Charles Manson's Blood Letters: dueling with the devil

by Richard Rubacher

  Before the Hit Man could make any sense of what’s happening, I jumped up, startling my guest. “Mudda Fukka,” that’s your favorite word.”

  Tough Dude reflected on the thought.

  “How do you spell your favorite word?” Before he ventured an answer, I spoke softly, enabling him to savor the full effect of what I was about to say—“’Mudda Fukka,’ that’s your favorite word.”

  The Hit Man pondered the thought.

  “How do you spell your favorite word?”

  ”M-o-t-h-e-r F-u-c-k-e-r.”

  “Just as I thought. You’re not spelling it the way you say it.”

  Tough Dude dumbfounded. “Mudda Fukka, I been saying Mudda Fukka all my life and you’re telling me—“ I spoke softly sooooo softly:“you’re saying it right but you’re not spelling it right.”

  “What you mean, mudda fukka? Mudda is spelled M-o-t-h-e-r and F-u-c—

  “I made the time out signal. Hold it, Tough Dude. You’re saying M-u-d-d-a. Try spelling the next word.” “I get it. F-u-k-k-a.”

  I burst into applause. “Now put your favorite words together.” “M-u-d-d-a F-u-k-k-a. Mudda Fukka.”

  More applause as I slapped the Hit Man on his back.

  It was time to get serious. I spoke in a whisper. “Tough Dude, in my possession is a priceless collection from the “children of the land,” as Charlie calls them.”

  Tough Dude strained to hear. This time I spoke in a near-normal tone. “In their own words, drawings and images, the children confess their fears, their dreams. These priceless historical documents show us how the Manson has the ability to heal the wounds of people in despair.”

  He paid attention. I was on a mudda fukka roll. “Charlie releases the playful and magical spirit that has been buried in children and grown-ups alike.”

  I asked him for another smoke. We lit up together. “Charlie sent me letters,” I continued. Then he’s mad about something and—“ I snapped my fingers--he wants the letters back.”

  “Just like Charlie. An Indian-giver, that Mudda Fukka.”

  I exhaled slowly, holding the smoke a la Manson.

  “It’s like--like you’re Charlie speaking. Now I see why he calls you his soul bro.” He looks at his watch. “I gotta get back to Sacramento.”

  While he put his boots on I prepared a doggie bag and a six-pack of beer. “These sandwiches, sweets and beer are for you and Lorraine.”

  “Gee, thanks, Mudda Fukka.” I sat on the top step, listening to the music of the Hit Man clomping down the stairs in his spit-polished cowboy boots.

  After his departure I reflected on what transpired. With Elf, I delivered ‘Manson Talk.’ Father Manson.

  With Tough Dude, it was ‘Charlie Talk’ that resonated with the Hit Man. This was the nurturing, caring, supportive Mother Manson.

  Thank you, Charlie.

  Meeting Manson in the Prison Nuthouse

  After more than twelve months of corresponding with Manson the good news came. His postcard said, “We can meet in the prison’s nuthouse next month. What date you picking?”

  I let my finger “do the walking” on the calendar for March, 1977. When I opened my eyes, the date in front of me was March 17—St. Patrick’s Day.

  In nineteen days we would be in the same room. I had requested Mr. Nathan, the prison’s PR liaison officer, that I wanted to be with Manson without any guards present in the room. I also requested that Manson not be shackled with hand cuffs and leg irons. When I saw him on TV a year ago two burly guards were in the room.

  To my surprise, both requests were granted. And complete privacy would be provided as the attorney’s room was the venue.

  A week before the meeting Manson wrote: “R&R, the freer you are when you visit me, the freer I can be.”

  He also said, “What you see in me is in you.”

  More good news--the time together would be two hours.

  He suggested I bring a tape recorder, a German book and a bandana.

  Bandana? I understood the reason for the German book and the tape recorder. But bandana?

  I wrote back, asking the purpose of the bandana. I also told him that if he yelled at me I would hide under the table and blow smoke in his face. I would not come out until he talked nice to me.

  I knew he was subjected to rage, with or without provocation. Anger management was my prescription for his social malady.

  In his reply he did not comment on the bandana. Instead he reiterated his previous thought—“The freer you are when you visit me, the freer I can be.”

  Finally, the long-awaited day came. I drove the ninety miles from San Francisco to the California Correctional Facility at Vacaville. I made sure I did not break any speed records.

  The prison has imposing guard towers. On the perimeter are electrified ten-foot high fences. Massive concrete blocks without windows punctuated the landscape. I identified myself at the entrance. While waiting for Mr. Nathan to arrive I was frisked. The bandana, tape recorder and book were taken away. I would get them back after the interview. I muttered to myself. Then it dawned on me that it was okay to win some and lose some. We were going go be in a private room with no guards and no shackles. Stop whining, Richard.

  We walked pass several checkpoints where I was frisked a second time. PR Nathan was polite and accommodating. We walked through the main corridor. Prisoners were hanging out; some carried clothing that seemed to have come from the cleaners. This place didn’t meet my expectation of a prison. Every body seemed casual and friendly. The place and ambience seemed more like a military base than a fortified prison.

  We stopped at an enclosed door that had a peek-thru reinforced glass wire window. A sign above the door read ATTORNEY’S ROOM. When I was let inside the door closed with a bang. Getting up from his chair at the table I had visualized where I would hide in case Manson got mad at me.

  There he was--Charles Manson, stood up; he was dressed in prison blues. He stroked his scraggly beard. He was small in stature, just as I had imagined from the family members’ description.

  He said nothing. I said nothing. We peered at each other. Once again the adage proved true—“the loudest sound in the universe is silence.”

  His eyes were as penetrating as in the photos. He showed me several fierce expressions; than a mellow face. I realized he was playing different parts of himself.

  He lit up a Camel. My usual brand was Kent. But today I smoked Camel. From watching him on the TV interview I knew how he cupped his hand, how he blew out smoke. I imitated his cigarettesmoking ritual.

  He moved the table away from the two chairs. No barrier between us.

  California State prisoner B33920 spoke. “R&R, where’s the bandana, tape recorder and German book?”

  With a gesture I indicated they were confiscated.

  “You fool,” he said, slowly exhaling and stroking his beard. “You don’t know nothing about prisons. They won’t let you in with those things.”

  So he knew all the time. He laughed at my foolishness.

  “Can you do your Hitler Talk without the German book?”

  The family told him how I mimicked Hitler. I assured him that I could improvise Hitler. I had performed it before Germans, Danes and Americans. Relieved that I would perform for him, he took out a blue and white bandana. With that item, he gave a fashion show. He wore the bandana as a headband; he tied it around his head and told me how he walked in the yard.

  “I’m playing bad man. The yard peacock. The top dude. You dig?”

  I nodded. He swaggered, puffing away.

  Then he wore the bandana as a mask, pretending he was a robber. Then he wore it as an ascot, playing the role of an English aristocrat. He reminded me of David Niven.

  He was forty-four at that time. This was the man who held the city of Los Angeles in a state of terror after the Tate-LaBianca murders on August 9, 1969. The city was in that state until he was caught in November of that year.

  This was the man who mesmerized and to
ok over the mind, soul and heart of Lyn Fromme, Sandra Good, Tex Watson, Leslie Van Houten, Linda Kasabian, Mary Brenner, Susan Atkins and a host of other family members. This little guy with delicate fingers of a pianist or surgeon, had motorcycle gang members doing his bidding.

  This little man got people to “kill for love.”

  This pint-sized, frail-looking man looked into the darker side of American life and saw its glaring vulnerability, its weaknesses.

  “Okay, dude, hit me with your Hitler impersonation.”

  I wipe my imaginary mustache, a la Hitler and smoothed my imagined jelled hair, a la Hitler. At the imaginary podium I gaze at Manson and the thousands of people who ‘participated’ in my version of Der Furher.

  Like Hitler, I make Manson wait. As we know, Hitler was terrific at foreplay. I wrapped my arms around my chest and spoke slowly as the train slowly pulled out of the station—“Ich bin ein Deutscherkinder, Deutscherfuhrer. Heil Deutschland, Heil Mann-sohn, Heil myself.”

  Manson chuckled.

  I gave the Nazi salute.

  Manson: “I dig it, dude.”

  “Haben, schnaben, knaben, mit ein umlot laben skaben das schnaben und knaben.”

  I raised my voice: “Goofuberhausvagan, eins tobaggan, mit der schnaggen.”

  Manson, thrilled.

  The train rolled along, out of the station. I reached a higher pitch in my voice, volume, fully into the performance. “Gofuberhausvagan, eins—”

  The guards and PR man burst into the room and heard me intone: “Tobaggan, mit der schnaggen hogen huberhofen gallapen kopf.” “He’s imitating der Furher,” Manson said, laughing. “You’re welcome to stay and watch. If it’s ok with R&R?”

  I nodded and got on with it, still at a feverish pitch: “SS Himmler, Goering, Hussen Hessen, Blitzkrieg, Vassennossen. Knishenossen, Nein gefilte fish. Haupt von der Kleinnen, mich verboosen, verboten.”

  All are laughing as I sipped imaginary water.

  “Das Hound ist verboten in mein Knish matzoh gefilte fish. Auf weidersein mein SS brigade. Heil Hitler, heil Mann-sohn, heil myself.”

  Manson applauded, as did the trio. Exhausted, I slumped into my chair, sweating, just like Hitler. The trio exited, chuckling. “R&R, what’s the first thing you want to know about CM?” he asked.

  “You wrote that you see through all eyes. Does that mean you’re God?”

  Manson, angry, untied the bandana, now a cravat, wrapped it around his hand as he made a fist.

  “I’m my own police, lawman, judge, church and government.”. Impressed, I applauded. Manson, surprised.

  ”That’s good Manson Talk. You answered my question.” “You think I’m playing with you?

  I imitated Manson and blew smoke rings. “You sure are, Charlie.”

  He made a sudden lunge at me. I stood still, waiting for whatever was to come. Instead of an attack, he embraced me. We hugged.

  After the hug we swapped cigarettes from our respective packs.

  “What’s next on your agenda?” he asked.

  “Charlie, how does a baby learn to hate?”

  He spontaneously went into his playful mode, he stroked his beard and said, “Man you sure jump in with the heavy stuff.”

  Then he responded. “Okay, I see where the thought is going. A baby comes into the world cold and helpless. Baby must have love, must be washed, bathed, and held. Must be given shelter from the rain and cold—“

  Manson snuffs out his smoke. He crawls on the floor, playing a baby.

  “When baby doesn’t get an outpouring of love from the parents, it will take whatever it can get and view it as love.”

  Manson, pleased with the direction the thought was traveling, stood erect. “This is where the circle of confusion gets bigger, wider, and deeper.”

  Manson now holds an imaginary baby in his arms. He cradles and rocks the baby. “This loving mass has a powerful desire to express its love, which is its true nature. This quivering jellyball is alive and is burning with love.”

  His face becomes sad. “But what happens when love is not given to baby?”

  He plays with his beard and continues:” When baby is ignored or abused it begins to withdraw. When it grows up and still receives the cold treatment, it shouts to its mom and dad—“

  An ear-shattering yell erupts: “I hate you.”

  The door bursts open. The PR man and two burly guards explode into the room.

  “The dude and I are just jiving,” Manson said.

  Taking the cue, I nodded and said, “We’re having a spirited conversation.”

  Satisfied, they withdrew. Without losing his train of thought, Manson continued: “In truth, that means I love you. It means where is the love I thought was there? Where is the love that should be between us, the spiritually-deformed teenager screams?”

  Manson lapses into a scream: The PR man and two guards again explode into the room and hear Manson proclaim: “I hate you for not showing your love.”

  Manson instantly changes his mood and becomes subdued. “I’m putting on a show for my distinguished guest.”

  The officers studied me and notice that I am unruffled and unharmed. In fact, I’m enjoying the show. Once again, the trio leaves us alone.

  “Where was I--yes yes. I hate you for not showing your love the tormented teen says.”

  Manson stares at me.

  ”R&R, you dig the thought?”

  “Yes, Charlie. The violence of non-love committed by your mom became interpreted as love to you.”

  I paused and then said, “Charlie, baby is you. The tormented teen is you.”

  Inmate B33920, stunned as he absorbed the shock of this unexpected response. He attempted to respond but changed his mind..

  “You used violence as a distortion of love,” I said.

  “What do you mean?

  “In one of your letters you wrote, ‘I used violence as a tool for showing my love to others.’”

  Manson tugs his beard, then nodded.

  “Charlie, does that mean you don’t see yourself as a violent man?”

  “While I’m not a violent person, I do incite others into violent action.” Manson sat down. I sat also. We are separated by the table. With an imaginary ladle in his hand, he stirs a cauldron, about to brew up a violent storm.

  “I stir the energy. I succeed in arousing violent feelings and actions in others.”

  “Charlie, I wish I was with you in the desert and the ranch, before the killing began.”

  “So you think I fucked up?”

  “The craftsman of chaos fucked up royally.”

  “The craftsman of chaos,” he said, savoring the phrase. “Can you stretch that thought out?

  “The craftsman of chaos--or trickster par excellence,” I said, “plays the fool to fool others in his mirror that distorts reality.”

  “Dude, let’s change the subject. You wanna know more about my recruiting system?”

  “Sure I do.”

  “I told you a little about it in my letters. Here’s the full version. You ready?”

  “Yes, more Manson magic.”

  “It’s the simplest trick in the world.”

  He told me that his psychedelic van pulled into a town along Highway 1 in northern California for re-fueling the tank at the combination general store-gas station-post office. The only other edifice in town was a tavern-restaurant across the street.

  A young striking blonde and her beau occupied a window seat in the tavern. She was animated, her hair tousled as she talked. She wore a tantalizing teal-colored tank top.

  In the psychedic van were four female and three male family members. One of the men was Manson. While he concocted his recruitment plan he couldn’t take his eyes off the winsome blonde.

  The van pulled out of the gas station and parked where the occupants could see the tavern and not be noticed by the customers. One of the Manson women exited the van and entered the tavern. She took a seat next to the striking blonde and her beau.

&nbs
p; Two more Manson women entered the tavern and sat at a table near the couple.

  The fourth Manson woman and one of the men left the van, entered the tavern and took a seat away from the other family members.

  Another Manson man strutted into the tavern.

  The bartender served all the newcomers beer at their tables.

  Manson woman 1, next to the blonde and her beau, played with her hair as she sipped her beer.

  The Manson Hit Man attracted attention at the bar; he pounded his fist on the counter, demanding service in an irritating voice. All the Manson members pretended to dislike the unseemly behavior.

  The bartender served the Hit Man. With beer in hand, the Hit Man swaggered to the table with Manson women 2 and 3. He eyed their bods, especially the breast area.

  “Nice tits, babes.”All in the place took notice.

  “Stand up, babes, so I can enjoy a full view.”

  Women 2 & 3, “We will not.”

  Manson man 1 with his partner, woman 4, from a nearby table. Man 1, “Cool it, buddy.”

  The Hit Man pulled out a knife; his face contorted with rage. He laughed.

  The blonde beauty, terrified; her beau, scared. The Manson lookout woman at the window gave a pre-arranged, a subtle wave of her right hand.

  Taking his cue, Manson exits the van and ambles into the tavern. The Hit Man squeezed the breast of woman 2.

  She ‘panics.’ “Get your paws off me, you creep.” The Hit Man saunters to the blonde teenager, stares at her tank top. He noticed she is bra-less. “

  “Hey, stop right there or I’ll call the police.”

  Hit Man to bartender: “You do that and it will be the last call you’ll make.”

  The bartender cowers.

  The Hit Man slashed the knife near the blonde’s face. She recoiled in horror, backing away.

  Hit Man, to the frightened blonde, “Take it off,” sexy chick.”

  Her beau attempted to make a stand but is struck across the chest with the butt of the knife. He falls to the floor, shocked into inaction.

  “Last warning. Off with your tank top or I’ll carve your pretty face.” Manson woman 2, to the blonde, “Do it, honey. He means business.”