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.