodyguard attempted to break it up as your driver wheeled up to your home, but there was no stopping you.

You threw her out of the truck and continued beating her, kicking her in the face over and over and over again. Cassie's blood was everywhere. Your security brought her inside where she promptly vomited repeatedly from the shock of the beating. Cassie's face was, well, destroyed is how it appeared. You couldn't have that. You checked her into a hotel to heal and had your staff bury her with gifts, flowers, luxury items of all sorts, jewelry, clothes, etc.,

In time, you figured she'd forgive you and come back. What the fuck else was she gonna do? Give us some context on what we're about to see.

he means on what we're about to hear. - This is incredibly disturbing. - Disturbing. - She claimed in her lawsuit that she was physically assaulted by Diddy. Got our hands on that surveillance footage. It appears to corroborate Cassie's claims identically. - Video captured on multiple cameras. - Cameras, cameras. - Showed Combs wearing only a towel. Combs became extremely intoxicated. - A heartless ventura in the face, giving her a black eye.

she grabbed her and then took glass vases in the hallway

-Kicks her twice. -Kicks her twice. -Well, the video is out of the statute of limitations. The statute of limitations in California for a simple assault is a year. For a domestic violence assault, it was three years. They've moved that up to five years. But this is out of range for a state charge in California. However, let's get back to that federal investigation.

You couldn't believe it. She brought charges. Charges. Against you. You made her. Who the fuck was she? Didn't she know who you were? After all you'd done for her, now this?

But you had to admire her hustle. She had you by the balls whether you liked it or not. After all this time together, she knew too much. She'd seen too much. Hell, maybe she even had other evidence. Tapes. You didn't have time now to worry about the tapes. You had to pay her to shut her up. But that meant paying her to go away.

30 million. 30 mil for a piece of ass. Still wasn't the most expensive piece of ass you've ever had, that was for sure. When you added up all the sunk costs, Kim cost more. J-Lo maybe too in other ways. But again, you couldn't think those thoughts now. You had to move forward. Gangsters don't let women break their stride or slow them down. And that's when it hit you. That big, immovable wall. The crushing force of public opinion.

We'll be right back after this word, word, word.

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The setup was perfect. Cassie would later allege in her indictment that you had a patsy do the deed. Total deniability. Nothing could come back on you if he were caught in the act. He was a slippery fuck though, so you weren't worried about him getting caught creeping. He knew the neighborhood well, even if he didn't know the target.

The target sat in his living room with his boys doing who knows what kind of lame-ass bullshit. Who hangs out with just other dudes on a Saturday night? Losers. That's who. What she saw in this guy, you had no idea. Kid Cudi. He wasn't good-looking, that's for sure. And his music sucked.

Day and night? The fuck was that? Your drugged up security guard could have come up with that hook. And he barely had any bread, compared to you anyway. He did have a nice car, a beautiful new Porsche. He loved that car, which is why you had your guy creeping up on it, unbeknownst to Cuddy, right now. Your guy walked softly into Cuddy's driveway, took his knife, and drew a long slit into the ragtop roof.

Then, the lighter igniting the oily rag that was peeking out of the bottle was the only sound your guy made before dropping the Molotov cocktail into the front seat of Kid Cudi's Porsche before. You still laughed at the thought of Cudi inside, freaking out. Jumping into the lap of his stoned friend, dropping the gaming controller or whatever the hell else his lame ass was holding onto at the moment.

He wasn't holding your girl, and he wouldn't be ever again. That was the point. That's why you had to tell Cassie. You had to tell her it was you who blew up her side piece's car. It was the only way for her to learn. There was no leaving you. Even if you were broken up, she should fucking anything twice before running into the arms of another man. As always, it was about control.

Cassie had none. Which is why she ran to an attorney to make those claims in the first place. Which is why you shelled out that 30 mil to shut her up. But where you messed up was thinking that the money wouldn't matter. 30 million. It might not be shit to a gangster like yourself, but to others...

After you settle the lawsuit with Cassie in November of 2023, two more women quickly come forward in two separate lawsuits alleging sexual assault. Your attorney claims the allegations are false. But this isn't good. The news of Cassie's lawsuit plus these two new ones turns up the heat. You can feel public opinion turning on you. You're forced to step down as chairman of your cable television network, Revolt.

A week later, another woman brings another lawsuit. This one claiming you and two other men raped her when she was just 17. You should have never settled with Cassie. Now everyone is looking for a payday.

You're forced to take to Instagram and issue a statement denying the allegations from all of the lawsuits that spring up after Cassie saying, quote, "I did not do any of the awful things being alleged. I will fight for my name, my family, and for the truth," unquote. The post cools things off for a bit. You try to get back to your business as the holidays come and go. 2023 turns into 2024.

And then in February, your budding protege, producer Rodney "Little Rod" Jones files his own lawsuit with allegations that reinforce and expand upon the behavior alleged in the previous lawsuits. Jones wants what Cassie got, $30 million, and his indictment sings in a way that the others do not. The details are shocking. Jones claims that he's a heterosexual Christian man, but that you corrupted him.

that you made him the, quote, victim of constant unsolicited and unauthorized groping and touching of his anus, unquote. Jones goes on to claim that you groomed him and that you promised him that if he had sex with another producer friend of yours, Stephen Aaron Jordan, a.k.a. Stevie J, that he, Rod, Lil' Rod Jones, would win a Grammy.

Rod's allegations captivate the public's attention in a way that the previous lawsuits failed to. The 75-page complaint alleges not only sexual abuse, but goes into detail about the freak-offs and makes the explosive claim that, quote, Mr. Jones possesses compromising footage of every person that has attended his freak-off parties and house parties. There it is. The tapes.

The internet goes berserk with rumors. The public knows about your legendary parties. You're on the record bragging about them numerous times over the past two decades. We need alcohols. If you don't have what they need, they're going to leave. Right. Got to keep them there. Right. You need locks on the doors. This is sounding kind of dangerous now. It's a little kinky. Yeah, yeah. Check it out. You need a lot of heat.

Heat affects the alcohol, and it also affects, like, you know, everybody gets a little bit more comfortable and loose. It fills up a nice little sweat. That just sounds disgusting. What are you doing? It depends on the way you look at it. This isn't good. Your whole brand is that of the sexy hip-hop mogul party guy. Jones' allegations fit too perfectly.

Public opinion swings hard against you. Even though you deny everything in Rod Little Rod Jones' indictment, saying through your attorney that Jones is just a liar who is, quote, "...shamelessly looking for an undeserved payday," unquote. And that Jones' reckless name-dropping about events that are pure fiction and simply did not happen is nothing more than a transparent attempt to garner headlines.

Your lawyer goes on to say, We have overwhelming, indisputable proof that his, Jones' claims are complete lies. Our attempts to share this proof with Mr. Jones' attorney have been ignored. We will address these outrageous allegations in court and take all appropriate action against those who make them.

But the denial does next to nothing to dissuade the public's growing opinion of you as some sort of Frankenstein version of Jeffrey Epstein, Harvey Weinstein, and Bill Cosby. And the internet turns its attention to the tapes. Who do you have compromising footage of? Which celebrities? Jennifer Lopez? Beyonce? LeBron?

What? When? Where? With whom? Were there cameras in all the bedrooms? In the bathrooms? Did anyone else know about the cameras? How many years have you been filming your parties? Your freak-offs? A treasure trove of footage? That's what Rod Little Rod Jones is alleging you have. On who? And why? For blackmail purposes? Why would you blackmail anyone? You're just a musician, an entertainer. When you got right down to it, just a song and dance man. From the hood, sort of. Via the burbs. But still, maybe you needed protection. Maybe you learned your lesson way back in the day.

That it didn't matter who you worked with or who you worked for. Could be any old gangster. Could be Alan Carr. Could be Bill Clinton. It could be Nicky Barnes or it could be Frank Lucas. No matter who it was, you were all alone. They'd sell you out and you'd end up dead in the front seat of your boss's car just like your old man did. You needed some sort of insurance. The tapes. The tapes. The tapes. It was all about the tapes.

Bye.

The tape had to be leaked, and it had to be the feds who leaked it. After all these allegations, the women who were alleging you drugged and raped them, the fact that you settled with Cassie, Little Rod's heinous claims about you. After all this, and you were still a free man, off in your private jet somewhere. It was too much. The public wanted your head on a spit.

The public wanted some accountability. That's one theory of why the video of you beating Cassie was leaked. The other theory is that there were powerful people on those tapes of yours. And those people were worried about the tapes coming out.

And that in the disappearing days of 2024 electoral politics, while those people still had some juice left with the previous, then current, administration and thus influence over those in power in the federal government, that those people wanted the tapes buried.

Leaking the video of you beating the unholy hell out of Cassie Ventura would give the government the roar of public opinion that they needed to perhaps influence a judge to sign a search warrant, which would allow them to raid your homes to retrieve the tapes. Your attorneys later alleged that it was the Department of Homeland Security that leaked the heinous video that would justify federal authorities doing whatever they wanted with you.

Law enforcement sources are telling ABC News that right now authorities are carrying out searches at properties associated with P. Diddy.

that an arrest does not appear to be imminent at this time. Live video of one of these searches being conducted. Sean Diddy Combs, Los Angeles, Texas, in the Beverly Hills area. Another search being conducted on the other side of the country in Miami. Multiple allegations against Sean Diddy Combs over the years. Multiple allegations against Sean Diddy Combs over the years. Human trafficking allegations.

Human trafficking. The women who have made public accusations against Diddy are welcoming Monday's law enforcement activity, we're told. In fact, there is a statement from one of their lawyers where they're saying we will always support law enforcement when it seeks to prosecute those who have violated the law. The beginning of a process that will hold Mr. Clems responsible for what they call his depraved conduct.

Cashmere loved her job at the booby trap on the river. The strip club was just 8 miles from Star Island, and Star Island was the home of Sean "Diddy" Combs. When Diddy was in town, which was often, his friend, some called him Diddy's drug mule, Brendan Paul, would come in and round up Cashmere and some of her coworkers for an after-party at Diddy's. For Cashmere, Sean Combs was a recession buster.

2024 at the Booby Trap was no gold rush. The economy, even in Miami, was taking a hit. Sure, on a good night, especially during football season, a girl could walk out with at least a grand, sometimes a lot more. But on a slow night, Kashmir would be lucky to take home a hundred bucks, sometimes less. Often a dancer on a slow night would wind up losing money. New outfits weren't cheap, and neither was makeup.

So the parties at Diddy's house, despite the work you had to do and the amount of drugs you had to take, went a long way in paying the bills for Kashmir and some of the other girls down at the booby trap. And that's why the girls snapped to attention whenever Diddy's mule walked through the club's doors. They were always on the lookout for him, especially on slow nights, which tonight most definitely was.

But Diddy's mule, Brendan Paul, wasn't walking through the booby-trapped door on that early evening on March 25th, 2024 or anytime soon. Because he was in handcuffs at Opa-locka Airport.

busted for cocaine and marijuana-laced candy, while attempting to fly out of the country on Sean Combs' private jet alongside Diddy, who listened intently to his lawyer on the other end of his cell phone, who was filling him in on everything he knew about the raids that had just happened at both his Star Island Miami and Los Angeles homes. No, you weren't being arrested. No, he didn't know what exactly had been seized just yet. Yes, he let you know everything as soon as he had information. No.

"No, Miami PD, we're not going to detain you for Brendan's drugs. Just Brendan. Yes, you can leave the country now, if possible, while you are still a free man." When the news of the twin raids on Sean Combs' home broke, so did the internet. In 2024, during a year of nearly nonstop wild news stories, in March, Sean Diddy Combs was the biggest story on the planet. Was he guilty? Did he do the heinous crimes that were being alleged?

If he didn't, why did he settle with Cassie? What about the video of him beating her senseless? And if he was innocent, why was he now on a private jet flying to Antigua? What exactly happened during the raids? What did the feds seize? Did they get the tapes? What was on the tapes? Who was on the tapes? How many A-list celebrities attended those ditty parties?

Amid all the internet conjecture, all the rumors, all the gossip, all the conspiracy theories, there was also Sean Diddy Combs in his own words on video damning himself with the obvious for being the gangster pimp king hustler that he was. If you don't have what they need, they're going to leave. Right. Got to keep them there. Right. You need locks on the doors.

Later that night, Kashmir sat backstage at the booby trap, running her meager stack of cash through the counting machine. She didn't know why she even bothered. Counting out $43 in ones did not require mechanical assistance. It was more out of habit. When she was done, she leaned back in her chair and allowed herself to get sucked into her phone like the rest of the world at the moment, curious to know what was happening with the world's biggest gangster pimp king hustler, Sean Diddy Combs.

She scrolled up into a TikTok video of Diddy from 1999 with a title promising, Proof, Diddy has always been a diddler. The Entertainment Tonight interviewer in the TikTok video invites Diddy to comment saying, Your parties are the hottest ticket around. The gangster pimp king hustler responds prophetically with, You're gonna hear about my parties. They're gonna be shutting them down. They're probably gonna be arresting me. Doing all types of crazy things just cause we wanna have a good time.

Sean Diddy Combs, even way back in 1999, the ultimate disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this episode of Disgraceland is to be continued.

All right, guys, it bears repeating. Sean Diddy Combs denies every single allegation that has been put forth about him. Just wanted to restate that right here. All right, thank you for checking out this episode of Disgraceland. Obviously, there is a lot more to get into with the Sean Combs story, and I plan on doing just that with our continuation of this Diddy saga coming in the next few weeks. So many questions, right? But...

What is our question this week? I want to ask you guys a simple one. Do you believe that Sean Combs is guilty of the horrible abuse detailed in these indictments? Let me know if you do or do not and why. And I want your ditty theories, okay? Hit me up. Let me know. 617-906-6638. Leave me a voicemail. Send me a text. And you can also reach me at DisgracelandPod on Instagram, Facebook, X. Leave a review for the show on Apple Podcasts or Spotify and win some free merch. I'm out of here. Here's some credits.

Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com membership.

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He's a bad boy.