The Clothes Make the Man

The guards spot me as I change. How do they always recognize me? But my shoes once belonged to an Olympic sprinter, and I outdistance them easily. The entrance is more difficult, but my cufflinks used to be a cat-burglar's and my necktie that of the engineer who designed these locks. I'm through in a moment.

There's another guard inside, but I have the headband of a sandan and a heavyweight boxer's undershirt. He falls quickly.

I wonder, sometimes, who I'd be if I were naked. But there's always another crisis to avert, and right now there is no time.