Angela Lansbury is a master acupuncturist. She’ll paralyze you through the screen door of your cheaply appointed home.

“When I was learning the art,” she’ll say, entering, “people would relate their fear of the needles.” She undoes the simple rubber-band slingshot. “I say, fear the needler.”

Tell her you can identify her. Tell her to kill you now.

“This needn’t end in tragedy,” she’ll say. “I’m going to remove an item from your house now: worthless to you, priceless to my employer. I can’t let you see it. Won’t you close your eyes?”

Don’t. She’ll sigh, and pin them shut.