Failure. No one was more deserving of that epithetical middle name than French Eddie Pasteur. He was the World’s Worst Serial Killer. No, seriously. No one had ever attempted – and failed – to kill more people than he had. As a matter of fact, he had never managed to kill anybody. Originally excused by his colleagues as just cold feet, it was eventually seen for what it was: an intractable case of butterfingers, complicated by overeager incompetence. Knives would slip on sweaty palms, or fly out of his hand on the backswing, or else their tips would break on shirt buttons and belt buckles. Guns misfired, or weren’t loaded, or their safeties would be engaged, or his skinny fingers would be too weak to squeeze off the big-ass Python he’d never been able to fire. Piano wire would snap and sing mosquito-wing notes in the ears of his fortunate non-victims. Nooses unraveled, toasters unplugged, bats missed, matches extinguished, engines gave out, windows rebounded, tub stoppers unplugged, bows shot from arrows and not vice-versa, beer bottles pulverized bar stools without breaking. You get the idea.