Leif The Unlucky was a tall, thin Norwegian, with a patch over one eye, his face congealed in a permanent, ingratiating smirk. Behind him lay an epic saga of unsuccessful enterprises. He had failed at raising frogs, chinchilla, Siamese fighting fish, rami and culture pearls. He had attempted, variously and without success, to promote a Love Bird Two-in-a-Coffin Cemetery, to corner the condom market during the rubber shortage, to run a mail order whorehouse, to issue penicillin as a patent medicine. He had followed disastrous betting systems in the casinos of Europe and the racetracks of the US. His reverses in business were matched only by the incredible mischances of his personal life. His front teeth had been stomped out by bestial American sailors on Brooklyn. Vultures had eaten out an eye when he drank a pint of paregoric and passed out in Panama City Park. He had been trapped between floors in an elevator for five days with an oil-burning junk habit and sustained an attack of the D T's while stowing away in a footlocker. There was the time he collapsed with strangulated intestines, perforated ulcers and peritonitis in Cairo and the hospital was so crowded they bedded him in the latrine, and the Greek surgeon goofed and sewed up a live monkey in him, and he was gang-fucked by the Arab attendants, and one of the orderlies stole penicillin substituting Saniflush; and the time he got clap in the ass and a self-righteous English doctor cured him with an enema of hot sulphuric acid.