William said that question was tough and the answer uncertain. He recognized the connection between abuse endured as a child and violent crime committed as an adult, but he couldn’t understand why the two conditions are directly and not inversely related. “I know Sells was molested when he was younger. It doesn’t make sense: If you were abused, how could you go and murder children?” I asked if he’d ever confronted Sells about the issue. “I’m going to ask,” William said, then hesitated. “I’ve got to be careful ‘cause he gets angry and starts bashing his head into the glass if you piss him off.” William told we all are, because serial killers commit the kind ofviolent crimes we all are, because serial killers commit the kind ofviolent crimes that happen everywhere, everyday. “If I saw someone beating a dog, I’d get up and try to put a stop to it. But sometimes things happen, and I just accept them, because there is nothing I can do about it. Right now wars are happening, buildings are being blown up, whole families are being destroyed. It’s just the way it is. People have always killed each other.”
By the end of our conversation, William had explained to me that, ultimately, his interest in dark art stems from his own stint in prison. “I’d been in prison,” he shrugged, “so I had an interest in serial killers and crime and collecting was just a natural thing for me to get into.” If there was an incident that incited his hobby, William said, it would have to be the first time he saw Ramirez’s work, twelve color illustrations hanging side by side in an art gallery. “I just wanted one of those,” he told me. “I wanted it so bad.” William immediately went on the Internet to find more art by famous inmates and, when he discovered a wealth of beautiful hobby crafts pouring out of the state prison system, he said to himself, “I want to collect these.”
“Very few people want these items, but the people who do will pay for them.” William is part of a small circle of collectors, people few and far between, from vastly different backgrounds: former FBI agents, musicians, attorneys, and paralegals. The group convenes on Murderauction.com, the largest murder memorabilia auction site in the world, one William designates as “the melting pot where everyone meets.” In addition to the feeling of community it contributes to his life, William’s collecting is something he uses to “keep out of trouble.” He spends a great deal of time writing and receiving letters, and because of his friends’ rather unpredictable personalities each day brings something new and unusual. “When I go to the P.O box, I never know what’s going to be in there. It’s really exciting going to get the mail every day.”
William reinforced the mostly benevolent nature of his friendships with those behind bars. “I know it sounds crazy, but I have best friends in prison all over the USA. And I know some of those I consider my friends might, if given the chance, rob, rape, or kill me. But they are in a controlled setting, one in which they couldn’t kill me, even if they wanted to.” Despite this disturbing reality, William seems to hold a high degree of importance in the lives of many of his incarcerated friends. Some who have been executed sent William their personal effects. He has been named next-of-kin on the lists of those still waiting on death row. William stressed what a huge responsibility it is to handle an inmate’s final arrangements. “It ain’t cheap, either,” he grimaced. “In Texas, it costs eighteen hundred dollars to pick up a cremated body.”
Though he doubts that many of his prison friends would remain friendly on the outside, William is unwavering in his belief that Charlie would remain loyal under any set of circumstances. “If Charlie got out today, I would have him over at my mother’s for dinner. I wouldn’t worry about him ordering people to kill me, or any such nonsense. If I had a baby, I would want Charlie to see him or her, to see the love and happiness I would have found. I would want him to rejoice in that happiness with me.”
I told William that I wanted to meet with Stanton LaVey and asked if they knew each other. William said, “Of course we do,” then pulled out an oversized, beat up yellow film canister. On its side was a piece of very old masking tape, with the words Satanism: The Devil’s Massscrawled on it. William handed me the canister. “Tell Stanton I still have this,” he said. “I’ve been holding it for him.” I asked William what “it” was and he told me it was an original print of the film made about Anton LaVey in 1970. He told me that this copy had once belonged to Anton.
William also collects satanic memorabilia. The last thing he would say about the film was that it came from a large collection he had acquired and he felt Stanton should own it. William took me over to his bookcase, where he showed me many rare first edition occult and satanic books. It was obvious William loved sharing this stuff with people. It was difficult to obtain most of the things he owned and I couldn’t imagine the lengths he had to go through to piece together his collections. I asked him how one possibly obtained a tooth from Nicolas Claux, The Vampire of Paris. William laughed. “Man, it takes a lot of persistence and patience to develop relationships with these people.” He added that collecting usually involves exchanging favors of some sort and that I wouldn’t believe some of the connections he had to forge to make things happen. It occurred to me that just being able to obtain this stuff under such difficult conditions was the biggest thrill of William’s collecting. This had nothing to do with money; it was the challenge involved in bringing an item home that made the effort worthwhile.
Major
I used to have a horse named Major, and Major had his own mind. If he didn’t like you and didn’t want to give you a ride, he’d try to push you off on the edge of the barn. He’d run into fence posts, scare you, jump over fences. He’d do all kinds of crazy things. He had a wobble eye and he was kinda nutty. He’d get up next to the highway and run into the traffic, like the oncoming traffic, then he’d look back over his shoulder with that old crazy eye, and then he’d flip his hip like, “I’ll throw you out front of one of these trucks, you motherfucker, you.” He was a good horse for himself, I mean, you know, but he didn’t like people that well. That’s why I liked him so much. You had to be an experienced horseman to ride that guy. If you weren’t up on all the tricks, he’d trick you. That’s what this Irishman, Kenny, reminds me of. He’s nuttier than a fruitcake. Whoever raised him, they raised him.
They didn’t ever put a check on him, you know. Lying is his way of life, man. He’ll lie about something one minute, then if you catch him, he’ll apologize and then lie about that. Haven’t been able to get him to tell the truth. [I] tell him how important it is but, you know, it just doesn’t sit on him. He wants in on something. He wants to be with someone. He’s got a need to belong somewhere. He just follows me around, man. I’m on the horns of a dilemma with this guy. I give him an amount of mail to write. And he writes and makes enemies every time. I like him, you know, but everybody else hates him. He causes trouble everywhere he goes. One ball of confusion. He’s sad. He’s a sad dude, man. He don’t have nobody, but at the same time every time he gets somebody that might be right, he fucks them off, man. He’s got a line of people that I’ve introduced him to and he’d just mess them over for a book of stamps. Stamps seem to be the biggest thing in his brain. If he got a hold of a guitar, it might work. I find things for him and look out for him as much as I can, but then I’ve got everybody mad at me because I’m helping him
Air
I’m walking the road and they’re keeping their fucking mouths shut and doing what they’re told ‘cause if they don’t I’ll kill them. How can I do that? How can you do that? I’m an outlaw. I’m a crook. I’m a thief. I’m everything bad. I’m what you raised me up. I’m your bastard son, Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ was a bastard. Why do you think they crucified him? Because they loved him? You must be out of your mind, blind. Live and let live or die. You understand me? It’s not just because of the shirt you wear; it’s the tear drops that you’ve dropped already in the air, in the atmosphere that I have to breathe. If my atmosphere leaves, you can forget it, because I’m at the bottom of the ocean. I’m all the way down at the ground
. I’m in the octopus’s garden. The Beatles were eating my shit when I got out last time. Can you understand that? So that’s how much of a chance you’ve got to survive. I told you forty years ago. It’s coming. You won’t listen. Weren’t listening then and you ain’t listening now. It took me forty fucking years to come from the hills of Kentucky. Telling you, “Don’t build them fucking dams on the river. Stop using that fertilizer. Stop irrigating. You’re destroying the planet.” Nobody wants to hear it. If it’s not making money, it’s not popular. The best thing we could do is spray the garden. All the people that won’t, get in line with the Bible, flush the toilet for the last time. We don’t use toilets. Do you realize how many toilets are taking the water off the land?
Words
In prison, time is like an octopus, it goes out both doors; the back door, and the front door. Sometimes the back door is the front door, and the front door is the back door, and time doesn’t really mean anything in the center of the thought, or the reality of the mind, or the grave, whatever you want to call it. Life and death. The word prison itself is a prison, and the understanding of the wordprison is the only way to freedom. I told everybody that in Universal Studios last time I got out, when I did a little interview with them. I told them the way out of the room is not through the door, ‘cause you go through the door, it’s just another room, till you get to the big room, and the way out of that big, big room is as small as a flea, a bug. They say first was the word, and the word was god, and then they put all their words in the word god, and live a life they call religion, and holy. It’s stupid, asinine, in fact it doesn’t even have a word that covers how ignorant it is, because it’s just beyond belief. I met a man and he was studying Greek literature and I said, “What is Greek literature?” And he said, “It’s a dead language.” I said, “You spend all your days and nights studying Greek literature, never go outside, or go places or do things, just always study, study, study.” I said, “Why are you studying?” He said, “I’m studying so I can get a job teaching it.” I said, “Who in the hell would want to learn a dead language?” He said, “Somebody who wanted to get a job teaching it.” So we teach people how to teach. They teach people how to teach. We got all these people that learn how to teach, to teach how to teach. That’s pretty good.
Experiences
You wouldn’t know what a fight was unless you got into one. You wouldn’t know what a jail was unless you walked inside of it. So, actually, bad experiences are really good experiences sometimes. You learn things from bad experiences. If you just stayed at home all the time you wouldn’t know nothing. But you get out, you go out and experience life. Go drink in the bar, get in a fight, fall down, hurt yourself, and know what pain is. Get married, and you know what divorce is. All the things that you do are just experience, the life that you’re living. And in here is my life, and out there is your life. So you go get a job as a correction officer. You come in, you don’t know me. Someone says, “Oh yeah, that’s the paranoid schizophrenic over there, watch him, he’ll bite you. He’s dangerous. He’s no good. He’s evil. These are his evil tennis shoes. We got his evil jacket over here.”Then they retire. You watch them go through your life, eight hours at a time, and you can read everything they’re thinking, everything they’re doing. It goes around in circles. You begin to see just how everything is. The industrial revolution and the automobile society. It’s perfect for society and the artificial environment.
Well, you haven’t really missed anything because it’s not important anyway. It’s just a trip. It expands your consciousness; you know, the best thing for your consciousness is the Crucifixion. Imagine the Crucifixion. Be willing to go that far with life. And that’s the best, the peak of, that’s how you get in touch with God, that’s how you become God, because your pain just opens up all the senses of your body to complete ecstasy. It’s all right now, you got everything in your body, alive just turns on. The best experience I ever had was when my head was on fire. You think that would be the worst, but actually it just turned me on, just turned me completely on. You couldn’t get turned on any more. You know, I was at my total peak. I’m still there. I’m still screaming like a maniac man, wow, far out. He set me on fire because he heard my voice and it scared him, and he seen Satan in my sound because when I open up my voice and music it sounds like it’s coming from walls or something. It’s Satan, and then I was singing too loud in church, singing on the cross, imagine dying on the cross and then singing. Can you hear it yet, Jesus with a guitar, man. I have a good day every day. I get to play a little music. I got a half-assed guitar. It’s not that bad. I don’t got no electricity, but you know that’s cool, I don’t need electricity. My music is a hobby. It’s a habit actually, you know. I don’t really play for attention or approval. I don’t even think I know a song, man.
My image
I’m telling you, man, we’re breathing the same air. All I’m trying to do is survive in my air. I’m not trying to run for office, I’m not trying to be a rock ‘n roll star. I’m not trying to ace you out of what you’re trying to do, but you think acing me out of what I’m trying to do is going to help you do what you want to do. Everybody wants to be Marilyn Manson, and then they think I’m supposed to be mad at him. I’m saying, “Ah, he just saved me a trip. I don’t have to do it, he already did it. That’s cool.” I get the credit for it. He built a great image around the world. He named it Manson and everybodyd buy it, whatever it is. I never heard any of his music but I heard it’s pretty good. I heard he’s pretty good. I’m so busy playing music I never have a chance to listen to what other people are doing. I make my own noise. I believe each person’s got their own noise. I mean, make your own noise, I’m making mine. If people’s listening, okay. I don’t care if they’re not listening, I’m listening. I know who I play for. I play for the music. I don’t play for approval. I used to play for approval. I wanted attention, I wanted to be loved and I wanted attention, and I got good, I mean I really did, I got good.
I went to Frisco when I got out of the prison and I went up to the head gangster and I told him, “Yeah, I just got in town, I want to work at one of your clubs.” He got a whole bunch of nightclubs and he said, “Yeah, what do you want to do?” I said, “I’ve been practicing guitar in prison and I’m pretty good and I want to play and sing.” He said, “Let’s hear what you can do, dig?” So I did a few songs for him and he said, “Charlie, that’s nice but, man, Bing Crosby’s been gone. You know Frank Sinatra’s nothing anymore, that’s not what they’re playing.” I said, “What do you mean?” He said, “Come on, smoke this. Come on to the Avalon ballroom.” And I got a sports coat on and sports shoes, and my mind is running around in a ‘59 Oldsmobile 88 and all that, so the Grateful Dead come out and I never seen anything like that. I was on the Island. Twenty years behind in Washington State. And when those guys started playing and a strobe light came on, I freaked out, man, I jumped and ran out of that place. I said, “God.” I threw my guitar over a cliff, man. I said, “That’s it, that’s the end of that, man.” I didn’t want none of that action.
X
HE’S ONLY THE DEVIL
Even though it had been a couple of years since I last saw Stanton LaVey, I had a feeling we would reconnect somehow, that he would play a crucial part in my attempt to understand Manson. Stanton has many connections with all things underground. He has a refined understanding for the unconventional and the unorthodox. He speaks fondly of Manson and Manson’s relationship with his grandfather, Anton LaVey, and through his understanding of that relationship he has come to see and appreciate what he recognizes as “genius” in Manson. I wanted to hear more of Stanton’s take on Charlie and, since I was already in California, I decided to seek Stanton out.
Stanton is a very difficult guy to get hold of. When I finally managed to get him on the phone, I was surprised to find out he had left Hollywood to go into hiding. “People are trying to run to me,” he said. “I’m trying to run away.” I convinced him to meet me a
t his hideout, somewhere in California. Stanton was as enthusiastic and accommodating as ever. He couldn’t believe I had the opportunity to meet Charlie, and we talked for a while about how my relationship with Charlie had started and since taken off. I told Stanton how the conversations we’d had about the Manson family stuck with me still. It was an opportune time for us to get together. Charlie is a central figure in Stanton’s philosophy and belief system, and Stanton could shed light on Manson-the man and the myth-for me in a way no one else could. I could incorporate Stanton’s knowledge into my state of mind, should I ever meet Charlie. Stanton had satisfaction in knowing that. We made plans to get together in the days following our phone call.
Stanton’s apartment was, of course, deliberately tucked away and difficult to find. When I arrived, his girlfriend Sharon came to fetch me and take me inside. Sharon is slight with long black hair styled in a way that’s part pin-up, part Goth. As we entered the apartment, Stanton greeted me and laughed when he introduced his girlfriend as “Sharon Hate.” I squirmed a little as he enjoyed his own creative word play and my eyes slowly adjusted to the low lighting, the near darkness inside. Stanton took a seat in front of his computer, close enough to the machine that his face became illuminated, almost as if he were holding a flashlight under it to tell a ghost story, like a kid by a campfire. As I sat down on the corner of the couch, I thought to myself he wasn’t really scary; he simply seemed like the devil. Stanton’s belongings were packed in boxes as if he were in the process of moving. It became clear that this wasn’t a home as much as it was a place to stay.
Charles Manson Now Page 16
