Pardon my mentioning it.

If I hadn't been there, you'd be carrying eight inches of cold steel, between your shoulders.
And--pardon me, again--if you'd had the sense to stay out of the squabble a second or so longer, the man who tackled you would be either in jail or in the morgue, by this time.

I'm not oversized.

But neither is a stick of dynamite.

An automatic pistol isn't anywhere as big as an old-fashioned blunderbuss.