Immunity to Iocane

Let's say, for the sake of a story, that I made a Deal.

I met a Man who I didn't trust at a crossroads and I bound Him to a Bargain and this is the Deal We made-- that I would not, in any serious way, be hurt. This condition would allow me to pursue all sorts of activities with impunity, from hiking up mountains, to deep-sea diving; getting lost in the woods, the desert, out at sea. I could hop freight trains, drive airplanes, pick fights with a grizzly bear, swim with the sharks, eat raw meat, drink booze 'till I'm cross eyed and DAMN THE CONSEQUENCES. And for this, the simple price to pay, every two years, was one pound of flesh-- more or less. There are two ways, it is said, to live one's life: to eke it out over the years as do most, or to use it up all at once in a great, big bang. This seemed like a pretty good compromise and, save for a few incidents when the price seemed a little high, it has served me well.

Lately, things have started to go awry. Despite the Deal We made, I've been getting all the usual aches and pains, bumps and bruises. It's possible that this is the accumulated affect of the loss of several pounds of flesh, that there is simply less and less of me to hold the body together. It's figures that the sneaky Bastard would find a way to trick me again, but despite it all, I'll keep trucking. I'm like that old car I told you about earlier. I won't go on forever, but damn well near it, 'till I'm driven into the ground. Only then will the Devil get His due.