Protection

Hirohito suggests a lead-plated Bible in my breast pocket. It makes good press with a tinge of holiness when a bullet is arrested mid-epistle, or even more excitingly, as deep as Revelations. Oh, and plus I'd live to tell, unless the mythbuster types are right, the guys who jump for an excuse to hang out in their backyards peppering encyclopedias with the fruits of their second amendment rights. Hirohito has an endearing suspension of disbelief when it comes to putting science before a good story, though, but even if his simple faith is worth its salt, I'm the kind of guy who'd be shot from behind. Suppose I could strap a phone book to my backside, call up whoever stopped the bullet and give 'em a few hundred dollars and their fifteen minutes of fame. They'd probably curse their luck. But forget protection. I'm a cockroach type, the guy who'll dust the toxic powder off my slacks, pop my head out the manhole cover, and start sniffing the purple air for fresh opportunities.