Duck, Luis!

Bang! went the shotgun. Only louder. Shotguns are louder than you think, at least up close.

"Ahhh!" cried Luis Ayala.

"God dammit," growled the vice president. "You shouldn't get in my way like that."

"Ahhh!" cried Ayala again. "You shot me! It burns! In my arm!"

"Didn't you ever learn gun safety?" the vice president asked. "When I point my gun at you, you're supposed to get out of the way. Fer chrissake."

"Ahhh!" Ayala cried again. "You shot my arm, man! Am I bleeding?"

"You face looks fine," the vice president said. "But I'm still waiting for your apology."

"What?" Ayala asked.

"We're not moving until you apologize," the vice president said.

"Ahhh!" Ayala cried again. "You shot me! In the arm!"

"Dammit," the vice president said. "You blocked my shot, and now you're acting like you're the victim here. I am sick and tired of hunting with people who block my shots."

"I was standing behind you," Ayala said. "Ahhh! Crap, that stings, man! Will you just take a look at my arm?"

"Looks like your left arm," the vice president said.

"So?" Ayala said. "Come look at it. Is there blood?"

"So you pitch with your right arm, not your left," the vice president said. "Don't be such a crybaby. Now tell me you're sorry and we can keep going. There's more grouse still out in the field."

"Ahhh!" Ayala said. "I think I am bleeding. Cripes. I'm calling my agent."

"Garr," the vice president said. "Get a lawyer involved. Great. That's just great. Typical prima donna. Fine. I'll call the Secret Service truck and we'll go back to the cabin. But I'm not taking you hunting again until you apologize, like the last guy who blocked my shot."

"Ahhh!"

"Fer chrissakes. The whole damn day ruined."