Such was the case with Michael Malloy (third alliterative name in this article, just sayin’), an otherwise anonymous figure who frequented the underground bars of 1930s New York. Seeing that the old man had little family, friends, or operating brain cells, one speakeasy owner, along with two associates, decided to take out a life insurance policy on Malloy, then help him drink himself to death.
It didn’t go as planned. Malloy could drink a lot, but he couldn’t seem to die from it. So, they served him wood alcohol, which was poisonous, but it didn’t affect him. Next, they waited until he was unconscious, then dumped him in the snow, stripped him nude, and poured water over his body, assuming he’d freeze to death. That didn’t work either. Finally, they simply ran him over while he was too drunk to know what was happening.
And he survived. At this point, it seemed that Malloy had no family because they all died when Krypton exploded. Eventually, he did perish, succumbing to poison from a gas light fixture, though at that point killing him was less about the money and more about making sure he wasn’t truly immortal.