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.