Tags
beer, dick cheney, fiction, humor, iraq, politics, raccoon, vice president, war, washington, wyoming
“You’re going to love this one, Roscoe,” Dick said as he popped open another longneck. “It’s from a microbrew called Freedom Rings in Jasper. They have a really good pale ale.”
He brought the bottle to Roscoe’s lips, then tipped it back slowly. Raccoons can do a lot of things, Dick thought, but their paws weren’t very adept at handling a cool beverage.
Dick smiled as he watched the sun dip over the trees that lined his Wilson, Wyoming, home. There was a time when he was the most powerful, influential man in the world, when he might stroll into the Situation Room after breakfast to watch the shock and awe rain down on Baghdad and think to himself, “This is my war.” Those were heady days, and it was hard to remember everything about them. Did he abuse his authority? Maybe. Did he overreach himself? Sure. The great ones often do.
That was a few years ago. Now it was just Roscoe and him, sitting on the back porch, sharing a few brews and watching the summer light fade. Lynne was out of town, so it was just the boys. In a little while, he and Roscoe might pile into the F-250, drive into town and stir up some trouble. For now, Dick wanted to relax and enjoy the stillness.
“You know, I didn’t really give a damn whether we found weapons of mass destruction or not,” he said. “We had to go in there. Some people will never understand that.”
“Shut up, Dick,” Roscoe growled, “and hand me another beer.”
Image pulled from DudeLOL.com.
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