Right around when we started out
after rehearsals each night,
just as the rest of the guys were off chipping,
I used to like nothing better than getting in my car
and just driving.
LA is perfect for cruising, it’s all freeway.
Out on the tarmac there’s no interaction
just reflection in chrome and glass.
I guess that’s why I
took to touring to so well.
This one night I was prowling aimlessly
deliberately going nowhere slow,
which is harder than you’d think when
every road leads somewhere;
just me, a cigarette and
the tape deck loaded with
all my driving greats: Highway To Hell
Back In Black, Zep, early Sabbath, Priest
doing nothing but driving and singing,
smoking and practicing my scales.
It was somewhere off
that I heard the strangulated whoop
of the blue siren and the lights flashing to
pull me over; fucking pigs, I thought,
The did the whole loud-hailer bit:
step out the vehicle
turn around slowly
get you hands where I can see them
now drop to your knees
I complied, silently cursing them
but glad I was clean
just a good tax-paying
(on cigarettes, anyway)
citizen who can’t sleep nights
They eyed me suspiciously
ran their checks
searched my motor
spoke like I wasn’t there, then said:
“It’s not him. This skinny fuck
couldn’t kill a rabbit”
“Are you a faggot, son?” said one
waving the AC/DC cassette at me
“No,” I said, emotionless.
“Then why you listening to faggot music?”
Then before I could answer: “You ever heard
of the Night Prowler?”
What was this – a trick question?
“Sure. I’ve heard of the song. AC/DC.”
“Yeah, well, in case you hadn’t noticed
some sick fuck is stalking
and killing them. Word is he
likes faggot music too. How do we
know you’re not The Night Stalker?”
“Prowler. Because I’m not, that’s why.”
“What do you think, Steve?” one said
“Nah. This ain’t him. This faggot’s
too white for our guy. Then they laughed;
they drove off.
About a week later they caught
some fruit called Richard Ramirez
‘The Night Stalker’
I laughed when I saw his picture;
that guy was too ugly to be me.