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The Walrus - - CONTENTS - by Steven Heighton

An Amer­i­can body­guard fore­sees his death Do I love my coun­try less than I pledged, since I haven’t yet brought the tent top down on this cir­cus? Head clown, I and the men code call him, in small font, or else IMPOTUS — though so far he seems all too ro­bust. True, top-story sta­tus beats any blood tonic or drug; the pow­er­ful never kick the bucket without a shove. But if some fa­natic does at­tempt to off him (snipe him, stab him, body bomb him), my Navy SEAL– trained nerves will trig­ger a text­book-ex­pert tackle— not of the perp, you un­der­stand, but the Oval Of­fi­cer him­self. I’ll cloak him like a flak vest of flesh, pin him down be­hind the podium, block bul­lets with my skull, spine, sacrum, who knows, while gamely the band fin­ishes “Hail to the Chief ” and stream­ers go on show­er­ing the crowd, their cheers sharp­ened to screams as I bleed out, locked in his trem­bling arms.

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