There it was again - that slight twinge in the left side of his chest, that subtle hint that something in his heart wasn't pumping quite right anymore. Damn. He let the barrel of his shotgun drift, so it was aiming at the Louisiana red dirt.
Bob Northrop, Vice President of the United States, was feeling old.
He wondered to himself how many more times he would be able to take these hunting trips before he was off his feet for good. Granted, the pheasants he was shooting were cage raised, and perhaps he'd even manage to blast one or two from a wheelchair. It just wouldn't be the same, though.
And really, this VP would never be able to hunt the one prize that had eluded him for all his life.
Bob Northrop had never been accused, through his political career coming up through the civil service, through his election to a rural, heavily conservative Congressional district in Colorado, through his stint in the cabinet during two Republican presidential administrations and through his oversight and executive partnership with the giant oil conglomerate Barton-Hollis Inc., of being a nice guy.
Hell, just two years ago, when news blew up of those atrocious interrogation techniques in use by US Army auxiliaries stationed in the occupied Sudan, Bob was all over the news, defending the right of American servicemen to use whatever means necessary to gain information from the fundamentalist Islamic foes which might prevent further attacks against our troops, and against our civilians at home.
It was hard to be more hawkish than Bob Northrop. It was even harder to be more willing to advocate drastic, violent, inhumane measures to defeat the foes of the USA. But Bob had never served in the armed forces - several deferments during the Vietnam War kept him at home in Colorado.
Deep down inside, Bob Northrop ached to know what real combat was like. To line up an enemy combatant in his gunsights, and take him down.
He had tried to sate this desire with hunting trips amounting to little more than the slaughter of clip-wing waterfowl and other small birds. He remembered those pictures from Sudan, and wondered to himself if the soldiers there had been tough enough on their prisoners.
Perhaps, thought Bob, a crucial bit of missing information could have been gleaned from the prisoners if a certain tough-as-nails, show-no-mercy VP was directly overseeing the interrogation, was RIGHT THERE WHEN IT ALL WENT DOWN.
And there was that twinge again, in his chest. Stronger this time. Bob Northrop, Vice President of the United States of America, was getting old.
"Bob!" barked a hoary voice. "Are you gonna shoot the damn pheasant or what?" It was his hunting partner Harry Ettineaux, octogenarian Lake Charles lawyer and major Republican campaign donor. Harry had recently been diagnosed with inoperable cancer of the thyroid. The doctors gave him six months, if that.
Bob closed his eyes. You could almost say that, for the first time in his life, he prayed.
"Harry, I think the bird's hiding or something. Can you go in there and take a closer look for me? You know, just check it out."
Harry shot Bob an incredulous 'ok, whatever you say' sneer, grunted, and ambled slowly, as an 81-year old man must, into the brush ahead of him. Bob Northrop raised his gun to his shoulder, and took aim.
"Harry!" shouted Bob. "Over here!"
Harry turned around, now facing Bob Northrop from about twenty yards. A blissful wave washed through him as he pulled the trigger.