One week ago, an event occurred that has since transfixed the nation. Though the two principals have spoken to the press, there is still much we don't know about last weekend's accident in Texas. Until a definitive account is published or broadcast by major media, perhaps only fiction can bring us close to the truth...
In the summer of 1963 when Richard "Dick" Cheney first met Harry "Harry" Whittington, neither was a big wig in Republican politics. They were just simple ranchhands. Tall, lean and handy with a rope, Harry had dreams of someday starting a law practice in his native Texas. Chubby, steely-eyed and crooked of mouth, Dick's goals were more base: to repeatedly enter and exit the revolving door of government and corporate life, while making millions for himself, his clients and contributors. But herding sheep that summer on the Wyoming plains, both realized there was a lot more they wanted - and could never have.
In fact, it was clear from their very first night around the campfire together that a very special kinship was forming.
"I tell ya, this is mighty good grub," Dick grinned. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
"Oh, Dick, you know I'm an ol' Texas boy," Harry smiled back. "I done been campin' and cookin' fer years."
"Texas?" Dick's eyes lit up. "I hear there's a lot of money in oil down there, and a burgeoning Republican party that will slowly take over the state, then the nation in the years after Kennedy gets his head blown off in Dallas."
Harry looked perplexed. "What, Dick? The president's gonna be shot? In Dallas? How do you know that?"
"Don't ask me how I know," the young Westerner sneered. "I just know."
It was almost sundown when Harry heard a noise near the tents he and Dick had set up earlier.
"What's that, Dick? I think we got some mean critters tryin' to raid our food stash."
"I know what that is," Dick calmly replied before grabbing his trusty shotgun. "Coyotes." He then fired eight shots into the night air, four of which ricocheted off a tent pole and landed in Harry's backside.
"Damnit, Dick! You nailed me in the ass somethin' fierce!"
"You shoulda had the sense to get outta my way."
"Well, you should have better aim!"
"Hey old coot - go fuck yourself."
Not wishing to cause more trouble, Harry murmured, "I'm sorry, Dick. It really is my fault."
After twenty-two minutes, Dick's humanitarian instincts took hand and he dragged Harry into his tent. With a first-aid kit in hand and remembering all he'd learned as a Cub Scout, Cheney began to stitch up the wounded posterior. As he did, Harry felt not just relieved but actually soothed by Dick's bulky fingers and gruff, authoritarian manner. Then Dick lurched his hand away.
"Goddamnit Dick, if you stop right now, I won't be able to sit fer the rest of the summer!"
"You know why I stopped, old man," Dick replied, sneering again. "I'm not no queer. I don't know how they do things in the Lone Star State, but here in Wyoming, we don't cotton to that. My daddy told me about men what got shot, stabbed, dragged behind a pickup truck, sent home without severance pay for doing what I just did to you."
"But Dick....you were just stitching up my rear-end!"
"It's all about appearances. Maybe public relations won't matter when you go off and become a lawyer, but it sure does where I'm headed. That's why we can't let anybody know about what happened tonight. When you go back to Texas and they ask you about those bullets in your ass, you tell 'em you were shot by a Cuban national."
"Well, ok, Dick. I won't tell a soul. A one-shot thing. Nobody's business but ours."
What neither man realized is that they weren't completely alone that night. Watching their silhouettes was the owner of the Legal Limit Ranch, a lanky Connecticut WASP turned Texas wildcatter whom everyone called "Poppy."
"Poppy" had bought Wyoming land in hopes of establishing a beachhead for his family's ambitions in every one of the lower forty-eight. He'd hired the Cheney kid after seeing him in action at Yale a few years earlier. It was obvious that he was a troubled young man but also determined, crafty and very loyal. And with knowledge of what he'd seen through the lens of his binoculars, "Poppy" knew that Dick would be in debt to he and his clan for the rest of his natural life.
At the end of that summer, Dick and Harry shook hands and went their separate ways. But the memory of Bumshot Mountain was something that never left them. Individually, their dreams were realized: Harry become a prominent attorney and political contributer; Dick got married, sired a lesbian daughter and profitted off his public service. But despite their busy lives, they always set aside one weekend a year to be together. Sometimes the wives got suspicious; Lynne, Dick's missus, once asked, "What is it you do on these 'hunting trips'? You never bag any quail and Harry always comes back limping." Dick insisted his wife had no right to know of his activities and referred all further questioning to his Chief of Staff, L. "Scooter" Libby. As the years passed, the get-togethers became less frequent yet somehow they needed them more.
On their last visit, at the Armstrong ranch in mid-February, the vice-president of the United States confided in his old riding partner.
"Harry, Washington life just isn't working for me. Everyone I know is either under indictment or distancing themselves from me. We can't keep meeting like this. That's why I'm thinkin' about going south, and I want you to come with me. Harry, let's go to Mexico."
"Mexico, Dick? They'd kill us there!"
"No, they wouldn't. There's lots of places they'd kill us but not there. Think about it - in the day, we'd fish, hunt, go riding. And in the evenings, we'd cuddle but nothing more, because I believe in the sanctity of a committed heterosexual union."
Harry was just about to answer when he heard a rustling in the bushes.
"What's that, Dick? I think we got some war protesters afoot. Secret Service here?"
"Don't need em," Dick calmly replied as he grabbed his trusty shotgun. "I know what that is. Cindy Sheehan."
He then fired twelve shots, most of which landed in Harry, who had gone to check for demonstrators.
As he lay wounded, with injuries in his chest, neck and face, Harry muttered words that would define the essence of their relationship.
"I wish I could quit getting shot by you, Dick Cheney."
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