An interview Richard gave in 1994 but was not released until 1996.
RICHARD RAMIREZ: Are you nervous? FHF: A bit, but hardly. I did an interview with Manson not too long ago. I get a little uptight when I do interviews. You know, wondering if the questions will come out right or will they get angry at anything I might ask? RR: Oh. Well, uh… go ahead and we’ll see what happens. I don’t mind any questions really.
FHF: Good. Let’s start with the ladies. Why are some so attracted to you? Bernadette Brazal, not bad - pretty cute. RR: I think the girls are attracted to me because they can relate to me. The girls are nice when you’re in my situation, but since I’m in here I spend more time writing to them about the relationship, rather than living it, but there are good friendships formed never-the-less. A couple of them are religious, they come into my life to try and help me.
FHF: Can you be saved? By God and the Jesus kid? RR: No, I’m pretty set in my ways. I doubt anything short of a miracle would change me. I do have an open mind, and I listen to them.
FHF: Were you brought up religiously? RR: Very. My mother and father used to take me to church in Mexico and Texas, were I used to live. The huge figures of saints and crucifixions. Religion played a big role in my life.
FHF: You think it captured your imagination? RR: More than that, I saw myself inside it. It became a part of everyday life. How I thought. How I felt. Later on, by my teenage years, it was all in conflict with me, and still is. You understand? Bad and good and everything I had learned about Satan and God.
FHF: Did you believe God was watching? RR: Yeah.
FHF: Most teenagers feel these delusions. RR: All the actions in my life, at that time, I looked at them and tried to fathom how God would judge them.
FHF: So how’d you make out? RR: Ugh, in my teens, it wasn’t going too good. When I got to about 17, that really caused some problems with me. I started resorting to a life my mother didn’t care for. At 17 she kicked me out, so it was a pretty hard life. I stole cars, I picked pockets. Stuff like that.
FHF: What happened at home that put you into that? RR: I went off to reform school. I came back, she kicked me out. I fended for myself by selling drugs and stuff. Then I moved to California.
FHF: Is that where you got hooked up into devil worship? RR: No, I started feeling like that before. I believe in Satan. I believe evil is a force that is beyond us, and that we just have to invite him in, and he will.
FHF: When did you actively start to bring the devil into your life, worship-wise? RR: It was about 1980, and I was hustling on the streets. I landed in jail for a month or two for petty theft. I met up with this guy who was a Satan worshiper. For those two months I was with him, then I get out of jail, but my mind didn’t. I remembered everything he said, which basically was, “Why worship the good guy, when the things you do aren’t so good?” Somehow it just made sense to me, to worship something that would protect you in what you were doing.
FHF: How did your worship take form? RR: It developed slowly. I started reading the books, and then I started meeting people who were into the same thing. Satanists need to have more faith than Christians, because Christ was seen and felt. Lucifer has never felt the need to be seen, but in everyone’s soul he can be felt. A lot of these little cults practice Satanism nowadays, but not in a violent form. They’re only looking for ways to play out wickedness.
FHF: Ever tried your hand at a Black Mass? RR: Only one, but kept my distance. I was not part of that group. It was at a cemetery and it was at night. I really couldn’t tell what we were doing. A friend and me were watching from a distance. I never trusted people anyway. Especially them.
FHF: Why? RR: They knew me and my lifestyle. They were the ones who made the connection and told the police for being a candidate for the Night Stalker crimes.
FHF: What are some of the things you are accused of? RR: I’ve been accused of almost every crime you can imagine.
FHF: At your trial, you went all L.A. on us. Dark shades, slick hair, attitude. Did you enjoy the attention? RR: Going to the trial was very tiring for me, but I did enjoy it better than sitting in a jail cell. That could be very monotonous. The glasses, believe it or not, were prescription lenses that were tinted. And I just don’t like my photograph being taken, more so now than then. Did I enjoy it? Hmm. No, not particularly. I would have rather been on the beach or something.
FHF: Your entire attitude during the trial was like, “Fuck the world!” RR: I was receiving so much negative publicity. I wasn’t going to give people the satisfaction of seeing me down. Besides, I didn’t feel down. Plus, the image I had projected was beyond me. The media had portrayed me as a cold-hearted, ruthless monster, but I’m really not that way. I’m very down to earth. So, at that time I let people think whatever they wanted to. You see or hear about the crimes and then imagine what kind of individual was behind them.
FHF: The judge said your crimes were committed with “cruelty, callousness and viciousness beyond any human understanding.” RR: It is in no way beyond understanding. Mankind has been like that through out history. In today’s society, people use those qualities - I call them qualities - for all things. It is for self-gratification. It is for sex. It is for excitment. This kind of fervor servers it’s own purpose. It doesn’t obey rules. It runs amok. You see it on the news everyday, but society cannot hang it’s moral and ethical values on me to survive. i do what I must in all ways, and I’m proud of it. The necessity to be myself passes all moral barriers.
FHF: Have you been reading a lot? RR: Yes, I read. A book I suggest to everybody is called, “Mysterious Stranger” by Mark Twain. It’s about Satan and his visit here. A good book. I read suspense and horror, somethings that intrigue me. I have always been fascinated by death.
FHF: Is death sexual? RR: Sexual? It can be. Next to self-preservation, the sex drive is the most important and powerful behavior in mankind.
FHF: When did you first start to think about death? RR: When I was 11, I had an episode in my life. I saw my cousin shoot his wife. It wasn’t traumatic… but the shock value. I went back into the apartment to collect some things with my dad, because my cousin was in jail. The bed was all bloody. It was there where she had landed after the bullet. She got a .38 to the face. At the same time it was very… uh. The stillness of the room, the eeriness, you know. We had to open the windows to ventilate the room and it was something. It was… (long pause) …it was death! I had known the woman. I had known her very well. I went into the living room and saw her purse. I looked through her purse, saw her ID cards and her things. It was a strange feeling. That was the first time I ever ran across death. Ever since, I was intrigued.
FHF: What is blood to you? RR: Blood is the substance that allows any living thing to exist, but blood is blood. I have heard of people drinking each other’s blood. They cut each other, and they drink it and it’s supposed to be a euphoric feeling. But, you know, blood has no special interest for me. Blood is blood.
FHF: Do you believe that when you kill someone, you can obtain that person’s power? RR: That dates back to the Incas and Mayans, they believed in that. It is a possibility, but to me personally? I’ve had no experience with it.
FHF: Let me read to you a statement you made at your trial, “I am beyond your experience. I am beyond good and evil. Legions of the night, nightbeed… repeat not the errors of the night prowler, and show no mercy. I will be avenged. Lucifer dwells in us all. That’s it.” What were the night prowler’s errors? RR: I was under a lot of stress then. What I recall and if my memory serves me correct, I just meant not to believe in the system. Don’t, for a minute, think you’ll get a fair shake when under these circumstances.
FHF: Yeah, but were there errors? RR: I was not aware of my actions. Everyone must find out who they are and be aware of their actions before they wind up in a vicious predicament.
FHF: Who are the “legions of the night”? RR: People like yourself. People who thrive on the night. People who have true moral sense. You know who I’m talking about and talking to. They are the ones who feel they are not the majority. They have different feelings and attitudes about life. The rest are a bulk of cattle. Everyone plays a role and no one says what’s truly on their mind.
FHF: When you were sentenced to the gas chamber, you said, “Big deal. Death always comes with the territory.” What territory? RR: I lived a dangerous life. Stealing cars, I could have been shot. Robbing people, I could have been killed. Nothing in existence holds any terror for me. When I was sentenced to death, it didn’t hold anything for me.
FHF: What about now? RR: Even less.
FHF: Does the Night Stalker deserve the gas chamber? RR: It’s all a bloodlust. When the state comes to execute a man, they laugh. So do I.
FHF: Do you still feel beyond good and evil? RR: Everybody has got good and evil in them. I’d like to be 100% evil, but I can’t. I’m too easy-going sometimes. Then again, while anger and hate are two things some people can cope with, I cannot. My anger and hate grow to a level that I cannot live comfortably with it. it causes me headaches and stuff. When I get angry, it’s an extreme form. It is the extreme. There is no in between. But there is with good and evil, and I am there.
FHF: What’s your favorite magazine? RR: I don’t know. I like a lot of ‘em. I especially like Hustler, but not for the reason most think. It’s hard to get a copy in here, but I like it for the parody section. life’s a joke, and I enjoy when they make fun of something that everyone takes so fucking seriously. Freddie Mercury said, “In the end, we all die, and nothing really matters.” Now I’m sure you’re going to disagree with me because you’ll get a bunch of these letters telling you that you are evil.
FHF: Trust me, I get tons already. with some of the articles I put in this rag, people send me tons. RR: Seriously? What do you write about?
FHF: A sort of social Darwinist philosophy, but much more violent - killing off the weak, and shit like that. RR: (Starts to laugh) Well alright! Cool. Listen, people are intrigued by that. I’m telling you. They’ll say, “No.” to you, but feel “Yes,” in their hearts. They think it’s wrong because they feel everyone wants them to say it is. You’ll send me some, right?
FHF: I’ll try. When I send them to prisoners, they send them back saying this material will not be allowed in incarceration facilities. So, tell me, how will you be avenged? RR: I’m one angry motherfucker. I just hope all those who are deserving will get what’s coming to them. I’ll just leave it at that.
FHF: My philosophy is that most people get what ‘s coming to them. People really get what they deserve. Are you confident that people will get what’s coming to them? RR: Pieces of shit are killed everyday, aren’t they?
FHF: Any last words for the kids out there? RR: Keep the evil thought.
FHF: Thanks for your time. RR: Take care of yourself.
Sluggishness constrains me. I become listless and inactive.
The morbidity of this morbidity is that I am a snail that moves like a lit candle to water, extinguished and metamorphosed into smoke the moment my skin strikes the floundering tides.
I hate being this slow. The world capers and gains twenty pounds. My feet race against fading timelines, streetlights like heartbeats stuttering against droopy palm trees. The nights grow bloodthirsty. The temperature drops like a dozen pins. There’s an increased bounty on the moon and everyone on the hunt is acting against someone else’s will. Now I think I need somebody to rip the bandaids off our wounded mouths, save us from the shallows of words like sunken ships. The carnage at the bottom of the ocean is merely a gaudy recreation of us, slick with twinkling shades of grey (like all the mummies we swindled; those whose hearts dimmed the lights when we left them behind).
Maybe a change of subject. The bright, stunning pools of your eyes, the way they shimmer like crested glass. How our fumbling bodies collided with the unsteady river, the story about how you lost your virginity in the vacant lot behind the Arby’s to someone whose name you can’t even remember, how my ex used to say that all of humanity is the offspring of a bipolar god, who is just as indecisive as he is uninterested in mediocre affairs, that if we’re created in his image, the image is sure to split at the seams. Leave us angry & distorted.
Please tell me that you’re not leaving.
Please tell me that I don’t have to taxidermise myself to keep on living, that you’d rather walk on thin air than lose mobility.
Please tell me that we’re not haunted, I’m sick of seeing your ghost following me off the exit ramp & sneaking up on me in the mirror. Orphan-faced & blood-rippled. Your mouth hinged like an ajar door, the fist-knob no longer functioning, my fingers dead-stuck on the phantom-cold likeness of it, my foot crushed in between the shadowy door jamb. Please, just tell me that it’s okay to want something that I can’t even hold under my brittle hand.
a super hot one in thigh-high fishnet stockings and a pointy
black hat, because halloween is her favorite goddamn holiday, right, and she relishes having an excuse to binge eat
fun-sized kit kats and wear skimpy satin lingerie to a month’s worth of frat
after all, her needs are pretty basic at this stage in her
collegiate career—she drinks rum like a pirate and has a rotating schedule of
respectfully discreet one night stands and she doesn’t really give a shit about anything else. not in october. not on halloween.
she didn’t used to give
a shit about anything else.
“hey, watch where you’re fucking going, asshole,” she snaps, jumping
back on wobbly stiletto heels to avoid the avalanche
of bud light sloshing out of some guy’s cup.
some huge guy, she
notices, belatedly. like. six feet and some fucking change, in a ratty green flannel with the sleeves cut off, buttons
undone all the way to the industrial
yellow tool belt slung low across his hips, exposing a literal wonderland of
smooth brown skin and bulky ridges of muscles and holy goddamn shit but she wants to drip melting
fucking autumn scented candle wax all
over this guy’s body. she doesn’t even care
about whatever’s going on with the whole face situation. tall, dark, and angry
looks like a carnival ride of orgasms.
“did you say something?” the guy asks, shortly, casting an
irritated glare at the spot where she’s clutching his forearm. his very strong,
sturdy, large forearm.
“oh, just, um,” she stalls, thinking quickly; his gaze
lingers on her cleavage as she flounders, just for a moment, but she can’t
really blame him. her tits are magnificent.
“what are you supposed to be?”
it’s a stupid goddamn question—she knows it, he knows it, the
battery acid masquerading as jungle juice spilled all over fucking floor knows it. still. she has a goal, here.
“a construction worker,” he answers, flatly.
“oh, cool,” she says, and the incredulous slant of his mouth
makes her wonder if she can, like, annoy
him into submission. into wanting, no, needing to just—just shut her up. she thinks he’d probably fuck
her like he meant it, maybe pin her
to the bed with one of those massive hands clamped around the back of her neck,
holding her in place while he growled the kind of mean, filthy shit she usually
has to work up to.
he raises an eyebrow.
“where do you live?” she asks politely, twirling a
barrel-curled strand of hair around her finger.
“off campus,” he grunts, and then frowns. his entire demeanor
exudes menace. she presses her thighs
together at the thought. “i’m not—i don’t go
here. i’m the trainer for the football team.”
romilda absolutely cannot fucking fathom why he might’ve chosen to tell her any of that, but she
supposes it’s possible she’s just getting better at pretending to care about
other people’s lives.
“you should take me there,” she says, flashing him a smile
that she knows for a fact is twice as inviting when it’s shiny and slick with
her current shade of cranberry red lipstick.
“huh?” he looks confused. not so sharp, then. she decides she’s
okay with that, though. she bets he takes direction really well.
“off campus,” she clarifies, tossing her shoulders back under
the guise of adjusting the laces crisscrossing the front of her corset. “you
should take me there.”
his expression ripples with—surprise, maybe; interest, definitely—before settling somewhere in
the vague vicinity of coollyneutral. she bites back a grin at that. not
so dumb, after all. not so easy.
“yeah,” he eventually says, slowly, eyes sweeping over her
from head to toe and back again, like he’s savoring the view. “i should.”
Christine tried to throwing slick shade at Elissa about her looks and gameplay from last season; now she gets to join Elissa as being 6th place. Only difference - most viewers loved Elissa, but Christine not so much.