Harold Jaffe's docufiction

Night Stalker
by Harold Jaffe

cover image of 15 Serial Killersfrom 15 Serial Killers
(Raw Dog Screaming Press, 2003)

     After being sentenced and escorted from the courtroom in chains, the Night Stalker had to pass through a clot of reporters in their pee-stained boxers, fish ties and laptops.
     One shouted: "How does it feel to be sentenced to death, Night Stalker?"
     The Stalker smirked. "Death? Ain' no big deal.
     "Comes wit' the territory.
     "See you in Disneyland."

     That Disneyland crack was cute.

     Cute or acute?

     Both. How'd you know about the pee-stained boxers? That would seem to be privileged information.


     That like suppository? I know he had a thing for the anal cavity.


     Right. Ramirez. The Night Stalker.

     Was the Stalker into the anal cavity? Yes, he was into the anal cavity. About every male serial killer worth his salt is.

     Why's that?

    It's metaphysical. Plus that's where the funkiest action is reputed to be.


     Weapons of choice?

     Machete and scalpel. When he was in a slashing mood.


     Had a .38 Smith, four-inch barrel. Had a butcher's cleaver. Had an ice pick. Had ropes, chains. Plus he'd use whatever was around. Situations dictated. He was a situational stalker.

     He was resourceful?

     Who's more resourceful than Satan? The Stalker had Satan looking over his shoulder.

     Left shoulder or right?

     Er, left.

     Well, I have Smith Barney looking over my left shoulder. Reassuring in this volatile period. They're stock brokers.

     I know what they are, foo'.

     You're not a day trader, are you?



     Let me ask you this: Manson in his prime or the Night Stalker? Who's more popular with the distaff side?

     You kiddin' me. Ramirez drives fems crazier than Charlie Manson ever done. Had to unplug the phones from outside the holding tank after they nabbed him. Unplugged the fax. Disarmed the emails.

     You're lying.

     Plus they had a cordon of deps out front keep the fems from breakin' on through.

     Cordon of . . .

     Deps. Fat-ass deputies cheek-by-jowl in riot gear. Was like the offensive line of the Oakland Raiders.

     Just to protect the Night Stalker from his female admirers?

     You kiddin' me. Was like fuckin' Elvis in his prime.

     Fave music:
     Heavy metal
     Fave sports:
     Fave actress:
     Linda Lovelace
     Fave vacation spot:
     Fave food:
     Women's feet

      So what's your theory about why the Stalker gets 'em all sexed up? Latin eyes? Sunken cheekbones? The satanic mumbo-jumbo? That supple, skinny Mick Jagger bod?

     Sunken cheekbones happen to look cool on TV. Latin eyes and a supple bod ain't gone hurt . . .

     Flabass serial murderers don't make it on prime time, right?

     Ain't that. It's how he done his murders. Check that. How the fems imagined he done 'em.

     Scaled the roofs high above the sick asleep city.

     Like a fly.

     Climbed into bedroom windows while they slept their dreamless sleep.

     Like a bat.

     Super silent in his skintight jeans and Reebok hightops. Didn't make no noise a-tall.

     Like a panther.

     Black panther?

     Thas right. Then he sprung. Then all the demon sounds of hell broke loose.

     Screams, you mean?

     More'n that. The Stalker unleashed a volley of sounds: howled, yowled, hooted, shrieked, bayed, sang . . .

     How you mean, sang?

     He had an excellent voice. You didn't hear about that? Tenor. When he'd be doing his shit--maiming, biting, cutting, whatever--he'd howl or bay. Then, when it came time for that anal cavity stuff you mentioned, he'd sing.

     What would he sing? Opera? Blues? Reggae? Scat?


     Fave color:
     Fave hobby:
     Measuring coffins
     Biggest like:
     Coke on glass
     Biggest dislike:
     Money managers
     Make a wish:
     Have my middle finger on a nuclear triggering device

     How many he nail? Ramirez. Final tally.

     He started real simple, okay. Stomping, raping. Your garden variety serial killer. Young or old didn't matter. Dayle Okazaki and Maria Hernandez were his first hits. Then came Tsa Lian Yu. Then Vince and Maxine Zazzara. After that, William Doi, Mabel Bell, Patty Higgins, Mary Cannon, Joyce Nelson, Chainaroung Khovanath . . .

     Man, he was an equal-opportunity serial motherfucker. Did he have some kind of political correctness thing going?

     Naw. Jus' doin' his shit. Those the kind of folks we have around these days. I guess you never heard of diversity.

     I heard of it. He rape the dudes too?

     Raped just the fems. According to the available evidence. Probably ended up offing twenty-eight, thirty. Left a bunch almost killed too. Good as dead, some of 'um.


     You said all them groupie fems wanted to break on through to get to the Night Stalker. What would they a done if they broke on through?

     Tore him apart in their lust for him.

     Like how do you mean?

     Tear his arms, tear his eyes and telegenic sunken cheekbones, tear his sinewy hairless legs, his dick, tear the slick tongue out his head . . . Like they done to what's his name? Greek God down there.


     One of 'em. Zeus, I think it was . . .

     Dint folks eat their Gods in olden times?

     Yeah. They woulda et him too. Fuckin' Night Stalker.


     You say they'd tear out his dick. Anyone ever see it to comment on?

     What's that?

     His dick. The dick of Richard Ramirez. Night Stalker.

     You want to know about his dick?

     Why not? Ain't that what it's all about?

     He's uncut, average size, maybe a little bigger 'n average. Nothin to email your congressperson about.

     Pity. A huge or even a tiny dick would have made a cool story.

     Nah. Too hokey. The story's way cool the way it is.

     So what happens after they et him? The adoring fems, I mean? They become sexier?

     Exactly. They become silky, sexy night stalkers. Wear Lady Reeboks. Surprise males in their beds. Maim 'em with the ice pick and cleaver, fuck 'em, murder 'em . . .

     Maim, fuck, murder. That the order Ramirez done?

     That ain't all he done.

     What else he do?

     I ain't gone say. Not here. Not on the WorldWideWeb.

     What do you look for in a gal?
     Good ass, good legs
     Perfect date?
     Rum and sex at a cemetery round midnight
     Describe yourself:
     Asshole and proud of it
     Motto you live by:
     A corpse a day keeps the faggots away

     You said he used a machete.

     Machete and scalpel. The large and the small.

     But then he would improvise, right? As the situation warranted. There was no set order of . . . mayhem.

     Basically, you have two types of serial killer: calculated and spontaneous, which was the Stalker's M.O.

     See. Now you got me all curious. What else is there besides maim, fuck, murder?

     Use your own imagination.

     Pierce, cleave, chop, chomp, stomp, plunder, blunder, rip, sever . . I'm runnin' out of murderous verbs. Are they verbs or adverbs?



     I guess he came from a large family.


     Born in Mexico, right?

     Almost. Texas. Near El Paso. Was the fifth of five children or the sixth of seven. Depending on who's telling the tale. Around the age of 12, he started to hang with his cousin Jose, who'd been a Green Beret in 'Nam. Jose would show the kid Polaroids of rape, torture and mutilation he took in the war. Jose also taught young Richard how to fight to the death Green Beret style. Jose's wife Toni was alarmed at the shit Jose done during the war, and she didn't like the fact her husband did nothing but brag about his sexual brutalities and smoke pot all day long. One day Jose and Toni were arguing when Jose all of a sudden pulled out his Beretta 9, and shot Toni in the belly, killing her and splattering blood all over young Richard. Oh yeah, Toni was in her seventh month.

     They say once you get an early taste of blood, it stays with you. So in a sense that was Ramirez's initiation?

     Somethin' like that.

     So what happened to his cousin? Jose?

     First they tried anger management on him. When that didn't work they stuck him away. Nuthouse. Ended up offing himself.

     Weapon of choice?

     Underwear. Made a noose out of his jocks and tee shirt. Stuck his head in the makeshift noose . . .

     Well, Richard Ramirez ain't so keen on himself either. Kept changin' his name. Rubin Cienfuegos, Noah Mimosa.

     Julio Muertisimo, Hoagy Nalgas.

     Hoagy Nalgas. That's cool.

     You like it? Didn't cut him no slack from the judge. Sentenced him to death nineteen times.

     You sure about that number? I heard fourteen.

     That's your problem.

     Lucifer is another name for Satan, right?


     So did the Night Stalker actually make a pact with Satan or is he just yankin' our chain?

     What do you think?

     Don't make no dif to me. The Stalker's shit is freaky either way. Especially those last words he nailed them with when they led him away. I've got a copy stuck to my fridge. I read it, or some of it, every time I have a Spam sandwich and Bud Lite. From the bottle. Never use no glass with Bud Lite.

     Since you know the Stalker's last words by heart why don't you recite it for our world-wide Internet audience.


     Right now, foo'.

     You don't understand me.
     I am beyond your experience.
     I am beyond good and evil.
     I will be avenged.
     Lucifer dwells in all of us.
     I don't buy into the hypocritical, moralistic dogma of your so-called civilized society.
     You maggots make me sick.
     Legions of the night, night breed, repeat not the errors of the night prowler.
     Show no mercy.

Return to the top of the page.
Harold Jaffe: fiction, nonfiction, docufiction, interviews,
bio & blurbs, home.

Copyright © 2001-2013 by Harold Jaffe. All rights reserved.
This site designed and maintained by The Runaway Serfer.