The Time Mike Pence Just Shot a Man in the Face

This story is entirely fictional. To our knowledge, Mike Pence has never administered experimental doses of Thorazine to the severely and persistently mentally ill.

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Let it not be said that I, Bryan O’Nolan, was ever so crass as to speak ill of the dead; I consider doing so a great unkindness. The exception to this rule is twofold. Firstly there is the case of Booper McCarthy, for if one were not able to speak ill of him his name would be forever unspoken, and for all the tragedy, scandal — and, if I may say, extensive clean up and recovery—resulting from his demise, he was a loveable boob.

The second exception is the case where the article in question is so strange that the only valid description of the man requires a detailed telling of his passing. In this case the passing came at the hands of one Michael Pence, who simply shot him in the face.

It all began in a courtroom in Gary, Indiana, where an acquaintance of Michael’s was on trial for the theft of one million dollars-worth of Promethium. Here, Michael’s encyclopedic knowledge of the Lanthanide series, which I have narrated to you on another occasion, and his great care for his fellow man — especially if that fellow man was also a disciple of Pastor Dennis — intersected.

We were late to the last day of the trial, Micahael and I, as Michael was keen to purchase a new handgun and had been long over the decision between a Dryse M1907 and a Velo-dog—a dastardly weapon designed for people on velocipedes being chased by dogs—in our favorite shop, Checkov’s Guns and Ammo, also in Gary. He went with the 1907, in the end.

When we arrived in the courtroom the jury was just returning its verdict.

“Foreman of the jury, how do you find?” asked the judge, one Judge Gibbet.

A small man in full Scottish kit stood up and cleared his throat.

“Golly!” Mike whispered enthusiastically in my ear. “That is none other than the haberdasher who makes my hats. What a strange coincidence!”

“We the ladies and gentlemen of the jury would enter a verdict of Not Proven, Your Honor,” said the little man in a Highland brogue.

“He’s quite insane, of course.” Mike whispered. “He believes he is the Sailing Master on a 74-gun Ship of the Line half the time. I’m convinced that these spells come upon him when he hears idioms which derive from the Age of Sail, though his doctors think this nonsense.”

“I’m sorry, what?” the judge said, confused.

“Not Proven, Your Honor. It’s a highly useful verdict found in my country. It applies to cases where the defendant cannot be said to be guilty or not guilty. In the case before us—which I should say the Grand Jury was right and wise to bring to trial—there is much evidence suggestive of Mr. Larsen’s guilt. On the other hand, the question of his known presence in Evansville at 11:30 on the night in question and his alleged theft in Gary some ten minutes later would appear insoluble without a spaceship or something to make the thing possible.”

“Mr., er, what is your name?”

“Charles Macpherson, at your service, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Macpherson, are you a lawyer? I remind you that at Selection you answered ‘no’ to that question.”

“I am no lawyer, Your Honor, in that I’ve nae studied at the bar, but I am a Wee Lawyer, sir. Where I come from, we live by three maxims. First, never trust a Campbell. Second, To use one’s livestock for pleasure is an unnatural act, and he that commits it is an abomination in the eyes of God and man. Third, always know the ways of the law, though ye be no lawyer yourself. For who watches the watcher? And who will advocate to the advocate? So, I know a thing or two about Dame Justice.”

“Hm. I was expecting more Calvin in that speech.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I was always more a fan of the tiger.”

“So you say your are not a lawyer by trade, but merely a learned amateur,” said Gibbet.

“That is correct,” said the amiable Macpherson “I would remind Your Honor that there was a time when my people were regarded as the most educated on Earth.”

“And I would remind you that this is neither the 18th Century, nor Scotland.”

“Scotland, Your Honor? I am of Scottish heritage but I was born and bred in Glasgow!”

“Glasgow?”

“Aye. Glasgow, Indiana.”

“I see. Would it be fair to say,” asked Gibbet, “that the finding of Not Guilty would be the most appropriate analog in this situation to you Not Proven.”

“I suppose that is so,” said Macpherson.

“Thank you,” said the judge, as Macpherson, with a little bow, sat down in his chair.

Mike Pence’s fellow congregant Ollie Larsen was thus released and, as we stood at the base of the courthouse steps congratulating him, Charles Macpherson, the man himself, walked up to us.

“Mr. Larson? Do I find that you are a mutual friend of Mr. Michael Pence, the possessor of the finest head for which a hat was ever made?”

“Yes,” said Ollie Larsen. “He and I attend the same church.”

“Ach, Pastor Dennis,” said Macpherson. “I never could abide that man.”

Ollie took that in stride.

“Thank you for offering to drive me back to Indianapolis, Mike. I really appreciate it,” he said.

“Do I hear you are heading back to Indianapolis, Mike? Would you have room for another fellow traveler, as I’m headed there myself?” Macpherson asked.

“My woody is available to any and all in need,” Mike said, referring to his faux wood empaneled van, thank God.

Thus it was that we found ourselves driving south from Gary to Indianapolis, Mike Pence, Ollie Larsen, Charles Macpherson and me.

This Ollie Larsen was a new member of Mike Pence’s congregation. He had made his fortune in Rare Earth Metals — he was as rich as Cassus and as crass as he was rich — and was a great devotee of Pastor Dennis. Michael, a more thoughtful friend you could not ask for, saw my discomfort and decided to only listen to one half of Pastor Dennis’s sermon God’s Will Regarding the Management of Unsightly Body Hair on a trip to Manitoba. But this Ollie Larson, no, he insisted that we — captive in the woody van on Interstate 65 — were to be subjected to the entire eighty-minute 8-track cartridge.

“I think the idea of a man shaving his armpits is objectionable, if I am to be honest,” Macpherson said, afterwards.

“I was quite taken aback as well,” I said, trying to hide my rancor.

“Mr. Bush, pipe all hands to wear ship, if you please,” said Macpherson, formally.

“Bryan,” Mike said, “please administer this pill to Macpherson. I’ll explain when we get to the rest stop.”

I did so and Charles was soon back to himself.

And so it was that at the Kankakee Rest Area that I discovered that Charles Macpherson—otherwise a prudent, down-to-Earth haberdasher—was also insane, his delusions striking him whenever he heard idioms which originated in the Age of Sail. I was to be mindful of my tongue. Luckily, Michael possessed a remedy, which he said was a rapid acting, low dose of Thorazine, which would set the character to rights again.

It was at the same stop that we witnessed another strange occurrence, this time from Larsen. I didn’t note its strangeness at the time, but Mike Pence brought it to my attention later. It was this: After purchasing a bag of cheesy crackers from a vending machine, Ollie Larsen began to choke. It took us some time to understand, as he stood there choking he merely flapped his arms and hands against the sides of his thighs. I thought it was a spot on penguin impersonation—or is it impenguination?—until Mike ran over and performed the Heimlich Maneuver more smoothly than I have ever seen it done outside of competition.

We switched seats for the next leg of our journey, Mike driving with Macpherson navigating—a rum job if ever there was one, as we simply stayed on I-65 the entire time—and Larsen and myself behind.

Larsen was as inept at conversation as he was at the internationally known gesture for “I’m choking.”

“That Macpherson seems unwell, don’t you think?” he said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “Now that he’s had his does I think he’d get a “clean bill of health.”

“Avast hauling!” Macpherson cried. “Avast, goddamn your eyes! Mr. Babington, get the fore t’gallant reefed! And handsomely, or you’ll kiss the gunner’s daughter the moment you touch deck—”

And before Captain Macpherson could avast and belay and goddamn their eyes any longer, Michael had successfully dosed him and the van was peaceful once again.

We rode along, listening to the peaceful humming of the woody’s engine, none daring to speak less they set off Macpherson, until I felt an urge that demanded speech.

“Michael,” I ventured, seeking the best circumlocution, “I have a need to use the, shall we say, h—”

“Bryan!” he interjected. “I think I understand you to tell me that you have need of the necessary room at our earliest convenience. Am I correct?”

“Indeed you are,” I said.

“Wolcott Rest Area it is, then.”

And it was at that very rest area that a squall came through and provided another strange action on the part of Larsen. We walked toward the van and when the rain hit we all hunched our shoulders, but Ollie did not. It made little impression on me at the time, you understand, but then Michael brought it to my attention. Macpherson and Larsen settling into the van and switching places.

“Friend Brian,” Michael said, “did you notice the strange way Brother Larsen did not shrug his shoulders in the rain, allowing it to flow freely down his spine?”

“Now that you call it to my mind, I did, Michael. I did.”

“And do you recall his failure to properly indicate that he was choking?”

“I recall that, as well!” I said. “Add to that the behavior of the captain and we make a rather motley company.”

“We do indeed, Bryan,” Mike said. “Watch your tongue, Friend.”

We were back on the highway and southbound again in no time, and the rain ended and the sun came out and we had the greatest views of the Indiana pastureland one could hope for.

As we neared Lafayette, we passed a field and on the far side were 50 or more head of fine, fine cattle.

“Cows!” Michael, Macpherson and I said, pointing.

An uncomfortable silence came upon the van.

“Ollie,” Mike Pence said, “did you see the cows?”

“Yes.”

“When you saw the cows, did you say ‘Cows!’?” I saw Mike, ever so secretly, reach for his pistol.

“No? I don’t think I did. Why would —”

And Mike Pence fired the gun directly into Larsen’s face. The blood splattered on the window and about the interior was a sludgy green. We watched aghast as Larsen’s corpse morphed from clearly human to that of some enormous alien creature, a giant beetle thing with the four back legs beetle-like and the front two long, reaching tentacles, which flicked about the van and then lay still in the passenger seat.

We all tried to breathe, the van now idling in the breakdown lane, filling with an unholy and unearthly stench.

“I guess we now know what happened to those Lanthanides,” Mike Pence quipped with a knowing look to Macpherson.

“The question I’ve long pondered is answered now, in a way I could not have imagined. What fell purpose did this creature have? I suppose we shall now never know,” Macpherson said.

We set the woody afire and hitched a ride to Indianapolis which went smoothly until I, foolishly, remarked on the city’s skyscrapers, and Mike Pence was all out of Thorazine.

Someday I should tell you about the time Mike Pence and I effected a treaty with a band of Somali pirates.

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