Warning: There’s no humor here. This case happened in rural Lexinton County in the early eighties.

By the time paramedics arrive the man is dead. The skin over much of his body is covered with sticky stuff. The living room is a mess. Furniture is overturned. There’s gunk on the walls. The dead man’s eyes are wide open. "Not a natural death," the paramedic says, and calls for a deputy sheriff and the coroner.

The woman of the house freely tells what happened: Her husband was watching television. He fell asleep in his recliner like always. She is in the kitchen mixing grits in a dutch oven. Once the grits are bubbling, good and hot, she reaches down under the sink and gets out a pound box of Red Devil lye.

She pours the lye in with the grits and stirs it "real good." Then, using thick pot holders, she carries the dutch oven into the den where her husband is sound asleep—snoring with his mouth wide open.

She starts at his head and works down toward his feet, pouring the steaming grits and lye solution over his sleeping body.

The next few minutes are macabre. The man wakes up in tremendous pain. First from the searing heat of boiling grits. Next from the chemical heat of lye eating away at his flesh. The man tries to wipe the grits away—but sticky grits don’t go away—they’re the civilian version of napalm jelly gas.

The man keeps busy trying to run away from his pain. First he blindly slams into one wall, then into another. This scenario doesn’t last very long. Within minutes he drops to the floor, dead, but relieved of moments of pure agony.

The wife’s explanation is clear, concise, and without remorse. After she tells her story, she looks into the deputy’s eyes: "I’m a good wife and I looked after him like I was supposed to. One thing’s for sure—he ain’t never gonna beat up on me or mess with my daughter no more."