Variety is the Spice of Death

Ugh, I can’t stand it anymore. But how to go about it? OK, think, think!

A gunshot through a pillow-as-silencer is the obvious first choice. Quick and easy. But oh, so messy. Same with stabbing, especially multiple stabs. The repeated arced arm motion guarantees blood will fly all over the walls and the ceiling. By the way, that really irks me. Television shows and movies get the forensics all wrong. Half the time, there are no exit wounds for gunshots. Granted, while a smaller caliber projectile may not exit the body, larger caliber and shotgun blasts always leave an exit wound. I mean, if the producers are going to have a murder in their project, pay for the special effects, dammit. Look at Quentin Tarantino. That man is never cheap when it comes to blood!

Poison is tricky—and detectable in a tox screen. An insulin injection is also rather thorny even though homicide in this fashion has been done—a la Claus von Bulow. However, even though blood glucose levels measured after death are largely unreliable, residual insulin can be found in the tissues where the injection was made. I don’t like those odds. Nor do I have access to insulin.

Air embolisms are relatively successful when it comes to homicide. The air bubble travels through the bloodstream into the heart where it causes cardiac arrest. The literature suggests that at least 200 ml of air—or five ml of air for every one kg of body weight—is a good measure, but that’s metric and I’m in the U.S. and fuck that conversion shit.

Another problem with injections is the visibility of the needle marks, something many novice murderers don’t consider. It’s best to inject in a very wrinkly part of the body—such as the male scrotum—or in “out of the way” places such as the palate, back gums, between the toes, inside of the ears—someplace where a needle mark would be difficult to detect.

What else? Good ole gasoline and a match. I suppose that’s an option if you don’t care if your house and all of its belongings are destroyed. Besides, it’s windy out and I actually like my neighbors.

Pillow suffocation is another option, but he far outweighs me. I think he’d awaken and easily overpower me even if I sat atop him. And if, by some stroke of luck, I succeeded, the aspirated fibers would definitely point toward homicide. Besides, the fact that fingerprints can be lifted from virtually any surface nowadays would increase my chance of apprehension.

Carbon monoxide poisoning takes too long and I don’t have a detector to tell me when hot hibachi coals have put out the requisite 12,000 ppm to ensure death. This is a good way to go—especially for suicide—because it’s painless. The carbon monoxide simply binds to hemoglobin molecules causing hypoxia. The body isn’t all bloody or gross or whatever—just a nice newborn-baby pink. Not to mention there are also too many windows in the bedroom to get a good seal to prevent leakage.

I’m running out of options here. I’m too broke to hire a hitman. Besides, if you’re going to commit a crime, never tell anyone else because that will invariably come back to bite you in the ass. Someone always gets scared and blabs everything in exchange for some reduced sentence—like life without parole is so much better than death. Yeah, whatever.

Oh fuck it. I grabbed his always-loaded .40 caliber, shot him in the head twice—and the groin once just because—and sauntered out of the house as if nothing happened, got into my car—with the gun, of course—and drove away.

Snoring husbands are the worst.

“Insanity runs in my family. It practically gallops.” ~ Cary Grant

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