Tuesday, December 12, 2023

Gay couple making snuff flicks and child porn of children FOR YEARS


In mid-October, on Friday the 13th, the "house of horrors" where a wealthy Georgia gay couple allegedly "routinely" raped two special-needs little boys they had adopted through the local child-welfare system was opened to the public for an estate sale.


The adoptive fathers, LGBTQ activists William Dale Zulock and Zachary Jacoby Zulock, are in jail accused of producing "homemade" child pornography of the years-long sexual abuse and inviting pedophile clients over to molest their adopted sons—ages 9 and 10 when the children were raped weekly. As the child-prostitution case heads to trial, an open house was held inside the married men's "mini mansion" now seized by Walton County and selling for three-quarters of a million dollars. Townhall attended and filmed the public event before being ordered to "delete everything" at the state's behest. We did not comply.

"Ma'am, we're going to have to ask you to leave. We're going to have to ask you to delete your footage. All of it," a woman working with the clean-out company told—well, more like scolded—me. "That's very inappropriate for you to be talking to people about this. This is a very sad situation, and there's no reason. No reason. We're going to need you to delete it—everything."

I was cornered in one of the children's bedrooms, accosted adjacent to the walk-in closet where a pile of the boy's underwear was for sale. Hanging overhead were the same doll-like suits the biological brothers, then 5- and 6-years-old, wore within the judge's chambers years ago on "Gotcha Day," when Georgia's courts expeditiously made "the family" official and the adoption final. The boy's bed, also an item available for purchase, was covered in a sickening shade of dark-red, perhaps purplish, satin that's far too mature for a kid's bedspread. Nearby, diapers were displayed on the connecting Jack-and-Jill bathroom countertop.

"Every day that we're here, the state's been here with us," she said, assertively. "And we have been asked to remove [...] anything with a name on it, anything whatsoever. We've signed stuff saying that we would not—We've been investigated. They've come in time and time [again] and overlooked everything that we've done. Everything," emphasized the sales representative.

Demanding I delete the pictures and video I had documented along my walkthrough of the house, she was part of the family-owned and operated small business, specializing in downsizing and "junk" removal, that facilitated the three-day estate sale.

"The only reason our company is even involved in this is for these children, because it's benefiting the children and only the children," insisted the saleswoman. Accordingly, the estate sale's proceeds were purportedly earmarked towards a restitution-styled trust fund that's allegedly established, or to be forged in the future, on behalf of the abused boys, the company claimed.

"What would bringing this back out into the public benefit these children who are scarred for life?" the saleswoman questioned, adding emphatically: "It's already been done. It's done, settled, and these children don't need to be—I mean, they're too young right now, but it doesn't need to be anything public so that later they can see all of this." Both boys are back in the state's custody, returned to the ever-revolving door of foster care; their whereabouts and whom they've been placed with are not publicly known.

Asked if she was aware of what allegedly transpired, the saleswoman replied, "I really don't care to," as in read the full story. "And, this is why we want it to end. This is why it needs to end," she said presumably of media exposure, repeatedly clapping her hands together for emphasis. When I argued that the appalling case of sexual abuse—and its ensuing cover-up—ought to be brought to public light, she responded: "Not by our company. It's not going to be exposed by the help of our company."

"Okay, what's going on?" the company's CEO, arriving moments later, asked the worried worker.

"She was doing a story," the woman responded to her employer, who took a decidedly similar approach.

"This is not the time to be doing this," the owner of the company protested, closing the door to the boy's bedroom behind him.


"Because this is to support the two children and not to make a social media thing [...] I'm furious about this," he said. "You know, we don't mind people doing videos or taking pictures of stuff for friends or people to buy stuff. But, you're interviewing people here. Why? Why do you want to tell a story about this? This is God-awful. It's already out there. No more needs to be known."

Countering, I said the story is being suppressed, to which the businessman replied: "What is there to be buried? The story is not buried. If you go on YouTube, you go on TikTok, you Google search, you'll find as much as you want. The reason it's not popular is because nobody got murdered. Nobody did this. Believe it or not—I hate to say it—this happens all the time. This is not the first house where people with children were—It's just an uncomfortable situation and people just don't like to talk about it. And, another reason is because they're minors. They're minors. And, you gotta be careful with that, you know? You gotta be very careful. We're under a lot of court order[s] about what we can discuss and what we can't discuss about this [estate] sale." 

"But, we were told that if anybody was here to come here to cause disruption or problem or make a scene or for media purposes, they were going to be asked to leave," he said of the state's instructions, also expressing concerns with compromising the sale.

Again, he acknowledged that picture-taking and video-recording are, otherwise, welcomed recreationally for non-media usage. "People do that all the time," the CEO stated. "I don't have a problem with that." However, the businessman belted out: "You just want to take pictures of inside the house to show what happened here, which is sick. Sick! Sick. My personal opinion."

"Well, you know, the first thing you should have done is you should have asked before coming into the property and doing something like this..." the CEO continued telling me. "If you want to do pictures or a story, then you need to reach out to the attorney or the sheriff's department. Not just come in here and start doing it. This is not private property. Well, I mean, this is private property. This is not public property. Technically, it would be called trespassing for what you're doing without permission."


"It's better that people just not know about what happened here—today, okay—or through the week, just for the fact that it's uncomfortable for some people. There's a reason why this isn't a big media blowout," the company's CEO resumed postulating, "because this is something that's just sick, you know, however you want to look at it. But, going up to random people and asking what they think about what happened here [...] It's just an uncomfortable situation, and I don't want to add fuel to the fire."

Softening, he said: "It's just there's more to this than I really wish I knew about, but unfortunately, I have to, because of what was going on in the process [...] If you would have come and talked to me, then we probably could have—You can walk through the house and everything, but as of photographing for media purposes, I don't want that just because our stuff is all over the place."

"If you just want to take mental notes—that's fine," he stipulated, reopening the bedroom door to retreat downstairs. And so, I did.

The pop-up "miniature mansion" is about a dreadful 45-minute drive, give or take, from Greater Atlanta's urban outskirts. So remotely situated, it's tedious for newcomers to geo-locate the (relatively) new development, an abnormal site incongruent with the swaths of countryside preserving part-rural Oxford, Georgia. Nestled at the end of a quaint cul-de-sac, the well-appointed build is tucked neatly away on the periphery of a secluded two-acre lot. A forest encloses the residence, and a lake lies beyond.

Formerly the fleeting home of self-described "partners in crime" William and Zachary Zulock, the custom-built house has hit the market at an imposing $729,000, albeit recently reduced. Still, it's hefty given its history. State law, notably, does not require sellers to disclose whether or not crimeseven of a violent naturewere ever committed on-site, only if they're asked outright. This includes murder, meth labs headquartered in the home, and rape. (Nor are they compelled to divulge if there are any registered child-sex offenders living nearby.) After all, Georgia is a "buyers beware" state. Per the Stigmatized Property Statute, voluntary disclosure of an "emotionally upsetting" event could "psychologically impact" the property, and therefore, "stigmatize" it.

That is certainly a concern looming over the real-estate agent who's saddled with the "court-ordered sale." It's a formidable, unpleasant task she's hoping to complete by Christmas, as her hackneyed "Home for the Holidays!" pitch indicates. The realtor's grinning face, an ear-to-ear smile, was printed on glossy-finish business cards that accompanied letter-size flyers of the listing.

On the morning of Oct. 13, the stack of handouts sat on a stand in the foyer, greeting bargain-hunters who wandered through the entrance's ornate double-doors in search of something shiny. A grand chandelier, Zachary's prized possession he oft-touted, soared above. Below stood a four-foot statue of a baby elephant beside a sampling of Colonial ceramic tile installed there.

The front entryway was also where a SWAT team of armed agents10 to 15 of themtrampled the couple's "Gayest Place in Town" welcome mat, which once ostentatiously guarded the façade, to tackle Zachary to the foyer's unforgiving, marble floor. His Prada-toting husband, William, was subsequently arrested in bed naked. (More on the midnight raid-and-rescue mission here.)

In addition to the doormat's disappearance, the rainbow-pastel "Love Above All" pillow adorning the foyer's loveseat was noticeably gone. So was the Pride-themed Mickey Mouse plush that sat atop the decorative cushion. In fact, the whole house was seemingly sanitized, scrubbed clean of the LGBTQ paraphernalia that had previously and proudly littered the premises.

To the left of the living room, the bed in the master's suite was priced at $650. At $12, a Confederate flag-emblazoned belt was placed purposely on the nightstand next to the barren mattress. William's assorted Coach collection, including loafers, sandals, and cross-body bags, was marked variably.

The crime scene was transformed into a mecca for estate-sale enthusiasts, near and far. Did the national headlines hook them? Were there whispers of this being the lair of a suburban pedophile ring? No, an emphatic no. Several I spoke to, though Atlanta-area natives, had never heard of the case, nor were they privy to the merchandise's provenance. Most were simply window-shopping the wares and thumbing through the tchotchkes. "Great giggly wiggly!" a prospective (and presumably unsuspecting) buyer had reacted online to the vast array of offerings advertised in advance.

Fred Martin, a resident of neighboring Loganville, did not know about the case and did not see any sort of transparency statement included in the online post on EstateSales.net, where he, like many, was lured by the publicly listed advertisement.

"They didn't say anything as we were waiting in line either," the local told me.

Prior to opening, with the sunrise shrouded by the morning mist, a throng of buyers had assembled, forming a 20-plus line stretching around the block. Some sought warmth in the comfort of their cars; others eagerly camped outside, braving the chill of dawn as the pitter-patter of a light rainfall dampened daybreak. Via a sign-in sheet, they waited patiently to be let in party-by-party at precisely 9 a.m. for a chance to claim dibs on a first-come, first-served basis. The strong showing of shoppers poured in steadily throughout the day.

A buyer from Jackson, who asked to be kept anonymous, was among those wondering what happened. "I knew something had happened, because people wouldn't be selling kids' stuff like this," she said. "They're young. You can tell that they were young."

Many milling around had kids of their own in tow. The children carefully hand-picked Beanie Babies from the assortment of stuffed animals gathered in the windowless "theater room" and perused the children's playroom, enthusiastically eyeing the trove of toys.

"If I was a kid, I would be in heaven in this house, because there's so much stuff..." the buyer remarked. "I felt like they were living in an ideal world. I'm a nanny, so for me, oh, my kids would go crazy here [...] They would love it. This is like a kid's dream."

She took note of the surveillance cameras practically in every corner of the house. "Why were they filming? Why are they inside not pointing outside? So, that was a little weird, because you don't see cameras usually around the house, unless they were paranoid about what they had in here."

On the front lawn, I briefly spoke to Zachary's mother, who was loading the car with decor she had bought from the estate sale. "They treatin' us just like everybody else," her boyfriend said of buying back the belongings. On the subject of Zachary, she stated, "We have no contact with each other," as her son remains jailed in Barrow County Detention Center awaiting trial.