By John Johnson
I was sitting alone at Applebee's the other night, drinking shirley temples and thinking about a dead horse, looking for a cure for a broken heart. The place was empty, except for a bartender combing her wig, when I kid you not, none other than Dick Cheney walks in. Six shooters and spurs clicking across the floor. A couple of mummy fingers sticking out of the band of his twenty-gallon hat. He loosens his belt and sits down at the bar, looking like the emperor from Star Wars, only handsomer. He rubs some gun powder into his gums and lets out a hoot.
"Gimme a Valvoline and bat blood," he says. "And stir it with a bayonet."
He looks over at me and winks.
"What do you call that?" I ask him.
"Breakfast" he says, wiping his hands on a baby seal skin. I went back to thinking about my horse.
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