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corvidamned · 2 months

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FIVE SONGS for your muse.

i. Love Me Dead - Ludo: She moves through moonbeams slowly. She knows just how to hold me. And when her edges soften, Her body is my coffin. I know she drains me slowly. She wears me down to bones in bed. Must be the sign on my head, That says, oh Love me dead! Love me dead!

ii. This Is Not An Exit - Duncan Sheik: Maybe this schism, is just a symptom, Of late capitalism. A Savior's died and risen, Of worlds that wouldn't listen, To their own collapse. Even if this story, Is overwrought and gory, It's not a fable, it's not an allegory. No cautionary tale, no memento mori. Or a vague perhaps.

iii. I Would Die 4 U - Prince: I'm not a woman, I'm not a man. I am something that you'll never understand. I'll never beat you, I'll never lie. And if you're evil, I'll forgive you by and by. 'Cause you, I would die for you, yeah. Darlin', if you want me to, you, I would die for you. I'm not your lover, I'm not your friend. I am something that you'll never comprehend. No need to worry, no need to cry. I'm your Messiah and you're the reason why.

iv. Shake the Disease - Depeche Mode: Some people have to be permanently together, Lovers devoted to each other forever. Now I've got things to do, and I've said before, That I know you have too. When I'm not there, In spirit I'll be there. Here is a plea from my heart to you, Nobody knows me as well as you do. You know how hard it is for me to shake the disease, That takes hold of my tongue in situations like these. Understand me.

v. As It Was - Hozier: And in a few days, I would be there, love. Whatever here that's left of me is yours just as it was. Just as it was, baby. Before the otherness came. And I knew its name. The love, the dark, the light, the flame. The eyes at the heights of my baby. Let's hope at the fight of my baby. The lights were as bright as my baby, But your love was unmoved. And tell me if somehow, some of it remained. How long you would wait for me? How long I've been away? The shape that I'm in now, is shaping the doorway. Make your good love known to me. Just tell me about your day. Just as it was, baby. Before the otherness came. And I knew its name. The drugs, the dark, the light, the shame.

FIVE TWELVE QUOTES for your muse.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ― Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven Strength does not make one capable of rule; it makes one capable of service. ― Brandon Sanderson, The Way of Kings You cannot have both. In war you must always choose sides. One or the other. Silver or black. Human or demon. If you try to be a bridge laid down between them, they will tear you in half. ― Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless I look down at my body and think, No. I will not abandon you. Not yet, not again, not like the rest of them. ― Ashe Vernon, from “For Anyone Who’s Listening,” Not a Girl Part of heroism is being able to see the future and still remain standing. If you don't believe in God or Fate, you still must believe in narrative. ― Richard Siken, Four Proofs “I’ve been trying to go home my whole life—” — Chelsea Dingman, “Psychogeography” “Break often - not like porcelain, but like waves.” — Scherezade Siobhan First love's all right, as far as it goes. Last love, that's what I'm interested in. ― The Edge of Love, 2008 Understand, there are two pains. Pains that try to rob you of your essence and burn you to the ground, and pains that will transform you and give you wings. ― Helaena Moon

If you are so committed to being perfectly lawful that you cannot see the value of breaking a law to defend yourself or others, you’re not good, you’re obedient. ― tumblr user cenkrett “As the image of myself becomes sharper in my brain and more precious, I feel less afraid that someone else will erase me by denying me love.” ― Jenny Slate there's a misconception that grief only happens when we lose people. this is not true. we can grieve circumstances, relationships, missed opportunities. in fact, sometimes when you find yourself plagued with waves of emotion from sadness to melancholy you may be grieving yourself. the version of yourself that you might have been if things had been different, or if only you had said something, or if someone had stood up for you. ― tumblr user blooooom

Tagged by: @manufactoredxbyxdesign @fiercehearts Tagging: @prettytm @gviral @blood-on-my-coat @dcwnthercbbithcle @mxlevolence @red-hemlock @umbrellamedic @stxsis @qu-tipie

#muse #music #modus operandi #i love quotes so much

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heysawbones · 1 year

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It’s 2:40 in the morning. I can’t sleep. Have the beginning of MO… in prose form.

February. The office of Emperor Steven Lee Crossroads XXXIX, whose full title we won’t trouble ourselves with right now. A young man named Bob leaned all his spindly weight on the double doors into his father’s office. Bob - The Crown Prince - had an important development to discuss.

Light flooded the doorway. Bob held a practiced forearm to his eyes, squinting. The back wall of the office was nothing but windows, which sounds nice but existed mostly to intimidate visitors by blinding the shit out of them. The windows had curtains, and the Emperor had functional arms and legs, but for reasons clear to nobody he often blinded visitors he had no apparent desire to intimidate. His son was no exception. Bob made his barely-seeing way to his father’s desk.

“Father.” He cleared his throat.

The older man looked up from a scattered pile of paperwork. “Ah. Hey, kid.”

Bob palmed sweaty hands all over his school uniform. This was more nerve-wracking than he’d like to admit. “I have something to tell you.”

“Oh? What’s on your mind?”

“Well, uh, do you remember Starlett Vandiver? She was at the TAKES fundraiser ball.”

“I know who she is.” The Emperor tilted his head.

“Oh! Good, yes. Good. Well!” Hands clasped behind his back, Bob rocked forward onto his toes. “We’re getting married!”

The pause before his father burst out laughing felt interminable. “Oh, kid, kid. Oh no.” He pulled his hand down his face. “Augh. Listen.” He spat disparate ha, ha, has as he shook his head. “Boy, you’ve never been too good with jokes. The ah, the timing’s all wrong. Just - turn around, walk out. Try again. I’ll laugh if ’s funny! Swear t’ Stal, I will.”

Bob was not fooled by his father’s diversionary tactics. This, he knew, was stress laughter. He held his head high and balled his fists.

His father sat back and started worrying a piece of paper between his fingers. “Bob.”

He stared. “This’s a joke, right.” He crumpled the paper.

Bob withered and couldn’t look him in the eye. “…No.”

The Emperor, a famously large man and privately infamous for emotional outbursts, flipped his desk. It didn’t go far, and landed on its side with a thud that reverberated off the walls of the sparse office. He hunched over the desk, chest heaving, head in his hands.

“Dad.” Bob little more than stumbled out of the vicinity of his father’s tantrum, and now approached as one approaches a frightened child - hands out, palms open. Quiet. Calm. “Look. Dad. It’s - it’s okay. We’re having issues with the Vandivers, right? This will make them stop parking the colony in stationary orbit and holding trade routes hostage. We can make some headway on that, ‘harboring terrorists’ thing. It’s going to help.” He came to a measured stop in front of his father’s fallen desk and slowly withdrew his hands, studying the tight lines of the man’s body and trying to tamp down regret. He hadn’t expected a positive response, but he hadn’t expected his father to react like a wounded animal, either. He’d hoped for some ridicule, maybe shouting. There would be eventual acceptance and acknowledgement of Bob’s initiative. A few more problems would be solved, and life would roll on. Bob could swallow his doubt.

He perked up when his dad straightened and dropped his hands.

“Kid. Listen to me. Y’ can’t do this.” Bob’s perkiness went in reverse. “You’re 17 god-damn years old. It’s-“ He sighed. “You didn’t already propose t’ her, did you.”

Bob frowned. “I have.”

His father frowned harder. “Do her parents know?”

“Of course they know. Everything’s been taken care of-“

“What do you mean, ‘everything’s taken care of’? Why would you -“ He began to gesture furtively. “You’re my son, Bob! You’re not -“ He looked around the room in desperation, as if there might be someone there to offer guidance. “You’re not a tool!” His voice rose. “I don’t need you t’ solve problems this way!” Bob’s father’s eyes met his, pleading.

“Dad it’s-it’s just a political marriage! This kind of thing happens all the time, what’s your p-“

“You’re throwing your life away.” His father’s roar shook the room. Bob stepped back, but would not, could not allow himself to back down.

“This is what my life is for!” Bob shouted back. “What am I, if I’m not a tool? It’s not like there’s some - perfect princess out there, waiting for me! It’s going to be fake anyway, so I thought, might as well solve some problems now instead of later! Why put it off? I’m expediting a solution!”

The Emperor fell silent, awestruck. He couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his son’s mouth, and neither could his son. They sprung, unbidden and unwanted, from some unspeakable loci of teen angst with which he had no conscious connection.

In that moment, it was unlikely that there were any right words to say. The Emperor snapped a booming HA in Bob’s face, and the boy winced.

“Dad-” But he’d already gone. The man stuttered pained laughter as he wove toward the windows, tangling his fingers in his hair.

There was nothing Bob could do. He turned away in disgust.

---

Over the next six months, Crown Prince Bob Crossroads (the First) tried to convince himself that marrying Starlett Vandiver was a good idea. In some ways, it was. Starlett’s parents ran the Vandiver Colony, a manmade habitable satellite made of… space junk. The Vandivers liked to put their actual trash heap into stationary orbits that just so happened to cross trade routes from planetary settlements, then demand money to move the damn thing so said trade could get through. All parties were aware that this was extortion, but the price was not so high as to outweigh the advantage of keeping the peace. The Empire paid up, and the Vandiver Colony kept most of its crime and libertarianism to itself.

Now that Bob and Starlett were engaged, the colony stayed out of the way. This was good, but Bob had to admit that it might not have been worth his hand in marriage. The colony began to cooperate with extradition requests, which, while nice, was underwhelming. Bob thought that it might’ve been better to leverage his marriage for something more valuable, but it was too late for that. He couldn’t bear to tell his father about his second thoughts. His father couldn’t put a stop to the wedding without risking very real repercussions from the Vandivers, anyway.

The wedding came and went. It had a surreal quality, alternating between a blur of faces and crisp memories of hands on silverware, Starlett’s diadem, his father gripping a glass of whiskey like a lifeline. Starlett was beautiful, but that didn’t mean much to Bob. He didn’t know her, and she wasn’t making it easy to try. He thought she would photograph well, and she did.

They didn’t have a honeymoon. They didn’t have sex. They stayed up and played cards until Starlett went back to the party to talk to some friends. She didn’t return until the small hours of the morning. He was surprised when she crawled into his bed, with him already in it.

It was alright.

---

Bob had few expectations of married life. All the marriages he knew intimately were defined by the constraints of living in the public eye. It wasn’t always easy to tell who genuinely loved, or even liked, each other. For the most part, it didn’t seem to matter. As far as he could tell, things seemed to work fine if you could balance a sense of being on the same team, with staying out of each other’s way. His parents had utterly failed at this, and that was why they were getting divorced.

Or, so he thought.

Bob believed he was up to the task. He and Starlett could keep each other up to date on any important things they learned, that the other might not hear about otherwise. They could make fun of people together. He’d have her back and she would have his, even if they weren’t exactly goo-goo eyed over each other. Low stakes! Simple.

This “plan” had a fatal flaw. That flaw was that it required Starlett to talk to Bob, and that wasn’t happening. The contours of the problem were so unfamiliar to Bob that he wasn’t 100% sure if she was avoiding him, or if he had somehow failed to initiate the act of talking to his wife correctly. Maybe if he figured out whatever step he’d missed along the way, she would suddenly notice him. When it became clear that she was actively ignoring him, he knew things couldn’t go on like that for long. Maybe he’d offended her at some point? Whatever the issue was, it needed solving soon. He wasn’t about to live out his foreseeable future like this.

Bob came up with another plan. Instead of giving her plenty of space, as he had been, he’d actively engage her. He’d ride to school with her, now that she’d transferred to Madigan with him. He’d try to share meals with her. He’d invite her to… watch TV with him. Shit, he had to do something. Bob wasn’t sure he could solve the problem this way, but he was confident that he couldn’t make it any worse.

He woke up the first Monday back to school after the wedding, pumped and ready to take action: they would ride to school together, he’d decided. Bob was nothing if not proactive. Unfortunately, she was gone before he was even done getting dressed. She left makeup and mysterious metal implements strewn across the bathroom counter. The disorder struck him as disrespect on top of disrespect, leaving him to frown at himself in the mirror. What was he to make of this? Starlett made herself at home in his life, yet rejected him. Was he not the gateway to her legitimacy? She came from what amounted to a crime family, much as they might make efforts to appear to be a nation-state. Much as others found it advantageous to buy into the illusion, for the sake of the inconvenience it did the Crossroads. Surely, Starlett must know what the reality is. Surely, she must see the danger in turning him against her, especially so early in the game.

Game?

Bob paused and blinked back over his shoulder at his reflection. 17 god-damn years old. You’re throwing your life away. I don’t need you to solve problems like this. His father’s words echoed for what had to be the thousandth time, conveniently silencing the split-second of self awareness in which he questioned the wisdom of gamifying his own life.

Homeroom offered neither an opportunity to foist his presence on his wife, nor to avoid her entirely. It took him a long moment to recognize that one of the two-foot-high smiling faces on the overhead light projector, looking off into the middle distance was his own. The other was Starlett’s. He and Starlett were both fresh, glittering in royal finery and backlit by the halo of the setting sun.

Bob was reminded of how good he was at faking smiles. He couldn’t tell if Starlett was actually pleased or not, but by god, they were picture perfect together. She was every bit the princess, with auburn ringlets cascading over her shoulders, loose hairs catching the light. The low murmur of chatter rose until the teacher cut them off with a sharp “Now.”

“Vacation’s over and done with! Back to the ol’ grind, eh?” He responded to scattered snickering by clearing his throat. “I hope you all enjoyed yourselves. Especially you, Bob.” The murmur roiled back, burbling just out of Bob’s periphery. He smiled stiffly.

“As you all know, young Mr. Crossroads here was married while we were away.”

“Yeah, we know, most of us were there,” came a quip from the back of the room. Bob felt 29 pairs of eyes bore into him.

“Yes, well.” Their teacher flicked open a retractable pointer and indicated the light projection. The pointer went right through and tapped the wall, leaving a wavering hole in Bob’s magnified cheek until the teacher jerked the pointer away. “I still forget that these things aren’t solid,” he muttered. “Anyway. Anyway!”

When the picture changed, Bob had a split second of hope that he would not be the topic of conversation this morning. Unfortunately, the picture was also of him and Starlett, this time cutting the wedding cake. The Emperor hovered in the crowd, hands stuffed in his pockets and looking away from the camera. Bob assumed his classmates couldn’t tell the difference, but he could read his father’s exhaustion.

“As you also know, there are… issues around the marriage.” He rapped the pointer across his desk. “Marian. Issue.”

Bob caught one of his smaller classmates out of the corner of his eye. She sheepishly straightened in her chair. “Oh, um, the Empire and the Vandiver Colony don’t get along.” No shit, thought Bob.

“Yes. Many assume the marriage is related. Hanya.”

“They’re both like… 18.” A titter rolled through the class. Bob’s grip on his desk tightened.

“Darryl.”

“Look, straight up, no - no offense, Bob-“ He raised his hands in supplication as Bob’s frozen glare snapped to his classmate. “I totally thought he was gay. I’m -“ The class exploded into hoots and guffaws. Darryl gestured for everyone to tone it down, stifling his own grin. “I’m just - I’m just saying! It’s not a thing, I just thought that. It’s in WOW! Weekly this morning, so-“ He picked up an analog tabloid and flapped it around a little. His words were mostly lost to the riot of Bob’s classmates talking over each other about Bob’s voice - he doesn’t really sound gay, but what does that mean, anyway? -, his mannerisms, how attractive Starlett was. How Bob didn’t seem to have ever had a girlfriend. Did he have a secret boyfriend? Maybe he was one of those people who didn’t like sex at all. Or friends. The cacophony was in turn lost in the sound of blood rushing in Bob’s ears.

He missed the next 45 minutes and didn’t notice that time was a thing that happens until the bell rang. Bob’s classmates skittered and bounced out of their seats like pinballs, eventually filtering out the door. It didn’t occur to him to follow. He sat with his long legs awkwardly jackknifed under his desk, knees jammed hard into the underside.

How much of this happens because I act like it’s okay to treat me like a news item? Like it’s normal?

He jerked at the vibration of rapping on his desk. “Bob,” his teacher’s voice bordered on a whisper. “You alright?” Concern creased the man’s all-too-earnest face. Pissed Bob right off.

“I’m fine.”

The teacher’s face said he didn’t believe Bob. “You see, it’s not - that we want to hurt your feelings or anything, it’s just that - as the Crown Prince, you’re going to be the current event at times. Surely, you must be used to it by n-“

“I said I’m FINE.” Bob snapped to his feet and loomed over his teacher. The man shrank, just slightly. “When did I say I wasn’t? I didn’t say anything,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“I didn’t say anything at all.”

He left his teacher wondering if he might lose his job in the next 24 hours and escaped into the seemingly less judgmental hallway. Sure enough, Bob’s peers were more concerned about getting lunch than they were about him. He, on the other hand, had no appetite. He stopped at his locker to put away some books, and retrieve another - an outdated, but still interesting, library text on robotics. He was peripherally aware of how his peers broke and peeled away to let him pass, but after years of not knowing how to address the habit, he’d decided to let it be. Bob suspected this wasn’t an issue his father had when he attended the same school, so many years ago, but was too afraid of spotlighting his own deficiencies to ask the man about it. He wasn’t sure when he’d grown afraid of asking his father questions about himself. He wasn’t sure why. This was the first time he’d even been aware that he was. He shouldered into the door leading out to the courtyard hard enough to jar the air from his lungs.

It was crisp out. Not quite cool, but with a brisk wind. A little too bright, perhaps. Bob made long, crunching strides over the vibrant, manicured lawn. He had a particular tree he was fond of, with roots just the right size to hold him and flat surfaces one could get away with putting a drink on. People were kind, or respectful, or fearful enough to leave him his tree. Bob settled in and cracked his book. He was keen on appearing busy; appearing nerdier than he actually was. Boring. Not someone to talk to, immediately after having been the center of classroom discussion - a time when, historically, his peers had wanted to check in with him after. It genuinely did not occur to him that this could be out of concern - that they might find it awkward to discuss him as if he wasn’t there, with him sitting very much right there - that they might worry about what that does to a person. They never outright asked if he was alright, so he assumed it was a morbid curiosity that brought them to poke and prod at him with questions. Maybe it was. Being paranoid and cynical, doesn’t make you wrong. In reality, he needed a moment to refocus himself on the plan. What mattered was that he figured out a way to connect with Starlett. He knew where she ate lunch, and with whom. What was the best way to approach the group? Should he just… walk up? Should he call out to her from a distance? Should he do it… assertively? God, what was he even doing wrong other than existing? Would she like it better if he didn’t exist?

“Hey.”

Bob looked up slowly, as if he hadn’t been jerked out of himself. Three of his classmates stood above him, apparently not dissuaded by Bob’s large and nerdy book. They all smiled.

“Hm?” He looked neither perturbed, nor pleased, to see them. Perfectly neutral. Blank.

“Congrats, man!”

The other boys nodded along, mirroring the leader’s enthusiasm. “Yeah, yeah, congratulations.”

Bob’s brow knit. He could not imagine what on earth they would be congratulating him for.

“I can’t believe you married a Vandiver! Shit, the hottest one, too.” The boy on the left drew a curvy torso in the air, provoking a subtle frown and toe jab from the leader. “I didn’t even know you were seeing each other.”

“No one did.” The redhead on the right spoke up.

“Yeah, no one did,” the three murmured to each other before looking intently to Bob, as if he might offer some explanation.

Oh. It’s this. Being congratulated on his marriage made him feel. Unsteady, almost queasy. “Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “You know it’s… politically sensitive. Nobody wanted to make room for speculation, before everything was arranged.”

This answer seemed to satisfy them, and they all nodded their assent. For a moment, there was silence. Then, a nervous toe twisting in the grass. “... Man, you should’ve told us sooner? Right?” The leader elbowed those to the left and right of him in an attempt to spur the kind of energy that Bob effortlessly sucked right out of the interaction. They all squared their shoulders before leaning in all over each other and gesturing enthusiastically, reading less as individuals to Bob just then, than a bumbling hydra. Out of the cackling and indecipherable, brotherly muttering came, “Yeah! Could’ve got your dad to lower the drinking age, like, we’d throw you one hell of a party.”

“Yeah, man.” Sexy-Torso-In-The-Sky grinned. “Best party you’ve ever seen, am I right? Am I right?” He turned to the leader, who had his arms around his compatriots’ shoulders and was already gently leading them away.

“Anyway, Bob,” He nodded back towards the tree, a momentarily illegible look quickly replaced with a bright smile. “Again, congratulations.”

“Yeah… thanks… again,” Bob called after them as they got smaller.

Sexy-Torso-In-The-Sky had a finger in the air. Bob could barely hear his declaration that Starlett was, in fact, hot enough to turn a faggot straight. The wincing was internal.

#modus operandi #prose #why the hell not I guess

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tomorrowusa · 1 year

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Trump’s strategy from the very beginning of his political foray has been to discredit or destroy the gatekeepers, in politics and the media, who might one day be called upon to expose him. (“Low-energy” Jeb Bush, anyone?) He continues to brand them as weak, dishonest and out to get anyone who supports him. And every time an attempt to hold him accountable falls short of delivering the most fitting consequences, he counts that as a victory, and the effort’s “failure” as proof of its illegitimacy. Then he rolls all this together in his rhetoric to bolster his contention that all investigations of him and members of his inner circle amount to a campaign of political harassment.

Charles M. Blow at the New York Times with a useful two paragraph description of Trump’s modus operandi.

With authoritarians like Trump who lack shame and morality, it’s necessary to hit back hard and quickly while undermining their standing.

Trump’s GOP primary opponents in 2016 mostly came across as inert punching bags placed on stage for his benefit.

You’re never going to beat somebody like Trump by using logic or slick arguments. Somebody like that can only be brought down by being treated with heavy ridicule – with special attention to personal hypocrisy. You have to make them look like idiots to their followers, not just to NPR listeners and Whole Foods shoppers.

You don’t win by sticking to Marquess of Queensberry rules when your opponent is kicking you below the belt with spike-pointed shoes.

As Mel Brooks put it: “You make your enemy look ridiculous, you’ve won, and the best way to do that is with wit.”

#donald trump #tactics #modus operandi #election 2016 #charles m. blow

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nigthbreed · 1 year

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More Carrillo Logic

Another nugget of stupidity from the ‘His M.O. was No M.O.’ files.

‘Climaxing!’

Carrillo had learned through his detective studies that some killers are sexually aroused by seeing fear in their victims’ eyes. On podcasts, he cogitates for far too long at the idea of Richard Ramirez reaching orgasm: ‘He was orgasming!’ ‘Climaxing!’ ‘Foreplay!’. Alongside the bullets and the ridiculous links set out in this post, he also speculated that the murders of Okazaki and Yu were committed by the same man because ‘Richard Ramirez’ wanted to see fear in their eyes. “That was sex to him,” he declares.

Carrillo does not actually know what happened. He claims the killer banged on a car to attract Maria Hernandez’s attention (though she said it was an undefinable noise) specifically to see her scared expression. He claims Richard went up into Okazaki’s kitchen and waited for her to peep over the breakfast bar before shooting her (again, speculation). He then claimed that when the killer walked past Hernandez outside, he decided not to shoot her a second time because she no longer had fear in her eyes.

Wait – what? Why would Hernandez not have fear in her eyes? She had just been shot in the hand and was bleeding. She had heard her friend being shot and had no idea whether she would find her dead or alive. And here was the shooter, pointing the gun at her face for the second time… and she did not show fear?

Carrillo claims that Richard turned Tsai-Lian Yu around to see the fear in her eyes before he shot her. There was no proof this man – described as short and Asian – was Richard, yet Carrillo somehow knows what the Night Stalker was feeling when he shot this woman.

The next murder was a couple: Maxine and Vincent Zazzara. Maxine’s eyes were removed, so presumably, the killer did not enjoy seeing the fear in her eyes that much.

Then there were the four rape victims:

Carol Kyle testified that the rapist threatened to cut her eyes out if she looked at him. He covered her head with a pillow. (She did manage to see his nice straight teeth though).

Sophie Dickman said he put a towel and a pillow over her head, (but was able to see he was short to average height).

Somkid Khovananth said he put a coat over her head (luckily, she was able to identify a man with dark curly hair and a ‘brown face’).

Sakina Abowath was blindfolded (but not before she glimpsed a blondish man) and he hit her for looking at him.

Hold on a minute… did the modus operandi just change? How did the man who became excited from seeing Okazaki, Hernandez and Yu’s terror suddenly change into the man who gouges women’s eyes out, threatens others with the same, or covers victims’ faces and demands that they do not look at him?

One might argue that those rapes were different because the Night Stalker never intended to kill those women, so his fear-fetish was not present – which seems odd. Violent rape and burglary at gunpoint are terrifying – surely, he would be in his element? But no, he did not want to see their faces, not even to help him get an erection after he was unable to at the Dickman Incident. Hardly a sexual fetish then…

However, if he really cared about being seen, he would have shot them; he had a gun; after all, he had killed the husbands of two of the rape victims.

The Night Stalker ‘celebrity’ detectives like to state that Richard’s M.O. was no M.O., but that is clearly an excuse for their lazy policing; they cannot have it both ways. You either have a man who gets off on seeing women terrified or a man who hates being looked at. He cannot be both.

Furthermore, he cannot have nine different looks, five different heights, three different body types, four different hair colours, and three different sets of teeth.

The Night Stalker was multiple people and not one of them seems to be Richard Ramirez.