Bulletproof Vest Quotes

Is that a bulletproof vest? See, now that's so insulting. That's like saying I'm not smart enough to shoot you in the head." Eddie DeChooch

The time for crying with your girlfriends about a broken heart is over chocolate ice cream and chick flicks—not stun guns and bulletproof vests.

He isn't what he's pretending to be with her. I watch him all the time. I'm going to be there when he stops pretending. I'm going to be her bulletproof vest, her shield, her fallen fucking angel, whether she wants one or not. He's pretending he's almost human. He's no more human than me.

Just for future reference, don't use words like "love" anymore. It's a very sensitive word and it wears out quickly. Romeo barely says it, but John Hinckley filled up a whole journal with it. To put it into your terms, it's a currency that's easily devalued. Pretty soon you're saying it whenever you hang up the phone or whenever you leave. It turns into an apology. Then it's an excuse. Some assholes want it to be a bulletproof vest: don't hate me; I love you. But mostly it just means--more. More, more--give me something more. A couple of years from now, when you're on your own completely, if you really fall in love, if it really comes to that--and I pity you if it does--you have to look right down into the black of her eyes, right down into the emptiness in there and feel everything, absolutely everything she needs and you have to be willing to drown in it, Kevin. You'd have to want to be crushed, buried alive. Because that's what real love feels like--choking. They used to bury some women in their wedding dresses, you know. I thought it was because all those husbands were too cheap to spring for another gown, but now it makes sense: love is your first foot in the grave. That's why the second most abused word is "forever".

Privilege is something to be aware of, to fight to see beyond, but ultimately to be grateful for. It’s like a bulletproof vest; it makes you harder to kill.

Love is more powerful than any gun. Still, I’d recommend wearing a bulletproof vest.

Are you sure about that?” He looks down to watch my hand spread out over his stomach. I push at the hard flesh. It doesn’t remotely give. “Are you wearing a bullet-proof vest?” “I’ve got to in this office.

Replace ropes with bullets. Hound dogs with German shepherds. A gray uniform with a bulletproof vest. Nothing is new.

I press my books against my chest like a bulletproof vest.

Boggs quickly examines my face, then scoops me up and jogs for the runway. Halfway there, I puke on his bulletproof vest. It’s hard to tell because he’s short of breath, but I think he sighs.

The bulletproof vest--'bullet resistant,' technically--is made of two double panels of a synthetic material called Kevlar, inside a cloth carrier that holds it around your torso like a lead X-ray smock. One cop wrote phrases from the Bible on his, 'Yea, though I walk in the valley of the Shadow of Death...' Other cops wrote their blood type.

Now, I’m not saying that we don’t need rules in society. But the question of who makes the rules and on what basis becomes supremely important. Will the rule-making flow from the matrix of voluntary exchange based on the ethic of serving others through private enterprise? Or will the rules be made and enforced by people wearing guns and bulletproof vests with a license to shock or kill based on minor annoyances?

I would throw myself over him like a bulletproof vest. Wrap him up in my protection.

As Xcor got ready to leave the ranch just before midnight, he let his shellan check the fastenings on the bulletproof vest. She was very thorough, to the point where he had a feeling if she could have strapped herself to his chest, she would have. Capturing her hands, he kissed her fingertips one by one. “I am a lucky male, to be cared for thusly.” Fates,

Drag is armor, darling. No matter how you look at it. Once I become Bambi, nobody can hurt me. Not my family, not the drunk assholes at the bar, nobody. A good lace-front wig and the right contouring are as strong a bulletproof vest as I’ve ever needed.

My Lord!” the doggen exclaimed. “Sire! Oh, it is good that you have arrived home before the storm! May I get you a libation?” Fritz’s smile was like that of a basset hound’s, all wrinkles and enthusiasm, and the butler had a dog’s lack of time conception, his joy as if the pair of them had been gone for five years, not an hour. “How ’bout a couple of bulletproof vests,” V said under his breath. “But of course! Would you care for the Point Blank Alpha Elites, or is this more of a bomb-detonation occasion requiring the Paraclete tactical vests?” As if the choice were nothing more than having to pick white tie and tails over your standard-issue tuxedo. You had to love the guy, V thought grudgingly. “It was a joke, my man.

A bulletproof vest under everything else. I couldn’t do anything to protect my head, but at least my hair looked good. I

bulletproof vest?” “War games tonight,” Hazel said. “That’s Hannibal.

I sighed. “What’s a couple of bullets to the chest when compared to a grenade? Bulletproof vests are great things. Every girl should have one.” Blain, RJ (2014-05-11). Inquisitor (Witch & Wolf Book 1) (Kindle Locations 1452-1453). Pen & Page Publishing. Kindle Edition.

Standing at the foot of the grand staircase, Wrath finished prepping for the meeting with the glymera by drawing a Kevlar vest onto his shoulders. “It’s light.” “Weight doesn’t always do you better,” V said as he fired up a hand-rolled and snapped his gold lighter shut. “You sure about that.” “When it comes to bulletproof vests, I am.” Vishous exhaled, the smoke momentarily shading his face before it floated upward to the ornate ceiling. “But if it’ll make you feel better, we can strap a garage door on your chest. Or a car, for that matter.” -Wrath & Vishous

While she worked on her clothes, he walked to the small closet at the back of his office. He kept extras there. Extra guns. Extra ammo. Bulletproof vest. The tiniest bit of C-4. And an extra kit complete with lube and a still-packaged anal plug. Just the basics. What every man needed to survive the apocalypse.

You keep staying on our block we gonna have to show you what the burner do.” “Thank you, it’s great meeting you,” says Phoenix. “What’s a burner?” I whisper. “A gun,” Phoenix whispers back. The man loops and rejoins the others. The streets are deserted. It’s just the dealers and us. But then, miraculously, a taxi passes. I flag it. The superheroes all have bulletproof vests. I have nothing. I have a cardigan.

I'm coming with you.” Riley insisted. “I've got a bulletproof vest and I'm a better sharpshooter than you. Don't mess with me.” Riley pushed past them and out the sliding exit doors. Stella turned to Stan, horrified. “Don't give me that look, Stells.” Stan muttered, following Riley. “Look at it this way, if the whole sharpshooter thing turns out to be a lie, she can pinch the hell out of anyone.” ~Riley Pembroke, Stan Darrow, "Sugar and Spies: Spy Sisters Book 1

checked the load, and slipped it under my belt behind my right hip. “Are you supposed to be wearing a bulletproof vest, are you supposed to be carrying a gun?” a guard asked. “Isn’t that against the rules?” “What rules?” I said. He didn’t have an answer for that. I put on my leather coat. The money was still packed in the gym bags, the gym bags strapped to the dolly in the center of my living room. I grabbed the handle and started wheeling it to the back door of my house. I had a remote control hanging from the lock on the window overlooking my unattached garage. I used it to open the garage door. “There’s no reason for you guys to hang around anymore,” I said. The guards followed me out of my back door, across the driveway, and into the garage just the same. They stood by and watched while I loaded the dolly and the gym bags into the trunk of the Audi. “Nice car,” one of them said. If he had offered me ten bucks, I would have sold the Audi and all of its contents to him right then and there. Because he didn’t, I unlocked the driver’s door and slid behind the wheel. “Good luck,” the guard said and closed the door for me. He smiled like I was a patient about to be wheeled into surgery; smiled like he felt sorry for me. I put the key in the ignition, started up the car, depressed the clutch, put the transmission in reverse, and—sat there for five seconds, ten, fifteen … Why are you doing this? my inner voice asked. Are you crazy? The guard watched me through the window, an expression of concern mixed with puzzlement on his face. “McKenzie, are you okay?” he asked. “Never better,” I said. I slowly released the clutch and backed the Audi out of my driveway

The world recoiled in horror in 2012 when 20 Connecticut schoolchildren and six adults were killed at Sandy Hook Elementary School. . . . The weapon was a Bushmaster AR-15 semiautomatic rifle adapted from its original role as a battlefield weapon. The AR-15, which is designed to inflict maximum casualties with rapid bursts, should never have been available for purchase by civilians (emphasis added).1 —New York Times editorial, March 4, 2016 Assault weapons were banned for 10 years until Congress, in bipartisan obeisance to the gun lobby, let the law lapse in 2004. As a result, gun manufacturers have been allowed to sell all manner of war weaponry to civilians, including the super destructive .50-caliber sniper rifle. . . .(emphasis added)2 —New York Times editorial, December 11, 2015 [James Holmes the Aurora, Colorado Batman Movie Theater Shooter] also bought bulletproof vests and other tactical gear” (emphasis added).3 —New York Times, July 22, 2012 It is hard to debate guns if you don’t know much about the subject. But it is probably not too surprising that gun control advocates who live in New York City know very little about guns. Semi-automatic guns don’t fire “rapid bursts” of bullets. The New York Times might be fearful of .50-caliber sniper rifles, but these bolt-action .50-caliber rifles were never covered by the federal assault weapons ban. “Urban assault vests” may sound like they are bulletproof, but they are made of nylon. These are just a few of the many errors that the New York Times made.4 If it really believes that it has a strong case, it wouldn’t feel the need to constantly hype its claims. What distinguishes the New York Times is that it doesn’t bother running corrections for these errors.

It was getting difficult to see exactly what was going on in the pool and a fourth officer jumped in as one came up with the unconscious form of the first cop. While others pulled the half-drowned man from the pool, three more wrestled Skorzeny to the surface and dragged him to the steps at the shallow end of the pool. He wasn't struggling any longer. Nor was he breathing with any apparent difficulty. The biggest of the three cops later admitted to punching him as hard as he could in the stomach and Skorzey doubled over. Another half-dragged him, still on his feet, shirt torn, jacket ripped, out of the pool and put a handcuff on his left wrist. Skorzeny pulled his arm away from the cop and, suddenly straightening, elbow-jabbed him in the gut, sending him sprawling and rolling back into the pool. Skorzeny turned toward the back fence and was now between the pool and a small palm tree. Before him were two advancing officers, pistols leveled. Behind him two more circled the pool. Skorzeny lunged forward and all fired simultaneously. The noise was deafening. Lights in neighboring houses began to go on. Skorzeny's body twitched and bucked as the heavy slugs ripped through his body. His forward momentum carried him into the officers ahead of him and he half-crawled, half-staggered to the southeast corner of the yard where another gate was set into the fiberglass fencing. Two more officers, across the pool, cut loose with their pistols, emptying them into this writing body which danced like a puppet. Another cop fired two shots from his pump-action shotgun and Skorzeny was lifted clean off his feet and slammed against the gate, sagging to the ground. En masse from both ends of the pool they advanced, when he gave out with a terrible hissing snarl and started to rise once more. All movement ceased as the cops, to a man, stood frozen in their tracks. Skorzeny stood there like some hideous caricature, his shredding clothing and skin hanging like limp rags from his scarecrow form. His flesh was ripped in several places and he was oozing something that looked like watered-down blood. It was pinkish and transparent. He stood there like a living nightmare. Then he straightened and raised his fist with the cuff still dangling from it like a charm bracelet. 'Fools!' he shrieked. 'You can't kill me. You can't even hurt me.' Overhead, the copter hovered, the copilot giving a blow-by-blow description of the fight over the radio. The police on the ground were paralyzed. Nearly thirty shots had been fired (the bullets later tallied in reports turned in by the participating officers) and their quarry was still as strong as ever. He'd been hit repeatedly in the head and legs, so a bulletproof vest wasn't the answer. And at distances sometimes as little as five feet, they could hardly have missed. They'd seen him hit. They stood frozen in an eerie tableau as the still roiling pool water threw weird reflections all over the yard. Then Skorzeny did the most frightening thing of all. He smiled. A red-rimmed, hideous grin revealing fangs that 'would have done justice to a Doberman Pinscher.

The artillery and mortars had been silent for at least the past few hours. After awhile the rabbi stopped initiating new songs. He took a few more sips of wine and sat for a time, almost shining in obvious pleasure, and yet reflective and silent. All watched him, and after a few minutes he spoke again in his odd Moroccan/Brooklyn accent. "The weapons of a Jew are prayer and mitzvot. Tonight we are arming ourselves with mitzvot like the finest suit of armor ever made. Better than a ceramica," he said, referring to the bullet-proof flak vests worn by many Israeli soldiers by their street name. "By the mere act of sitting and eating and drinking, because we are doing so in a sukkah at the time that our Creator told us to do so, we acquire for ourselves a heavenly shield more powerful than any missile or tank." He let those words settle in as he beamed at all present at the table and standing in the sukkah. "A mitzvah—carrying out HaShem's commandment or doing a good deed, such as an act of kindness towards your fellow human being—creates a heavenly smell, a wonderful odor that is both spiritual and physical. When the Creator of the whole universe commanded the Jewish people to bring sacrifices upon His holy altar, and they did so exactly as he had instructed them, the Torah says that it created a Re-ach Tov, a good and wonderful scent, that pleased the Ribbono Shel-Olam. And in those moments when the Jewish people acted on the instructions of their Creator, there was a kesher and a devekus, a tie and a drawing closer, between the Jewish people and their Creator.

Trigga wasn’t even wearing a bulletproof vest or, for that matter, any armor that stopped bullets as he boldly rushed forward letting loose with his superior weapon, blasting through walls and furniture, causing bodies to drop.

While the phone was handy, I also called Wendy and got her mother again. She said that Wendy had a sore throat and couldn’t talk. I wasn’t about to quit that easily. “Can she listen?” I asked. “I’ll do the talking, and she can tap once for yes and twice for no.” Mrs. Westfall laughed. “I’m serious. Can she do that?” “Only for a minute. I’ll get her.” The next thing I heard was a whispered, “Hi.” “No talking,” Mrs. Westfall called out. “Hi, Wendy. Did your mom tell you the code? One tap for yes, two for no, three if you’re being held prisoner against your will.” Three quick taps from her. “That’s what I figured. Well, you haven’t missed much at school. Same old stuff. Somebody tried to assassinate Mr. Crowell, but he was wearing a bulletproof vest. And then when the cops came, they found marijuana growing in the teacher’s lounge. But all the evidence was destroyed in the fire. I guess you heard that the whole junior class was trapped in the auditorium and got wiped out. All except for Delbert Markusson. He was out in the parking lot, sneaking a smoke. So Delbert’s now junior class president. He’s also vice-president and secretary. He says the junior prom may be canceled, or he may have it over at his house—if he can find a date.” “Wind it up,” Mrs. Westfall said. “Are you going to be back tomorrow?” Two taps. “How about Monday?” One loud tap. “I’m going to San Francisco this weekend. Shall I send you a postcard?” Tap. “I’ll see you on Monday.” She tapped, then hung up. “Are you in love with Eddie Carter?” I said into the dead phone. I gave the receiver a loud slap.

The slow, mismanaged arrival of armored vehicles and bulletproof plates for flak vests was only the most conspicuous demonstration of how the Iraq War, like every war -- just or unjust, won or lost -- became a conspiracy of the old and powerful against the young and dutiful.

But it is probably not too surprising that gun control advocates who live in New York City know very little about guns. Semi-automatic guns don’t fire “rapid bursts” of bullets. The New York Times might be fearful of .50-caliber sniper rifles, but these bolt-action .50-caliber rifles were never covered by the federal assault weapons ban. “Urban assault vests” may sound like they are bulletproof, but they are made of nylon. These are just a few of the many errors that the New York Times made.

Child cases haunted you. They hollowed you out and scarred you. There was no bulletproof vest thick enough to stop you from being pierced. Child cases left you knowing the world was full of lost light.

Freakin’ broads were taking over the LAPD. What next? Pink Glocks and Spanx instead of bulletproof vests and all-steel Walther PPKs?

I am at the concert and I am smirking in the corner, ignoring what my peers are discussing. Let us picture something good. I'm wearing a level-two bulletproof vest under my Ralph Lauren vintage flannel, and already it's almost entirely concealed. Makes me look slightly more built, nobody's complaining. It also protects against nine millimeter and forty caliber rounds, the only kinds police use anymore. I think. Over that, a Swiss military jacket littered with pockets, all of which I custom fit to hold the six magazines accompanying my short barrel rifle. It's a gun small enough to fit perfectly along my back while still under my coat. In the pockets of my Levi five-elevens - a switchblade and one smoke grenade, reserved for either my entrance or exit. I still haven't decided. In my waistband is a... ... and then two squad cars skid to a halt outside. I see them before they see me, as the front windows are tinted in my favor. With a fresh magazine, I am and shoot at - "HEY!" Someone shouting playfully in my face has yanked me back into the concert hall

I decided right then and there that my job was going to be to quiet it all down. I would be a buffer. An emotional support person. I would throw myself over him like a bulletproof vest. Wrap him up in my protection.

It's okay", you say, perhaps more to yourself than to him. Like if you keep telling yourself that it's okay, then it will be.

PRAYER Lord, help me to put on the breastplate of righteousness that protects me from the enemy’s attacks. I know it is Your righteousness in me that protects me, but I also know I must not neglect to put on Your righteousness like a bulletproof vest by doing what is right in Your eyes. Reveal to me thoughts, attitudes, and habits of my heart that are not pleasing to You. Show me what I have done, or am about to do, that does not glorify You. I want to see anything in me that violates Your high standards for my life so I can confess it, turn away from it, and be cleansed from all unrighteousness. In Jesus’ name I pray.

What the hell?” Two men stepped through the shattered glass door. They were wearing dark blue bulletproof vests emblazoned with the letters FBI. “Get your hands in the air!” “Do you know who I am?” Pollard snarled at the pistol aimed at his face. The agent smiled. “I know exactly who you are, you piece of shit. Jordan Pollard, you're under arrest for accessory to murder of Mexican and Venezuelan citizens, blackmail, and securities fraud. I could go on but I think you get the drift.” Strong hands hauled him from his desk and pressed him against the wall. Metal handcuffs restrained his hands behind his back. “You're making a big mistake, gentlemen! I have powerful friends.” “So do we, ours is a Supreme Court judge. Maybe we should get them together some time.

Because I’m an asshole, and I’m sorry, and I missed you.” Three statements unloaded fast enough to penetrate me before I had time to finish fashioning my bulletproof vest.

I need actual X-Ultra vests, not schematics and spec sheets.” “More than one?” “A statistically significant sample would be best. Like a hundred.” “Why so many?” “Target practice.” Her eyes widened. “Let me make sure I have this straight. You want to blow holes in one hundred bulletproof army vests.” “That’s correct.” “Where do you plan to do that?” He looked at her. “I’ll ask Norm,” Kenzie said. “If it’s not too much trouble. What if he tells you no?” Kenzie shook her head. “He’s ex-army.” “Should have known. He never shaved again,” Linc said. “Shut up. He’s a ZZ Top fan. Be glad he won’t mind. He might ask you not to be too conspicuous about it. There’s a smaller range off to the side. You haven’t seen it.” “If he has the right targets, I can pay him,” Linc offered. “You should see what’s in the basement. Everything from paper thugs to wooden dummies. I’ll borrow a gun from Norm. I want to get this done and over with.” Kenzie was military all the way, but he hadn’t noticed her having much interest in hardware. “Mind telling me why you’re so gung-ho?” “Because sooner or later I’m going to be the one to tell Christine that Frank Branigan died. And I don’t want her to think I had a chance to help find out why and did zip.” “Okay. I understand. But I’m the one who has to get the vests. You can’t do that. They know who you are.” She conceded the point with a nod. “How are you going to get in?” she wanted to know. “Right through the front gate.” Kenzie shot him a curious look. “Let me guess. You aren’t going to explain how you’re going to do that because you would have to reveal your secret identity.” He chuckled at her reply. “You’re not that far off.” “Thought so,” she said with satisfaction. “And,” he went on, sobering, “there is one more thing I have to do.” “Let’s hear it.” “Mike Warren and I noticed that a lot of lines are starting to converge on SKC. While I’m inside, I want to take video.” “Of what?” “More like who. As in everyone I can get on microcam.” “How micro is it?” “About as big as a button.” He rose and stretched, rubbing his back. “Which is good. I may not be able to carry anything ever again.” “Tough workout?” she teased. “Let’s just say I had more fun watching yours.

It’s complacency,” says an agent who was on Obama’s detail. “They say we can make do with less.” Shutting down magnetometers as an event is about to start is shocking enough. But when Vice President Biden threw the opening pitch at the first Baltimore Orioles game of the season at Camden Yards on April 6, 2009, the Secret Service had not screened with magnetometers any of the more than forty thousand fans. Moreover, even though Biden’s scheduled attendance at the game had been announced beforehand, the vice president was not wearing a bulletproof vest under his navy sport shirt as he stood on the pitcher’s mound. According

As a result of the threats, Dr. Tiller lived with US Marshal protection at various times in his life. In addition, Dr. Tiller wore a bulletproof vest to work, strategically took different routes on his way to the clinic, and usually drove in the right-hand lane because a security expert had told him this technique gave potential attackers fewer angles of approach.12 Dr. Tiller’s experiences with these constant threats, harassment, and attacks took place against a backdrop of increasing violence against abortion providers in the United States. Starting in the 1970s and escalating through the 1980s, abortion clinics regularly suffered bombings, arsons, and chemical weapon attacks committed by anti-abortion protesters. Protesters also developed intricate methods to physically blockade entrances to clinics, including chaining themselves underneath cars and placing their heads in cement blocks deposited in front of clinic doorways.

Now hold on a minute. It’s not as bad as you think.” “So, Kate isn’t gonna flip her fucking wig and shoot bullets from her tits when she hears this? Ain’t no way I’ll be in the room when you drop that bomb. Not without a bulletproof vest and tear gas to cover my escape.

60--30. Weird Laws -- New Jersy 01. It is against the law to sell handcuffs to a person under 18 years of age. [Source: Sec. 2C:39-9.2] 02. It is against the law to wear a bullet-proof vest while engaged in the commission of, or an attempt to commit, or flight after committing or attempting to commit murder, manslaughter, robbery, burglary, kidnapping, criminal escape, or assault. [Source: Sec. 2C:39-13]

Nigga stay woke!” Justice yelled out, throwing me a damn bulletproof vest. I stood, pulling Sanaya behind me as China walked up on me with her gun.

The officer claimed he’d been scared, had reason to believe Philando was reaching for his gun. Show me that scenario. A man seated with a trunk full of melting groceries, wearing a thin layer of cotton, a little girl in the backseat. About to whip out his gun, shoot through the cop’s bulletproof vest, to be his own getaway driver? Why would Philando shoot an innocent man within forty seconds of meeting him? Why did the officer?

Don’t worry, Sloan. He’s probably wearing a bullet-proof vest.” I turn my head and lift my gun, aiming it straight at Luke’s chest. I fire the shot. Luke’s whole body jerks against the wall. His hands go to his chest just as the blood begins pouring through his fingers. He immediately falls limp onto his side. “Oh. My bad. I was wrong.

Multiple Warning Survivors Anonymous Please don’t warn me of things that won’t happen, Like: the man who just sold me some land Might in fact have a vat Of the plague in his hat And a new black death minutely planned. Please don’t mention unlikely disasters That you think I’d be wise to avoid: Getting stalked in a tent, Or inhaling cement... Yes, my life could be swiftly destroyed But it won’t be, so no need to summon Your great ally, the spectre of doom – Babies, injured or dead! Dearest friend, axe in head! – While I’m safe, sitting still in a room. I am sure I’ll avoid strangulation By a dangling invisible thread, But my life’s in bad shape If I cannot escape From these horrors you plant in my head. Can I tell you what I think is likely? And I hope this is not out of line: Yes, there is a small chance I’ll be stabbed by Charles Dance But I strongly suspect I’ll be fine, Or I would be, if only you’d zip it. No, I won’t wear a bullet-proof vest When I go to Ikea.Don’t troll me with fear. Here’s a warning: just give it a rest Or I’ll certainly spend most of Sunday Thinking you’re an assiduous scourge – Sure as peas grow in pods. Please consider those odds When you next feel the dread-warning urge. If one day I am crushed by a hippo Then my agent will give you a ring. If you like you can mourn me, But please, please – don’t warn me. Your warning’s my only bad thing.

Madoff received so many death threats that he started wearing a bulletproof vest to his court appearances. Protestors sometimes gathered outside his apartment building, including an angry Wall Street trader who arrived on January 14 with a huge sign reading, “Bernie, it’s not too late to do the right thing: JUMP!

Never ask a man if he wants a bulletproof vest or a pair of mittens. Just make him put it on.

Stronger than the bullet is only body armor

Lastly, be strong and courageous men for Christ. Put on God’s uniform so as to be able to withstand all the Devil’s tricks. For we’re not fighting against ordinary human beings, but against the leaders, politicians and heads of state of this dark world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. So, put on God’s uniform so you’ll be able to put up a fight on the day of battle and, having tended to every detail, to make your stand. Therefore, take your position when you have put on the pants of truth, the shirt of righteousness, and the shoes of the good news of peace. Above all, take the bulletproof vest of faith, with which you’ll be able to stop the tracer bullets of the evil one. Also, wear the helmet of salvation, and the pistol of the Spirit, which is God’s word. 18. When you offer a prayer or a petition on any occasion, let it be truly spiritual. Along this same line, be on your toes as you encourage and pray for all the members. Pray especially for me, that when I speak, the right words will be put in my mouth, and that I may boldly expound the gospel’s secret, for which I am now a delegate in the clink. Pray too that I may lay it on the line whenever I have a chance to speak.

When Psaki contemplated her first day on the job, she realized that her predecessor had seemingly broken with tradition. Ever since the Ford administration, each White House press secretary had passed their successor a bulletproof brocaded vest, the flak jacket—eventually replaced by a blazer—with a note of advice and encouragement tucked into its pocket. Psaki couldn’t find the jacket and, in fact, never did. If the Trump administration had plundered the rest of the government, it might very well have absconded with that ceremonial relic, too.

Ever since the Ford administration, each White House press secretary had passed their successor a bulletproof brocaded vest, the flak jacket—eventually replaced by a blazer—with a note of advice and encouragement tucked into its pocket.

Instead of hiding bodies in mass graves, corpses were triumphantly displayed, as when the Jalisco New Generation (while still part of El Chapo’s Sinaloa cartel) dumped the thirty-five bodies on an avenue in Veracruz in September 2011. In reply, the Zetas scattered twenty-six corpses in Jalisco and a dozen in Sinaloa. On closer inspection, the bodies were those of ordinary citizens, not criminals: they were workers and students who had been abducted and murdered and displayed in order to strike fear in the heart of anyone who doubted the murderous resolve of the Zetas... In To Die in Mexico: Dispatches from Inside the Drug War, John Gibler writes about a related series of bizarre and violent episodes that took place in Torreón, in Coahuila state, bordering Texas: “Who would believe, for example, that the warden of a state prison would let convicted killers out at night and loan them official vehicles, automatic assault rifles, and bulletproof vests, so that they could gun down scores of innocent people in a neighboring state and then quickly hop back over the state line and into prison, behind bars, a perfect alibi. Who would believe that a paramilitary drug-trafficking organization formed by ex−Special Forces of the Mexican Army would kidnap a local cop and torture him into confessing all of the above details about the prisoners’ death squad, videotape the confession, execute the cop on camera with a shot to the heart, and then post the video on YouTube? Who could fathom that the federal attorney general would, within hours of the video-taped confession and execution being posted online, arrest the warden, and then a few days later hold a press conference fully acknowledging that the prisoners’ death squad had operated for months, killing ten people in a bar in January 2010, eight people in a bar in May 2010, and seventeen people at a birthday party in July?” Yet all of this actually happened. During April 2012, when El Chapo was at war with the Zetas, fourteen torsos — armless and legless bodies — were found in a car by the side of the road in Nuevo Laredo. Dead Zetas. Some of the torsos were in the trunk, for which there is a specific narco term: encajuelado (“trunked”; therefore, trunks trunked). Soon after, in Michoacán state, the Zetas met their match in the person of Nazario Moreno (called El Más Loco, the Craziest One), leader of the ruthless Templarios, the Knights Templar cartel, whose recruits were required to eat human flesh—their victims’— as part of their initiation rites. When Moreno was gunned down by the Mexican army in 2014, the Zetas flourished, and remain dominant. But there was a posthumous bonus for the Craziest One: he was promoted to sainthood. In and around his birthplace in Apatzingán, shrines and altars were erected to Saint Nazario, the dead capo represented as a holy figure in robes, venerated by credulous Michoacanos.

Praying for something is like trying to increase your chances of surviving a game of Russian roulette by wearing a bulletproof vest.

You don't know what to do with the jam jar, the chicken stink, the sinister mountain fog that is everywhere, but the adults pretend to ignore when you are in the room. It seems the only thing you can do is listen for it. You hear it in the four measures of Vivaldi's "Winter" that you can still remember from Sarah and the Squirrel, and once you make the connection between the music and mountain fog you play the notes over and over again inside your head. You paw up the trash-strewn ravine. The sky is low and gray, the color of the cinder blocks the men in your town manufacture from ash and dust. The dirt-filled strawberry jam jar is in your denim coat pocket. Vivaldi is in your head. The music you hear is like the blaze-orange clothing the men wear on the mountainsides while deer hunting in autumn. The music is like a bulletproof vest, a coiled copperhead, a rabies shot. The music is both a warning and a talisman. The music tells you things: You're not imagining this. Better children than you die in the snow for no reason. The music says: What's hidden beneath this picture of strawberry jam? The music says: This isn't a Disney movie. Death doesn't just take the wicked villain. Look at that dirt in the jar. It will take you. It will take everyone, and everyone, and everyone. The music says: What you feel is real. Follow me. Run.

Public high schools have been invaded by SWAT teams in search of drugs. In November 2003, for example, police raided Stratford High School in Goose Creek, South Carolina. The raid was recorded by the school’s surveillance cameras as well as a police camera. The tapes show students as young as fourteen forced to the ground in handcuffs as officers in SWAT team uniforms and bulletproof vests aim guns at their heads and lead a drug-sniffing dog to tear through their book bags. The raid was initiated by the school’s principal, who was suspicious that a single student might be dealing marijuana.

better to take the bullets out of the gun than to fire at a bulletproof vest.

Marlena called me naive, but what I really think she meant is privileged, a word people use like an insult in New York, but that I've always taken to mean safe. Privilege is something to be aware of, to see beyond, but ultimately to be grateful for. It's like a bulletproof vest; it makes you harder to kill.

In November 2003, for example, police raided Stratford High School in Goose Creek, South Carolina. The raid was recorded by the school’s surveillance cameras as well as a police camera. The tapes show students as young as fourteen forced to the ground in handcuffs as officers in SWAT team uniforms and bulletproof vests aim guns at their heads and lead a drug-sniffing dog to tear through their book bags. The raid was initiated by the school’s principal, who was suspicious that a single student might be dealing marijuana. No drugs or weapons were found during the raid and no charges were filed. Nearly all of the students searched and seized were students of color.

SubPac device, which transfers sound waves directly to your body, on the back of your desk chair or in a wearable vest.

Semi-automatic guns don’t fire “rapid bursts” of bullets. Fifty-caliber sniper rifles were never covered by the federal assault weapons ban. Such weapons may be “super destructive,” but the New York Times neglects to mention that there is no recorded instance of one being used in a murder, and certainly not in a mass public shooting.8 “Urban assault vests” may sound like they are bulletproof, but they are actually just nylon vests with a lot of pockets.9 These are just a few of the many errors that the New York Times made in their news article.

Andrew C. Thornton II was a lawyer turned drug lord whose body was found with night vision goggles, a bulletproof vest, Gucci loafers, and a duffel bag containing approximately $15 million of cocaine, $4,500 in cash, six 1/10 oz. gold Krugerrands, knives, and two pistols.