This past weekend, Vice-President Dick Cheney shot hunting companion Harry Whittington with a… This past weekend, Vice-President Dick Cheney shot hunting companion Harry Whittington with a shotgun. The corporate news media is already reporting this as an accident, because of a far-reaching conservative conspiracy that exists in this country. Only The Pitt News has a ballsy enough staff (me) to cover what really happened in what I am already terming “Quailgate.” Although I know that, sometime soon, Dick Cheney might show up in my Bouquet Gardens apartment and mistake me, too, for a quail, the public has a right to know the truth. So here it is:

It was a drizzly day in the Washington, D.C., area last week. Harry’s limousine pulled in next to O’Leary’s, a neighborhood dive. He walked down as the mirthless laughter of the patrons at the bar rose up to greet his ears. Harry shuddered with disdain – he hated these working types, you know the ones, who couldn’t even afford their own car and driver. Still, this was a safe place. O’Leary’s has a reputation for free pretzels and secrecy.

He opened the door and saw drunks playing pool, sitting at the bar and throwing darts at a board. He also saw the only open seat – a big wooden one in the corner, parked at a table with a silent companion bathed in shadow. He took the seat as a lighter clicked and a cigar flared, illuminating an old, white face for a moment. The companion raised a glass in a silent toast and drained it, then leaned forward into the light, allowing Harry to see the face of Dick Cheney properly for the first time.

“You know the Republican Party has enemies, Harry,” Cheney said as he leaned back, shrouding himself in shadow once again. He reached into his pocket and slid a thick envelope across the table. Harry grabbed it, opening it as he peered around at the drunks to make sure no one was paying them attention.

Inside were photos, dossiers, memos and background checks on senators, special prosecutors, Supreme Court Justices and Socks the Cat, former President Bill Clinton’s feline companion.

“Our enemies are out to get us,” Cheney said. “All of the time, they grow bolder, striking at us while we are weak. You have to strike back at them. Discredit them, invalidate them or kill them. Do whatever it takes, and do it for the party.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat and he noticed Cheney observing him closely.

“Take some time to consider it.” Cheney stood up, “Look under your seat once I leave. I’ll see you this weekend.”

Cheney left and was promptly whisked off to his undisclosed location by waiting agents. Harry groped the bottom of the chair and felt another envelope taped to the seat. He held it upside down, dumping its contents on the table. Inside were a ticket to Corpus Christi, Texas, and a voucher for free hunting gear rental. It looked like Harry was heading to Texas.

Cheney scanned the Texas horizon, keeping his eyes open for quails or Mexicans at all times.

“Have you considered my offer yet?” Cheney continued forward.

“Yes I did, Dick. I want to serve my party, but I can’t kill people. While we might disagree with most of our enemies, and don’t like cats, we should be able to settle these disputes in the ballot box.”

Cheney stopped walking, as did Harry. He looked at Cheney’s face and became concerned; was the old man having another heart attack? By Harry’s count, he had already caused 12 during the course of his work for the Republicans, and it got harder to see it each and every time.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you get away with this,” the mild-mannered Vice President said, aiming his shotgun at Harry’s face.

A fleeing quail escaped right from underneath Cheney’s foot, startling him and causing his shot to miss. Harry keeled over, still injured, but alive. Harry yelled, and the Secret Service swarmed over the scene. Cheney didn’t have time to finish the job, but one look was enough to scare Harry into submission. He knew that the marksman-turned-vice-president couldn’t be counted on to miss a second time.

E-mail Sam Morey at [email protected].