DISGRACELAND - AC/DC pt. 1: A Satanic Serial Killer, A Police Man Hunt, and a Media Witch Hunt

Episode Date: February 21, 2023

In the 1980s, AC/DC’s biggest fan was a notorious serial killer. The band was an international best-selling hit machine, and members like the late Bon Scott and die-hard Angus Young became rock icons. But when the press caught wind of the disturbing fandom of the serial killer Richard “The Night Stalker” Ramirez, the news quickly dragged the world’s most fun, pure rock ‘n’ roll band straight down the highway to hell and into the center of a media firestorm around Satanic Panic and the inspirations of a murderer. This episode contains themes that may be disturbing to some listeners, including graphic depictions of violence and sexual assault. To see the complete list of contributors, visit ⁠disgracelandpod.com⁠ This episode was originally published on February 21, 2023. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at ⁠disgracelandpod.com/membership⁠.   Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - ⁠GET THE NEWSLETTER⁠ Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: ⁠Instagram⁠ ⁠YouTube⁠ ⁠X⁠ (formerly Twitter)  ⁠Facebook Fan Group⁠ ⁠TikTok  See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. This episode contains content that may be disturbing to some listeners. Please check the show notes for more information. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The connections between ACDC and Richard Ramirez, The Nightstalker, are insane. ACDC's song Night Prowler inspired the killer's moniker. An ACDC hat was the first and for a time only clear.

in the serial homicide case that gripped greater Los Angeles in the 1980s. Richard Ramirez, the Nightstocker, carved a pentagram, a satanic symbol, into one victim's body, painted the symbol on another victim's wall, and carved it into the palm of his hand. And Bond Scott, ACDC's lead singer, wore a pentagram around his neck on the cover of the Highway to Hell album, a detail that was not lost on the sensationalist news media. The Nightstalker killed 13 people that we know about. Men, women, and children savagely beaten, strangled, stab, shot, and raped, most while sleeping peacefully in their homes.

Richard Ramirez loved to kill, and Richard Ramirez loved ACDC's music. Great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron, call UK limo MK2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to

Can't Fight This Feeling by REO Speedwagon. And why would I play you that specific slice of crawl upon the floor cheese, could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on March 17, 1985, and that was the day that a California serial killer left his ACDC hat at the scene of a homoomero. dragging the band into a media circus that would haunt them for the rest of the decade. On this episode, a satanic serial killer, a police manhunt, a media witch hunt in ACDC.

I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgraceland. Headlines were ridiculous. Mass killer driven by rock and devil worship. ACDC music made me kill, Nightstocker admits. Angus Young, the guitar player for ACDC, was annoyed. The haircut sitting across from him and lead singer Brian Johnson was as ridiculous as the headlines for which he and his ilk were responsible. His questions proved it. Did ACDC stand for Antichrist devil's child?

The question was so dumb it didn't even deserve an answer, but there Angus was answering it. Uh, no. We got ACDC off of our sister's sewing machine. It stands for power. It was all a game, and the haircut knew it too. You couldn't spend five minutes talking to Angus, Brian, Angus's brother Malcolm, or any other member of ACDC past or present,

and walk away thinking, oh yeah, those guys are devil worshippers. They were too down to earth, too grounded, salt to the earth, Aussies, meat and potatoes, working class. That background, along with the aforementioned power, was reflected in their music. music that had spread all over the world. Since releasing their seventh album in four years, Highway to Hell, in 1979, and its follow-up back in black in 1980, the band had become an international best-selling sensation, knocking off

nearly 15 million in record sales by mid-decade in the U.S. alone. You'd be hard-pressed to find a high school in America in 1985 without legions of long-haired ACDC fans. Their music was powerful, sure, and it played with three. familiar dark rock and roll themes, especially from back when Bond Scott, their original singer Helmed the group. But the truth was, ACDC was a straightforward, fun-loving rock and roll band. And though they made their living on the same side of the street as Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin, the truth was that ACDC had more in common with the seemingly for their era anyway,

conservative rock and roll stylings of Chuck Berry than they did the demonic imagery and devil-infused themes of Sabbath and Zeppelin. But that was the truth of. it, and the truth didn't matter. Like I said, it was all a game. And when it came to the media, the game, of course, was as it still is, all about the narrative. And at that moment, in 1985, regarding Richard Ramirez the notorious Nightstocker serial killer, ACBC was a big part of the narrative. Richard Ramirez, the so-called Nightstalker, accused of murdering 15 people in California, was influenced by the ACDC song Knight Prouler.

That song, it's been completely taken out of contest. Congress has been holding hearings recently on the subject of whether there should be warning labels on records whose lyrics are judged objectionable. Some people say that stands for Antichrist devil's child. Antichrist devil's child. Antichrist devil's child. Richard Ramirez put his back into his pool shot.

all six foot one and 160 pounds of them. He was tall and thin, and like his favorite band, ACDC, whose music was blasting throughout the pool hall at that moment. Richard Ramirez was powerful. He looked it physically and otherwise. His hair was black and sore his eyes. And he was dark skinned, but beyond that, he seemed to possess a layer of filth

that perpetually covered his body. When he walked into a room, cloud of stench arrived about 30,000. seconds prior. He was filthy. His teeth were rotting out of his head, despite his tender age of 24, a combination of his lack of hygiene and drug use, cocaine mostly. And despite all of this, his good looks were irrepressible. He wore all black, tight black jeans, black avia sneakers, black members-only jacket, and a dark, near-black midnight blue ACDC hat. The band's music drove him, especially their Highway to Hell album. It's spoken.

to him. But more accurately, Richard believed Satan spoke to him through ACDC's music. Richard Ramirez believed he was the chosen one, a dark soul hand-selected by Lucifer himself to do the devil's business here on earth. Satan spoke to Richard in ways that went beyond ACDC as well. There was the pentagram tattoo on that horse thigh and the skin flick on screen at the cameo theater from earlier in the night. Then there was Perry and Dick's complete and total lack of remorse inside the Cutter family's home. Capote had it dead to rights and cold blood, no doubt. And that scene from the Texas chainsaw massacre, Pam's long walk in those short red shorts,

all those teeth and human bones. And the devil's taunting of Father Karas through Reagan's body in the exorcist. Karas, that smug prick. All of it fed Richard Ramirez, and he needed to feed the devil. He split from the pool hall. It was time. Hors wouldn't do it. They laughed at him, at his teeth, at his weird foot fetish.

Plus, there was no power in paying for it. Taking it was where the juice was. Charged him. He needed to get out of downtown L.A., out into the unsuspecting suburbs. Outside the pool hall, the hotwire to Toyota, popped the clutch, and went hunting. Richard hit the highway, and soon enough the off-ram, Rosemned Meade, California. He cruised slow, the windows down. In his head, he recited the lyrics to ACDC's night prowler.

It calmed him, steadied his growing adrenaline. The lyrics, with their dark tale of breaking and entering, prowling about in pursuit of an unsuspecting victim's virginity or worse. Outside their windows on the other side of the blinds, an unimaginable, creepy, fear. And that fear that the prowler caused, Richard longed for it, fed off of it, chills, and the murderous terror. It was all there, from Bon Scott's lips to Satan's ears. Richard searched for house. It needed to be just right. The perfect mix of quiet and potential. There, a tiny little condo, an unassuming petite, attractive brunette, Maria Hernandez, pulling her gold Camaro under the rising automated door of her condominium's garage.

Richard cut the engine, used his muscular forearms to pull the Toyota's now manual steering wheel to the curb, glided over the gravel to a near silent stop, and watched. As the condo's garage door began to wrench itself to a close, Richard sprung from his stolen car and sprinted. Before the door could shut, Richard slid underneath. inside Maria Hernandez heard an unexpected sound, turned, and there he was. Six feet of stacked evil, staring at her, less than 20 feet away. Maria quickly turned to insert her house key into the lock on the door that led into her apartment.

Richard began walking toward her, slowly with intent. The lock wouldn't take the key. Maria turned. Richard continued his approach. Now, he had a 22 pistol pointed straight at her. The garage door fully closed. All of the light in the garage was completely blacked out. Maria could smell Richard's hellfire breath.

No, God, please don't! She said as she reflexively raised her hands in front of her face. Then, the loud, blinding light of the 22 pistol. Maria fell to the ground. And Richard kicked the door open and entered the condo with authority. There, in the kitchen. another petite and attractive brunette, Dale Akazaki, Maria's roommate. She ducked behind the counter.

She didn't know Richard saw her. Richard slowly approached the counter from the other side and stood silent. Richard waited. Nothing. He knew it wouldn't be long. He knew she would stand up sooner or later. Sure enough. When Dale stood to take stock of the horrifying situation she was in,

she was staring into the cold black eyes of her killer. Richard Bernierrez pulled to the same. the trigger of his 22 from point-blank range, firing a single bullet into the middle of the victim's forehead. She fell dead instantly. Richard ignored the sexual charge rising up inside of him. He turned and headed for the front door, and as he headed out into the night, there, on the walkway, in the front yard, unbelievably, Maria Hernandez. The bullet he'd fired at her in the garage had been blocked by the house keys in her hand. She spoke to her would-be killer in spurts. Please don't. Please don't. Please don't shoot me again.

And Richard lowered his gaze and walked past her toward a stolen car. As he drove off, he realized his ACDC hat was missing. He steered the hot Toyota back toward downtown L.A. and blasted his Walkman at full volume. ACDC's Highway to Hell filled his ears. Living Easy, Living Free. Living Easy and Living Free was right. Those lyrics from Bond Scott on ACDC's Highway to Hell

title track were basically a mantra. It was how Bond lived his life. It was how Bonn Scott was living his life at this exact moment back in 1977 prior to the recording of Highway to Hell. He was stuck riding bitch between two new friends in the backseat of a big American V8 somewhere in Florida. Florida loved ACDC. So to Texas. Radio stations and live audiences in those two big American States were almost entirely responsible for ACDC breaking through in the United States on the heels of their 77 full-length effort, dirty deeds done dirt cheap. Bonn was in a great mood. As he was on most nights, he screamed along to the Sex Pistol song blasting from the car radio, and all was well until the quailudes kicked in. How many Bonn took, he didn't know. He also didn't know how much

he drank. Blue Nun, sweet German wine. It was. washed the ludes down quick. Everything around and raced by at its normal speed, as Bond Scott powered down and sank deeper and deeper into the 70s. 1977, Los Angeles, Sunset Strip, the Continental Hyatt House, aka the Riot House. The notorious hotel was the scene of many of 70s rock stars, debauchous escapades. Tonight it was Bond Scott from ACDC's turn.

He strolled the hotel with a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, and a tall buxom blonde in the other. His band was in town for a set of shows up the strip at the whiskey at go-go. But tonight was for letting moose. Bonn had steam to blow off. Since arriving in America in support of their latest album, The Beyond Excellent Let There Be Rock, Living Easy and Living Free was proving to be easier said than done.

The critics were not impressed. The New York Times said that, quote, The band is tight, but the singer is undistinguished. The Los Angeles Times claimed that Bond Scott himself was utterly unlistenable. What did the critics know anyway? Nothing. The media were nothing but vultures. Kids knew the truth.

They flooded radio station request lines for ACDC after every show the band played. Rock and roll was a lifestyle. The kids understood that. There was a commitment. You needed to live the life, walk the world. walk, talk to talk, so to speak, and Bon Scott did that. Concert goers latched on to Bon Scott's rock and roll authenticity. And in my opinion, there is no better example of what a rock and roll frontman should be than

Bond Scott. Voice, check. There's none better in the genre. Raspie, knowing, bluesy, mysterious, powerful, and unlike anything before or since, probably my favorite rock singer of all time. Looks, check. Bon Scott looked like he'd fight you, fuck you, be your best friend. and break your heart all in the same night regardless of what sex you were.

Bon had it all. He was utterly serious-looking tattoos, broken teeth, yet totally irreverent, violently handsome, a rough piece of trade you can take home to Mom. Not my mom, but you get the idea. Stage presence check. Bon Scott commanded the stage with a unique, powerful presence. No easy task when you're positioned up there next to Angus Young, a constant whirling ball of sugar-infused heavy metal energy in a schoolboy's uniform

with a Gibson S.G. Who split his time stripping down to his skivies and melting faces. Even in the face of that, Bond Scott did more than hold his own. He owned the audience with raw power, just like the rest of his band. Lyrics, check. Bond Scott was a natural rock and roll storyteller,

cut from the same cloth as the great one, Chuck Berry. ACDC's latest long player, Let There Be Rock, had Bond on the top of his game lyrically with songs like Whole Lot of Rosie, A song about the virtues of the full-bodied female and the title track let her be rock, which took the listener through a Blitz Creek rock and roll history lesson. Bond Scott commanded audiences,

and he told stories offstage too, as he was now doing at the Hyatt House, surrounded by friends. Problem Child, so the story went, was a song about Angus. But Bond was coming clean. Maybe the Jack Daniels was talking. The song, he said, was actually about himself. In 1963, 16-year-old Bond Scott. Those other boys had it coming.

Bond took on the lot of them, bare-knuckled. He would have prevailed if it weren't for the cop who broke it up. And the cop who caught one of Bond's flailing fists. And that little move ended up with the charge escalating to assault on a police officer. Bond did 12 months in a juvenile home for boys. Then there was the story about Deep Purple. They were supposed to headline the Sunbury Festival back on ACDC's Australian Home Turf back in 75. Deep Purple were huge at the time. Bond had barely been in ACDC a couple of months.

Deep Purple backed out, and the promoter hired local upstarts ACDC to fill in. Then, Deep Purple showed up, and their fucking Rolls Royces, no less, and they demanded to play. But one of the roadies took a swing at ACDC's manager, and Bond Scott pounced, leveled the dude. All hell broke loose backstage. Angus spilled out onto the stage to chill out the kids in the crowd who were desperate to know what was happening and eager to lend their countrymen a hand when they found out they were doing battle backstage with an English rock group. Angus chilled them out, but not before seeing his lead singer, Bonn Scott, being whipped around on the back of a deep purple roadie he held in a headlock.

Eventually the melee came to an end and all parties laughed off the incident, but it made for a good story. Just like the story about when Bond found himself at the maternity ward visiting two different women at the same time. of whom were delivering his babies. It's true. That happened, according to Bond Scott anyway. Another one of his good stories.

But nothing taught Bonn appearing on Australian National Television to perform in 1975, fully in drag, dressed as a schoolgirl. Pigtails, blue eyeliner, lipstick, skirt. Australia would never be the same. Half the country was still horrified and half was still laughing, like Bond. It was all a joke. The arrests, the time, the drink, the fights, the unwed pregnancies, the shock and outrage, none of it was serious.

It was all of put on. Living easy, living free. The only thing that mattered was the show, giving the kids what they wanted. And beyond power, what kids in the 1970s wanted was darkness. Richard Ramirez was one of those kids. Hell ain't a bad place to be. If you want blood, you got it. Dirty deeds done dirt cheat.

What's next to the moon? Night prowler and highway to hell. Indiscriminate murder, contract killing, violent crimes of passion, a glorification of Satan. All this darkness is present in these ACDC songs. Tremendous, transgressive rock and roll storytelling, delivered with ACDC's trademark power. Incredibly compelling stuff for disaffected teenagers everywhere.

Never mind those living in a post-Charles Manson Los Angeles. 1985 L.A. was its own kind of hell. The air itself was toxic, and the homeless problem like it is now was out of control. And the elite shuffled aimlessly up in their Hollywood Hills mansions as coke and crack addicts roamed the streets below, turning tricks and getting stoned and decaying bus terminals and hourly motels. It was in this hell that Richard Ramirez found himself, listening to ACDC, communing with Satan, and about to pay the death. devil is due.

We'll be right back after this word, word, word. The Catholic Church compels its followers to develop a daily relationship with God, to speak to him, to pray to him, to commune with him. Richard Ramirez did the opposite. He spoke with Satan. The power of Satan to welcome him. From behind the wheel of his stolen car, Richard Ramirez absorbed the sounds of Highway to Hell and spoke in a trance.

Hail Satan, thank you for being a stabilizing force in my life, for driving me, for accepting me into your army, for enlisting me in your fight against Christ, for giving me purpose, for showing me the power and total domination. Richard Ramirez believed that Jesus Christ was the enemy, and that he, Richard Ramirez, was part of Satan's army here on earth. And who are we to argue? Richard Ramirez's evil was beyond compare. especially on the night of March 26, 1985. At around 2 a.m., Richard Ramirez slowed his new stolen car to a stop outside a tidy-looking home on Strong Avenue in Whittier, California. He crept slowly into the yard, peered into the living room window.

On the sofa, a man sleeping in front of the television in his underwear. Richard crept to the back of the house. He peered into a bedroom window. And there, on the bed, a woman sleeping, mid-forties. The sight of her and the thought of imminent sex charged Richard. Richard turned toward the front of the house, steadied himself with his 22 pistol aimed in combat position, and burst through the front door. The man on the couch woke in a start, when Richard immediately fired off around.

The bullet entered the man's skull just above his ear. A thin stream of blood shot out of the man's head and painted the living room wall three feet away. The man fell to the floor, dying. The sound of the shot woke the woman in the bedroom. Horror chilled her veins when she saw Richard into the room. She screamed, and Richard screamed back. What is the fucking bloody bitch? Richard didn't wait for an answer.

He quickly grabbed a necktie from the closet and bound the woman to the bed. Then he continued ransacking her bedroom for valuables. But while he was distracted, the woman loosened the sloppily tied necktie, undid herself and made for the shotgun her husband kept under the bed. Richard heard her, turned around, and was shocked to see the woman had the drop on him. She focused her aim, strengthened her grip, pulled the trigger in. No shotgun shells. Richard flew into a rage.

How dare she tried to hurt him. He was an agent of Satan. She was a weak pawn, insignificant sacrificial fodder. He quickly raised his 22 and shot her three times. Then he hit the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife he could find. When he returned, he pounced on the woman on the bed. He ripped off her shirt and proceeded to attempt to cut her heart out of her chest, but the knife wasn't strong enough and wouldn't penetrate the rib cage.

It was a disappointment. Richard took the knife and carved a deep, bloody, upside-down cross into the woman's chest in homage to Satan. Without her heart as a souvenir, he turned his attention to her eyes. He took his knife and with precision, he caught her eyeballs out of her skull and carefully placed them into the woman's small jewelry box. His anger returned. He stabbed her repeatedly in the throat, in the stomach, in the vagina. Richard then tried to have sex with the dead woman's body,

but his anger prevented him from getting an erection. He exited the house frustrated and covered in blood. He took the shotgun and the woman's eyes. On May 29th, it was a different home. In Monrovia, Richard broke in. He prowled the entryway into the kitchen, where he found a hammer. Moving to the bedrooms, he found, and tied up both residents of the Monrovia home. Two women, sisters, in their 80s, one of them disabled.

They helplessly took blows from that hammer, the claws of it gouging and breaking their bodies. Richard's bloodlust fed his libido. What he wanted to do in Whittier, he did to the disabled woman in Monrovia. Afterwards, he shocked the one sister with the one sister with the woman. an electric cord, took her lipstick, and drew pentagrams on her thigh and on the walls of the house. The two women's bodies weren't found for days. The very next night, in Burbank, he used handcuffs instead of rope to bind a 42-year-old woman and her 11-year-old son. He threw the kid in the closet and dragged the mom around the house, making her show him all the valuables he could steal.

And then he raped her repeatedly shouting at her the whole time. Don't look at me. I said, don't look at you. Don't look at you. Don't you fucking. Look at me. I won't, I won't, I swear to God, I won't. Don't swear to God, swear to Satan. I am the Nightstocker. Richard liked making his victims swear to the devil. A 63-year-old survivor from Monterey Park was made to pledge her allegiance to Lucifer.

During a robbery in Sun Valley, he demanded the widow of the man he'd just shot in the head, swear to Satan that she'd given up all her jewelry. And on another night in Diamond Bar, he made a different woman swear to the devil that she would stay quiet while he raped her. Every scene was raw, uncut, nightmare fuel. And then there was the attempted murder of Whitney Bennett. Stop, stop, she shouted, her mouth full of blood. The tire iron came down on her head over and over, pummeling her innocent 16-year-old face.

Richard had snuck in her unlocked bedroom window with the tire iron in hand. And as he brought it down again, her hand swatted out of him in a useless defense. She had been asleep a minute ago, and she quickly slipped back into unconsciousness under the assault. Richard stepped out into the kitchen for a knife, but struggled to find one. Instead, he decided to finish the job by strangulation. An electric cord laced around her neck, pulled taut. He yanked it harder, watched her skin go pale, and then purple. Suddenly, the electric cord sparked and fritzed, filling the air above her body with a blue haze.

It was as if her soul was visibly leaving her body. Except instead of dying, the 16-year-old began gasping for air and waking up again. For once, Richard Ramirez was the scared one. The blue haze over the girl's body had freaked him out. Clearly, this was the sign of divine rather than satanic intervention. Her soul, he saw it, he swore. That was what scared him. Jesus intervening, overpowering Satan.

Richard booked it out of the house and Whitney Bennett survived after 500 stitches and some plastic surgery. Following this gruesome string of murders, it wasn't long before the press picked up on the fact that a serial killer was in their midst. When they found out one of the only clues was an ACDC hat left behind

at the scene of the Dale Akazaki murder in March of 85, the media feeding frenzy really kicked in. They even had a name for the killer. It was a take on his favorite band. ACDC song Night Prowler. They called them the Nightstalker. The so-called Night Stalker is blamed for seven murders in the Los Angeles area. Now, police have linked the killer to a murder in San Francisco last weekend.

Officials in Los Angeles are offering a $10,000 reward for a war. ...to the capture of the so-called Night Stalker. Night Stalker. The same man is suspected in... Six to eight murders and 25 to 30 attacks. The latest victim, a 35-year-old man, shot in the head last Thursday. Shot him at a hit last Thursday, Thursday, Thursday. I'm afraid for everybody, anybody.

I've been very apprehensive. I keep my doors locked and my guns loaded. My guns loaded. Nightstorm. Callers are flooding the Sheriff's Department with reported sightings, but so far, no solid leads. Nightstore, Nightstore, Nightstore, Nightstore, NightStore. And if ACDC embodied Bond Scott, Richard Ramirez, unfortunately, embodied the violent themes Bon Scott incorporated into his music. near black, glittery ACDC logo emblazoned across the front.

It fell off of Richard Ramirez's head, most likely when he scooted under Maria Hernandez's garage door before attempting to shoot her point blank in the face. It was one of his first violent break-ins and the first clue he left for police. It would be months before the media would learn about that hat. And when they did, they looked into Richard Ramirez's favorite band. It was 1985, in ACDC's latest. album, fly on the wall, was a mediocre recording and commercial release for a band as successful as ACDC. However, journalists on the hunt for a narrative didn't need to do much digging to connect

a straight line between the murderous actions of Richard Ramirez and the influence of ACDC. All they needed to do was trace the band's discography back a few years to 1979 to their album, Highway to Hell. On its cover, Angus Young sports's trademark schoolboy hat modified with devil horns and holds a long point to devil's tail in his hand. You'd have to be a complete fucking idiot to take the image of him seriously, but then again, we're talking about the American media. Perhaps more serious is the image of Bond Scott next to Angus. He's sporting a goofy smile.

The photographer caught him in the middle of a laugh. It's a very Bond type of image. One a thousand fans have seen before. As always, he's not taking himself too seriously. However, on his necklace hangs a very serious symbol. A five-pointed pentagram representing the five wounds of Jesus. Add a goat's head to the pentagram, and you have the official symbol of the Church of Satan. Catholic exorcists believe that symbols like the pentagram or perhaps even this podcast are used by the devil as entry points into the lives of men and women.

Richard Ramirez believed this too. After he was captured on August 31, 1985, he stood in court at his arraignment and flashed the palm of his hand. On it, a massive pentagram carved into the flesh above the number 666, the number of the beast. In case there was any doubt, after he pleaded innocent to murdering 13 people, Richard Ramirez yelled out,

Hail Satan to the judge and the rest of the court, including some victims' family members and members. of the media, who had already connected Richard's intentions to more than just Bond Scott's pentagram on the cover of Highway to Hell. They also connected the dots to Bon Scott's lyrics and the slow, evil menace of the album's final track, Night Prawler, which, lyrically seemed to detail the creepy B&E murders of Richard Ramirez, the Knight Stalker. Many in the media went as far as to directly blame ACDC for Richard Ramirez's actions. The members of ACDC vehemently denied any serious connection to or influence from Satan despite the imagery and themes they explored on record.

Richard Ramirez did the opposite, saying in court, I love all that blood. I love to kill people. I love watching them die. I believe in Satan. I am beyond good and evil. Satanists need to have more faith than Christians. Richard went further. He treated his trial like some sort of demonic celebrity come-out party. He dressed in a dark suit. four sunglasses in the courtroom and let his hair grow up. If you squinted, you could see the resemblance to ACDC's previous singer Bond Scott, who passed away tragically, drunk and stoned and drowned in his own vomit, in the front seat of a French supermini on a cold English night five years prior in 1979.

Living easy, living free. Dead on your own puke inside the cold interior of a Renault 5. For a moment, the courtroom stage allowed Richard Ramirez to fill the void left by Bon Scott. Richard was now the rock star. The explosion of media coverage around his trial that blasted his evil rock star image all over television newscasts and newspapers daily, led to a torrent of groupies. These were women who wrote to Richard Ramirez pledging their love. They sent him nudes, proposed polyamorous domesticity,

and even hung out in and around the courtroom during his trial. One, Doreen Lioi, even married Richard after he was convicted and sent to San Quentin with a death sentence. Perhaps Doreen's love was a parting gift to Richard from the devil, paying his dues. Perhaps, as Bond Scott sang in 1977, hell ain't a bad place to be. Richard Ramirez was a special kind of evil, proof that Satan does indeed walk among us. The nightstocker died in prison on June 7th, 2013. In the end, it wasn't the electric chair or lethal injection. It was B-cell lymphoma, cancer, bad blood. He was 53 years old. Richard Ramirez spent 20 more years on this

earth than Bon Scott who died at the age of 33. But only one of these men died a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Shaspa, Nanu, Nanao. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All-Axist member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to disgracelandpod.com

slash membership. Members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad-free. Plus, you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelampod.com slash membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, and Facebook at DisgracelandPod, and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at DisgracelandPod. Rock a roll.