Dancing With the Reaper: The Most Disturbing Last Words of Death Row Inmates
Prologue: The Final Curtain
Death sentences are never a pleasant sight. Over the years, many convicted criminals have faced their execution with trembling lips, using their last breaths to beg for forgiveness, to curse their fate, or to say goodbye to loved ones. But some remain unshaken, even in the face of death. Their final words echo through the halls of history—disturbing, defiant, or chillingly indifferent.
This is a journey into the minds of those who walked their last mile and left behind haunting last words—some asking for redemption, others savoring their final moments, and a few who turned their executions into dark spectacles.
Chapter 1: The Grim Theater Begins
George Apple: The Baked Apple
December 1927. A cold wind swept through the streets of New York as George Apple entered a restaurant, gun in hand, intent on robbery. In the chaos, Apple shot and killed police Lieutenant Charles J. Kemmer.
Apple was arrested, tried, and convicted of first-degree murder. At first, he denied the shooting, claiming innocence. But as the weeks wore on and the weight of evidence pressed down, he confessed.
In 1928, George Apple was led to the electric chair. He looked at the men gathered around him—guards, witnesses, the warden. His lips twisted into a grin.
“Well, gentlemen, you’re about to see a baked apple.”
The switch was thrown. The room filled with the scent of burning flesh. Apple’s words would be remembered long after his body cooled—a macabre joke, his legacy written in gallows humor.
James Donald French: French Fries
Born in Illinois in 1936, James Donald French was a troubled soul. At twenty-two, he killed Frank Boone, a kind-hearted driver who had picked him up while hitchhiking. French asked for the death penalty during his trial, but the jury sentenced him to life imprisonment instead.
Disappointed, French wrote letter after letter to the governor, pleading for a new trial and a death sentence. His requests were ignored. In October 1961, French killed his prison cellmate, Shelton—not out of rage, but as a calculated move to force the state’s hand.
“I killed Shelton because I wanted the state of Oklahoma to give me the death penalty,” he confessed. He maintained this stance through three trials, refusing appeals on his behalf.
Psychiatrists found French to be intelligent and well-educated; he even authored a book. But their tests also revealed a deep-rooted suicidal impulse—he couldn’t end his own life, so he manipulated the system to do it for him.
On August 10, 1966, French finally got his wish. As he was strapped into the electric chair, he turned to the reporters gathered for the execution.
“How’s this for a newspaper headline: French Fries.”
The witnesses shuddered. The switch was thrown. For French, death was not an end, but a punchline.
Robert Alton Harris: Dancing With the Reaper
Born January 15, 1953, in North Carolina, Robert Alton Harris suffered through a childhood of abuse and neglect. By fifteen, he was already in juvenile detention for car theft. As an adult, Harris’s crimes escalated—burglary, kidnapping, and finally murder.
At twenty-two, Harris and his brother Daniel hijacked a car occupied by two teenage boys, Michael Baker and John Mayeski. They forced the boys to drive to a remote area, executed them, and used the car to rob a bank. The police caught up quickly; Harris was convicted of kidnapping and two counts of first-degree murder. He was sentenced to death. Daniel received six years in prison.
Robert’s execution was postponed three times, but on April 21, 1992, he was finally led to the gas chamber at San Quentin State Prison. As the cyanide pellets dropped, Harris spoke his last words:
“You can be a king or a little street sweeper, but everybody dances with the Reaper.”
The gas filled the chamber. Harris’s body convulsed, then stilled. His words, borrowed from the film “Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey,” lingered—a reminder of the fate that awaits all.
Chapter 2: The Final Joke and the Final Plea
Jeffrey David Matthews: The Governor’s Phone
Jeffrey David Matthews grew up in Oklahoma, a state where the death penalty was a grim reality for the worst offenders. In a twisted betrayal of family, Jeffrey and his accomplice Tracy Dyer entered the home of Jeffrey’s great uncle, Otis Short, a seventy-seven-year-old man. Matthews shot his uncle in the head at point-blank range with a .45 caliber pistol, while Dyer slit the wife’s throat. They made off with a pistol, $500, and Short’s truck.
Miraculously, Minnie Short survived. The police investigation was swift. Matthews and Dyer were arrested, tried, and sentenced. Matthews maintained his innocence, resulting in several postponements of his execution.
On January 11, 2011, Matthews was finally led to the execution chamber. His last words, delivered with a sardonic smile, were:
“I think that the governor’s phone is broken. He hadn’t called yet.”
The drugs flowed into his veins. Matthews closed his eyes, his joke hanging in the air—a final jab at the system that had sealed his fate.
Robert Charles Towery: Potato, Potato, Potato
Mark Jones was a philanthropist in Paradise Valley, Arizona. He trusted his mechanic, Robert Charles Towery, loaned him money, and invited him into his home. But trust became betrayal.
Towery, with accomplice Randy Baker, entered Jones’s house, handcuffed him, and stole valuables. Towery then led Jones to the bedroom and injected him with battery acid, claiming it would help him sleep. Jones trusted Towery and did not protest. After the injection, Towery strangled Jones to death.
The police arrested Towery and recovered Jones’s property. Towery was convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to death. Baker, for his testimony, served only ten years.
On March 8, 2012, Towery faced his execution. Unlike others, he was remorseful, sobbing and apologizing to the victim’s family. Amidst his tears, his final words were:
“I love my family. Potato, potato, potato.”
The phrase was a secret message to his nephew, who witnessed the execution. It referred to the sound of a Harley-Davidson motorcycle idling—a shared memory, a private comfort in his last moments.
Chapter 3: Life, Death, and Absurdity
Richard Aaron Cobb: Death Is Life
Richard Aaron Cobb was born on April 2, 1984. At eighteen, he and his accomplice Bunka Adams burglarized a convenience store in Rusk, Texas. After the robbery, they forced two employees and a customer, Kenneth Vandever, into a car and drove to a secluded area. Cobb sexually assaulted one of the employees, knelt the victims down, shot them execution-style, and fled. Vandever died, but the two employees survived and testified against Cobb and Adams.
On January 23, 2004, Cobb was sentenced to death. On April 25, 2013, he was executed by lethal injection.
His last words were philosophical, almost detached:
“Life is death and death is life. I hope that someday this absurdity that humanity has come to will come to an end.”
As the drugs began to flow, Cobb’s head snapped off the gurney. He smiled and said:
“Wow, this is great. Thank you, Warden.”
Minutes later, he was gone—leaving behind a disturbing meditation on existence and a chilling acceptance of his fate.
Chapter 4: The Vampire’s Pleasure
Peter Curtin: The Vampire of Dusseldorf
Peter Curtin was born in Germany, the oldest of thirteen children, into a household of violence and depravity. His father routinely beat his wife and children, and was jailed for raping his eldest daughter. Peter bore the brunt of the abuse, which twisted him from an early age.
He claimed his first murder at age nine, drowning two classmates. Throughout his youth, he was arrested for arson, theft, robbery, and burglary. His first definitive murder was in 1913, when he killed nine-year-old Christine Klein during a burglary.
Curtin’s crimes escalated. He committed more than sixty-five crimes, including nine murders and thirty-one attempted murders. He confessed to his crimes, admitting that seeing the blood of his victims brought him sexual pleasure. He often drank their blood, earning the nickname “The Vampire of Dusseldorf.”
Curtin was charged with nine counts of murder and seven counts of attempted murder. His trial lasted ten days. He showed no remorse, made no appeals, and greeted his sentence with indifference.
On July 2, 1931, Curtin was beheaded via guillotine. As he turned to the psychiatrist moments before his death, he asked:
“Tell me—after my head is chopped off, will I still be able to hear, at least for a moment, the sound of my own blood gushing from the stump of my neck? That would be the pleasure to end all pleasures.”
The blade fell. The witnesses shuddered. Curtin’s last words were a testament to the depths of his depravity—a final, grotesque curiosity.
Chapter 5: The Psychology of Final Words
As the curtain falls on each life, the final words of these death row inmates leave a lasting impression—sometimes humorous, sometimes philosophical, sometimes horrifying.
What drives a person to joke at the moment of death, to reflect on life’s absurdity, or to seek pleasure in the act of dying? Psychologists suggest that last words are windows into the soul—a final attempt to assert control, to leave a mark, to confront the unknown with defiance or resignation.
Some, like George Apple and James French, turned their executions into dark jokes—perhaps as a way to deny the power of the system over their lives. Others, like Cobb and Curtin, embraced the moment with disturbing acceptance, reflecting on the absurdity or pleasure of death.
For some, like Towery, remorse and love mingled with regret—a final attempt to reach out to family, to offer comfort, to seek forgiveness.
And for others, like Harris, the last words were a poetic reflection on mortality—a reminder that all must “dance with the Reaper.”
Chapter 6: The Families and the Witnesses
For the families of the victims, the final words of the condemned are a second wound—a reminder of the pain, the loss, and the evil that brought them to this moment. Some find solace in apologies, others are haunted by jokes or philosophical musings.
Witnesses to executions report a range of emotions—fear, anger, sadness, even relief. The final words linger, echoing through the halls of memory, shaping the legacy of both the killer and the justice system.
Some families never recover. Others find a measure of closure. But all are marked by the experience—the final moments of a life, the last breath, the last words.
Chapter 7: The Legacy of Last Words
The last words of death row inmates are more than curiosities—they are cultural artifacts, reminders of the complexity of human nature and the enduring mystery of death.
They challenge us to confront our own beliefs about justice, forgiveness, and redemption. They force us to ask difficult questions: What does it mean to die well? Can evil be forgiven? Is there meaning in the final moments, or only darkness?
For some, the last words are a comfort—a sign that even the worst among us can seek redemption. For others, they are a warning—a reminder that evil sometimes laughs in the face of justice.
Epilogue: Dancing With the Reaper
As the world turns and the justice system grinds on, the final words of death row inmates continue to haunt us. They are echoes of lives gone wrong, of choices made and consequences faced.
Some beg for forgiveness. Some offer love. Some joke, some curse, some reflect on the meaning of life and death. And some, like Peter Curtin, seek pleasure even in the act of dying.
In the end, all must dance with the Reaper.
Which last words disturbed you the most? Let us know in the comments.
Because sometimes, the final words are the ones that linger longest—reminding us of the darkness within, and the fragile hope that redemption is possible, even at the very end.
