God, Guns, Grits, and Gravy: a Satire

From the book:

?I thought you said pheasant hunting, Dick!? I shouted, standing over the dead homeless woman.

Dick C? laughed, reloading his smoking shotgun.
?No, you idiot, pheasants are out of season. I clearly said peasants! Quick and cunning ? the deadliest game, Huckleberry!?

At that same moment a crack head leapt out of a patch of underbrush screaming, a pack of bloodhounds nipping at his heels. Dick dropped the man with one shot, the dogs tearing into him.

?God, don?t you love this spring air??

?Very refreshing,? I agreed.

?So, Mike,? Dick said, training his rifle on a young crippled boy whose wheelchair had become stuck in the mud. ?I hear you?re thinking of taking a run at the White House.?

He pulled the trigger, half of Tiny Tim?s head disappearing in a spray of gore.

?Doesn?t this stuff bother you at all, Dick??

?What stuff?? he asked, reloading.

?The killing people for sport stuff.?

He looked at me like I was insane.

?Mike, I besmirched the memory of three thousand dead Americans to start a war under false pretenses for black goo they pump out of the ground. Gotta remember who you?re talking to.?

?Where do you get them?? I asked, motioning to the senior citizen crawling rather un-stealthily across a field on all fours.

?Free range,? Dick said, leveling his shotgun.

?Secret Service rounds them up for me. They replenish the preserve every couple of weeks? Damn things are everywhere these days.?