B is for Bulletproof

            Bulletproof rubbed his cape against his cleft chin like an infant, jaw clenched.  Blood streamed down the right leg of his tights, dying the grey spandex a sickly crimson.  “You shot me,” he said, looking down at M4, his fourth sidekick since graduating from Hero University.

            The skin on M4’s face went from peach to Wite-Out faster than a gunshot.  “I did, Mr. Proof?”  He dropped his rifle on the sidewalk.  It bounced off the concrete and fired, blowing out a Harley’s back tire.

            “Yes, you did, twerp.”  Bulletproof shook.  He placed one hand around M4’s neck and hauled him several inches in the air.

            “But,” M4 gurgled, “you’re supposed to be bulletproof.”  His eyes began to roll.

            “I never passed my point-blank certification exam, okay?”  Bulletproof eased his grip on M4’s neck slightly.  “I’m only bulletproof from more than five meters away.”

            “That doesn’t even make sense.  You’re selectively bulletproof?”

            Bulletproof threw M4 into the street gutter and gave him a kick to the chest.  “The magic is expensive.  I couldn’t afford point-blank protection without the University grant.”

            “Need some cash?” M4 asked, spitting out a half dozen teeth.

            Bulletproof raised his fist, shook his head, and sighed.  “I’m not going to kill you this time, but if you ever shoot me again they will need to install a new gutter just to get all of your blood off the street.  Plus, having a sidekick named M5 would just be stupid.  Now get up and stop moaning.  It’s not like you were just shot or anything.”