...heard the commotion from his usual room above Palfrey's Tavern. "Iraq is not a quagmire!" was heard faintly in the dry prairie air before a gunshot rang out, faint echoes slapping off of the sides of the wooden buildings. He peeked out a window and saw Wild Bill Kristol stretched out on the Main Street, lifeless, his fat Rolodex of neoconservative fatcats tumbled on the ground next to his Gucci loafers.
"Estate tax!" Vitter grunted through the ball gag around his head. The dominatrix, a tall, lean figure in black leather named Mistress Veronica, responded to the safe word (a phrase he would never use by accident) by coiling her whip and unlocking him from the crucifix to which he was shackled.
As soon as he was free he threw his diaper off and donned his boxers, then pulled on dungarees, a shirt, his vest, and his chaps. He was fumbling with his gunbelt when he heard three quiet clicks behind him. He turned to the window and came face-to-face with the huge black hole in the business end of a .45-caliber Shofield revolver. Somewhere behind that hole, he was sickly certain, was a person. But all he could see was the hole. It filled his universe, blotting out all thought and all perception.
A second hole appeared next to to the first. There was motion from behind the second hole, then three more clicks were heard. Finally, Ravin' David understood. The clicks were the revolver's hammer being cocked and the cylinder being rotated. Like most chickenhawks, he had never served in the military despite the gaudy nickel-plated sixgun in his gunbelt.
He had just enough time to soil his boxers before the universe exploded into flames and distant, thudding impacts. A lot of impacts.
Vitter staggered back and fell prone, the ceiling hovering over him. After an eternity, Mistress Veronica appeared at the edge of his fading vision. "You couldn't shoot him outside? Look at the mess! And this is real leather I'm wearing, not PVC or vinyl! It's HARD to clean!" her voice shrilled dimly. And then he died.
William "The Librul" Pitt stepped through the open window, holstered one revolver and broke open the other one, spilling hot empty brasses on the floor. "Listen, lady," he said, fingers shuttling from the fresh cartridges on his gunbelt to the revolver's empty cylinder, "you can keep whatever's in his wallet. I didn't come for his stuff, I came for his life." He snapped the freshly-loaded revolver closed and holstered it, drew his other one, and spilled more shiny brass casings on the room's floor.
Mistress Veronica stepped daintily around the spreading pool of blood, 7-inch stilettos clicking on the roughly-finished wood, and dug through Vitter's pants until she found is wallet. She opened it up and exclaimed in dismay "It's empty!" She shook it, and a single credit card fell out onto the floor. She bent over and picked it up. "United States Treasury Department" was printed across the face.
A smile creased her stern face, and she tossed her long, straight, jet-black hair over her shoulder. "Looks like I'm set for life!" she purred. William Pitt snapped his second revolver closed, dropped it in his left holster, touched his fingers to the brim of his hat, and left.
After all, there were a thousand more out there to get to.
It would be a long night.
Hey, this is fun!!!!
<on edit: fixed grammer>