So I’m just a walkin' and a mosyin' down da street, going ‘bout my shadowrunnerish
type of activity type things, when all of a sudden I on da ground. I take
a lookie at my tummy and, wouldn’t ya know it, der be a big old hole in
it. I could even put my finger in it, and Brumby have pretty big fingers,
so dat makes it a pretty big hole. I dunno who plugged me; at da moment
I was too busy looking at my Brumby blood fallin’ all over da ground to
pay any attention to why it wuz dere.
Now Brumby’z been shot before. As a matter a factoid; Brumby’z been
shot A LOT. But Bruby never quite gets used to it, which is a durn good
thing because den I like to keep myself not shot even more den normal.
Brumby sees a bunch of people get shot all da time and they don’t get killed
so dey think: Hey! I invincible! I can do ANYTHING! But what Brumby thinks
dey don’t realize is dat dey may have been pretty damn lucky dey didn’t
get a bid old hole in der head instead of der armor jacket. ‘Member: da
more you get hit; da more chance you have of getting hit BAD.
So, anyway, Brumby sittin der, bleeding on da side walk, wishin I was
somewhere else without a hole in me, when doc wagon comes runnin up and
puts me in da van. Dey let me out even before I get to da hospital; dey
told me da hole wasn’t dat bad and dat all it took was some putty and a
staple to close it up. BUT, what dey also tell me is dat if da bullet hit
one centimeter to da right: Brumby be DEAD.
So here’s a lesson from Brumby to you: Sure da bullet hit your jacket;
but your jacket only a few bits away from your HEAD. And if you get hit
in da head, you dead.
Huh. Brumby made a rhyme.