He had to make a name for himself.
He was strong, but not strong enough to be known for his strength.
Quick, but not quick enough either.
So he invented his signature move: ripping out his enemies’ throats until blood oozed everywhere.
That earned him his name:
The Carotid Kid.
He’d killed himself so many times that all his jokes about suicide rang hollow in his heart.
But he soldiered on, moving along the probability axis, from one alternate universe to another, killing any of his alternate selves that he found had not lived as worthy a life as his.
The killer walked up to his victim from behind, and backstabbed him.
The victim fell, face up, revealing to the killer that he’d actually killed himself.
“Oh, shit!” he thought, looking upon his own, now inert features. “That’s the last time I go back in time!”
How right he was.