Elvis, Ricin, and Rivalries: The Bizarre Feud That Rocked Mississippi
In the spring of 2013, federal agents arrested Kevin Curtis, an Elvis impersonator from Tupelo, Mississippi, for allegedly sending ricin-laced letters to U.S. President Barack Obama, Senator Roger Wicker, and Judge Sadie Holland. The letters carried phrases Curtis had posted online, including, "I am KC and I approve this message," according to GQ.com — making him a prime suspect. But what seemed like an open-and-shut case quickly unraveled into one of the most surreal stories in recent memory. Let's dive into this tale of small-town rivalries, conspiracy theories, and a feud that escalated in ways no one could have predicted.
How did Kevin Curtis end up in the Feds' crosshairs?
On April 17, 2013, Curtis left his home with his dog, Moo Cow, oblivious to the convoy of federal agents heading his way. As Curtis slowed to check his mailbox, SUVs surrounded his car, and agents from the FBI, Secret Service, and Homeland Security aimed their guns. They ordered him to freeze, or they would shoot him. Curtis, confused but compliant, held up his dog and asked if he could at least take Moo Cow inside the house. The agents refused. Moo Cow bolted as they cuffed Curtis and hauled him to jail on suspicion of attempted assassination.
For seven hours, agents grilled Curtis about ricin. When they asked if he was familiar with the poison, Curtis reportedly replied, "I don't like rice. I don't really eat rice. If y'all look in my house, you won't find any rice," according to GQ.com. By the end of the interrogation, agents began doubting his involvement.
Curtis suggested an alternative suspect: Everett Dutschke — his sworn enemy.
How did the feud begin?
The Curtis-Dutschke rivalry began in 2005, when Curtis approached Dutschke, a local martial arts instructor and aspiring politician, with allegations of black-market organ harvesting at a hospital in Tupelo, Mississippi. Dutschke declined to publish Curtis' claims in a newsletter, dismissing the story as too controversial.
Their relationship soured further when Curtis posted a fake Mensa certificate on Facebook, baiting Dutschke, a proud Mensa member. "I threatened to sue him for fraud for posting a Mensa certificate that is a lie," Dutschke told the local Daily Journal newspaper in 2010.
The feud spiraled into confrontations, cyberstalking accusations and even a proposed fistfight at Dutschke's dojo. "I will meet you next Tuesday at my school at 1 p.m., and we can finish this once and for all," Dutschke wrote in an email, according to GQ.com. The match never happened, but their animosity simmered for years, becoming a battle of egos in a small town that didn't seem big enough for both of them.
How did Dutschke become the prime suspect?
After releasing Curtis, federal investigators turned to Dutschke. Evidence mounted quickly. According to court filings cited by the Daily Journal, Dutschke purchased castor beans online — the raw ingredient for ricin — and disposed of gloves and a coffee grinder, both of which tested positive for the toxin. Investigators also recovered a document titled "Standard Operating Procedure for Ricin" on Dutschke's computer and surveillance footage of him discarding materials linked to the poison.
As if that weren't enough, prosecutors later accused Dutschke of trying to frame Curtis a second time by recruiting someone to mail another ricin-laced letter.
Despite overwhelming evidence, Dutschke denied all charges and initially pleaded not guilty, though he later changed his plea to guilty.
What ultimately happened to Dutschke and Curtis?
The ricin poisoning case culminated with the conviction of Everett Dutschke, who was sentenced to 25 years in federal prison in 2014. Dutschke was found guilty of manufacturing and possessing ricin with the intent to use it as a weapon.
"I'm glad he's in jail because that's where he needs to be. He's a threat to a lot of people," Curtis' lawyer, Christi McCoy, told the Daily Journal.
Kevin Curtis, initially arrested and accused of the plot, was released after investigators found no evidence linking him to the ricin production or the letters.
Why does this story stick with us?
This saga defies easy categorization. It's part Southern Gothic, part screwball comedy, and part cautionary tale. Curtis' eccentricities — a passion for Elvis, conspiracy theories, and a Chihuahua named Moo Cow — clashed with Dutschke's self-proclaimed genius and penchant for chaos. Their feud escalated from petty grievances to a biological weapons case that made national headlines.
The story offers a sobering lesson about the dangers of unchecked grudges. But it also has a darkly comic edge, a reminder that truth can be stranger than fiction. Tupelo may be Elvis' hometown, but Curtis and Dutschke carved their own place in its history, one bizarre chapter at a time.
References: The Elvis Impersonator, the Karate Instructor, a Fridge Full of Severed Heads, and the Plot 2 Kill the President | The bizarre tale of the Mississippi feud behind the ricin letters | Dutschke accused of trying to frame Curtis for ricin letters again | Tupelo Man Who Sent Ricin Letters To Obama Gets 25-Year Sentence
