"Hey Pops, wake up!" the strange adolescent breaky voice annoyingly demanded that Dick listen, he seemed to be clawing his way back to an uncomfortable conciousness, aware that he had collapsed on the cool marble floor of his front doorway entry hall.
"You don't mind if I call you Pops? Okay? I mean father seems so formal." the annoying scratchy cartoon teenage voice went on..."Listen, Pops, can I get you a drink?"
The pain in Mr. Cheney's ribs seemed to be abating. He cautiously opened his eyes, disoriented and the first thing he saw was the face of the black enamel painted lawn jocky grotesquely grinning as it stood over him, peering intently into his face.
"Gahhh" said Dick Cheney.
"Pops, don't worry. Everythings cool. I already have a nice drink, Chivas and soda with an ice cube...just the way you like it!' The lawn jockey's face came into focus and Dick felt as if he could actually see it's concerned expression....The glass looked real enough.
"Am I insane?" he thought.
As if he could read Cheneys mind, the jockey said in his cartoon voice, "Hey pops, you aren't crazy. This is real, well, I'm as real as I will ever get. Thanks to you. Now have that drink. You really need it!"
The sound of sirens started to get louder. Cheney remembered paging his medical staff before passing out. He instinctively reached for his Blackberry in his hunting vest, but it wasn't there.
"You lookin for this?" the jockey laughed and pointed to a mangled mess of plastic and circuits on the table. "You won't need this anymore, Pops. You got me, your sonny boy!"
Dick automatically grabbed the drink and gulped it down. The Chivas burned just right and instantly, he felt better. He breathed deeply and noticed the pain in side had abated.
He felt he could think again. He looked at the painted face and tried to be logical.
"Don't call me Pops. Okay?"