Terri Lynn Coop

It took me seven years to decide to kill my husband.

Before I get to the ‘how,' let me briefly tell you about the ‘why.'

I met Kevin in college. We were literature majors and fell in love over Agatha Christie and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. We talked endlessly of writing husband-and-wife "whodunits" that would reflect the best of suspense fiction. Our wedding reception was on the Orient Express Mystery Murder Train. It was a dream come true.

Until "The Brain-Eaters."

The what?

Let me explain. We were poor. Few made a living writing fiction, and we were no exception. We sold some short stories, and won a few contests, but that didn't pay the bills. I took a job teaching high school English, and Kevin took any freelance job he could find.

That's how he met Rick. That bastard.

Kevin and Rick regularly freelanced for a heavy metal rag called "Slimy Groove”. They reviewed records by bands such as "Smashed Flat Shit," and "Necrotic Virginity”. They went to concerts and wrote advertising copy for head shops. It was disgusting, but it paid the bills.

One night, they got together and wrote a short story called "The Brain-Eaters”. It was about a heavy metal band made up of cannibalistic zombies. It was the perfect gag. The band only worked at night, and had no problem getting stoned victims to come backstage after the show. I'll leave the rest to your imagination.

It sold.

It sold thousands of copies. The magazine ended up doing twenty reprints of the initial story. A first edition of the story sells for up to $800 in mint condition.

"The Brain-Eaters" spawned several generations of demon seed. "Brain-Eaters II - Zombies Gone Wild", "Brain-Eaters III - Revenge of the Zombies". All the way up to "Brain-Eaters X - Zombies Go to College".

Did I mention the franchise was picked up by Hollywood and made into movies? Dreadful movies. Movies played to packed houses of stoned and screaming teens and college students. Disgraceful.

At first, I was fine with it. The money was good and Kevin was happy. We didn't talk as much, and instead of spending Friday nights cuddled up with our well-worn copy of "The Maltese Falcon", Kevin usually had a promotional event. I willingly put aside my own literary aspirations to further Kevin's career.

However, I knew that it had to end the day I went into the butcher shop and asked for two pounds of pork chops. The butcher leaned across the counter and said, "We don't have any pork chops, but we have some incredible BRAAAAAIIIIINNNNNSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!" He then held out a copy of “Slimy Groove” and asked me if Kevin would autograph it for him. I smiled and found another butcher.

That's the first time I fantasized about killing Kevin. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the idea. It's not like I knew him anymore.

It wasn't just about the money. In fact, Kevin and his zombie franchise was probably worth more to me with him alive than dead. It's just that I was disgusted by our life and the man that I'd married.

But, how to do it?

I went about it in my best Agatha Christie fashion. An obscure poison would be best. Preferably one that accentuated Kevin's mild heart condition and would pass for a heart attack.

I studied and studied and finally found the compound I needed. A rare plant from India produced a poisonous seed that when baked into bread caused heart failure. Bless the internet. In less than a month, I had seedlings in my hand.

However, I wasn't content with just the seedlings. As a mystery writer, I studied crime and police procedure. I knew how sophisticated forensics had become and that I would have to be crafty to produce an undetectable poison.

Well, I won't bore you with details. I crossbred the original plant with another and another and in a few generations had a toxin that when bonded with the gluten in wheat flour was as close to undetectable as a poison could be.

I practiced on stray animals. At first, they convulsed and foamed at the mouth. Too much. Then, the animals revived and recovered after a day or so. Too little. Finally, a dog ate my bread, shivered for a few moments, yelped, and fell still. Just right. I took the dog to a vet in another town and ordered an autopsy and toxicology screen on the story that I believed my evil neighbor had poisoned poor Fluffy. The results. No toxic substances. Death by heart attack.

I was ready.

Kevin liked home-baked cloverleaf dinner rolls. In fact, he swore by them and insisted on them at every meal. I was an expert. Every stinking day, I rolled out dough, and dropped four little dough balls into each compartment of the muffin tin.

Except last night, I added a special surprise ingredient.
I put out the pot roast, potatoes, salad and rolls. I hadn't served pork chops since my visit to the brain-loving butcher so many years ago.

Kevin took two helpings of meat and some salad. I passed him the rolls and he said, "no thanks.”

"NO THANKS?"

When I asked him why he doesn't want any of the rolls he has insisted on every damned day for the last ten years, he answered, "Atkins."

"ATKINS?"

He then told me he'd put on some weight and was cutting carbs on the Atkins Diet until he slimmed down, and that I could stand to lose a few pounds as well and would I like some pot roast?

I insisted he have a roll.

He resisted.

I insisted.
He resisted.

I won that argument, although it took a baseball bat to do it. And you know what, Mr. Detective? When licked off your fingers, brains aren't all that bad after all.