The Square Root of Texas Book Blog Tour and #Giveaway #LoneStarLit

CLICK TO PURCHASE!

 

 

 

 

Excerpt from The Square Root of Texas

by Rob Witherspoon

Kid cleared his throat and almost every eyebrow in the room raised. Newt kept his eyes on the players around the table. They all waited, the natives knowing that although silence is golden, it was also an open invitation when Kid was around. Closed mouths encouraged Kid to open his and fill the silence with marginally plausible expository.

“Dogs are wilting, and flowers are panting in the shade,” said Kid. “Temperature and humidity must both be about a hundred and ten. If it wasn’t for the twenty mile-an-hour winds, the mosquitoes’d carry you off.” Kid’s hyperbole didn’t miss its mark. Some folks “summer” in the Poconos. In Texas, New Mexico and Arizona, summer is NOT a verb[1]. Summer is a drop forge that hammers the Southwest every day for a solid five months. A Texan’s opinion of “summering” on Cape Cod is that it can damn well kiss his ass. We’re too busy trying to survive until October.

Newt rose from his seat to refill his coffee cup. Newt was a recent addition to the domino grinders, arriving from out of state and buying a place east of town. He wore starched and pressed jeans, a tooled leather belt wrapped around a kettle belly and studded with an enormous belt buckle, a floral shirt adorned with pearl snaps, fringes, and piping, all surmounted by a tall, straw, cowboy hat. Clipped to his belt was a holster and a pearl-handled six-shooter. He was the kind of man that checked himself in the mirror and windows when he walked by—and if a mirror wasn’t handy, he admired his shadow.

Kid noticed the Plugger .357 magnum revolver strapped to the hip of the puerile poseur. “Nice wheel gun,” he said. “You like wearing it where folks can see it?”

Newt sipped the fresh cup. “Yup. Got my CHL years ago. The state lege made open carry legal for licensees, so why not? I’m licensed and registered.”

Kid snorted. “Hah! Licensed and registered, you say? You playing the Deep State game? Soon as you get something to call your own, you gotta license it and register it so’s they know what they can tax and what they can confiscate. What’re you gonna do when they send in the National Guard, roust you outta bed in the middle of the night and seize all your guns? Flash ’em that little piece of paper? Your machismo ain’t gonna do you no good in a jail cell.”

“That’s what the NRA’s for,” said Newt. “They ain’t gonna let nobody trample our Second Amendment rights.”

Mack drained his coffee cup, held it up so Cotton could see the bottom.

Cotton raised a calloused hand. He waited for the story to conclude before conceding defeat. After all, old men don’t take betting cups of coffee lightly when it came to Kid’s tall tales. His stories twisted, turned and swirled as they heated up, like a glass blower creating an octopus figurine. Nobody knew what his fabrications would be until they came off the fire and cooled.

Kid laughed. “Who do you think the feds are gonna go after first? The drug dealers and mob thugs? Nope. They got a list of all the NRA members, licensed owners and gun clubbers.”

“You’re not a member?” asked Newt.

“You see a sticker on my truck? Heeell, no. That’s the second wave of confiscations. The feds see any kinda bumper sticker about NRA or Second Amendment, they’ll pull your ass over so fast your ears’d fall off.”

“I figured a gung-ho, former Navy Seal like you has an armory and gets the NRA monthly publication,” said Mack. Like all avid, die-hard spectators, he couldn’t help but cheer on his home team. Kid may be a liar, braggart and a magnificently incompetent boob, but he was Mack’s hometown boob.

“Magazine subscriptions is a dead giveaway,” said Kid. He leaned close to the table and took a conspiratorial breath.

The players held their dominoes, waiting for the story. The game became secondary whenever Kid drew breath and lowered his voice to begin a tale. Cotton drew in his legs, sat up and leaned forward as Kid dangled the baited hook over the water.

“Now don’t y’all tell nobody, but I am a shadow member of the NRA.” Kid looked around the table, glancing at Cotton to make sure he was close enough to hear. “We’re not on the official membership rolls. We’re the thin red line between tyranny and freedom. When the feds come to get your guns, they’re gonna ride right by my house and never think twice, cause I ain’t on their list.” He removed his cap, placed it over his heart, and wrinkled his brow into an innocent puppy dog face. “I shit you not. We’ll be the arsenal of democracy when the Bilderbergers establish a new world order.”

Mack pushed an empty foam cup towards Cotton. “Black, one sugar.”

[1] Texas temperature ratings: 80-89 Balmy; 90-99 Tropical; 100-109 Hide under the porch; 110-119 Jump in the stock tank; >120 Go ahead and sin all you want, cause you’re already in Hell.

 

 

 

Rob Witherspoon was born and raised in rural Texas. He earned a BA in Physical Education, UT Arlington 1985 and a BS in Aerospace Engineering, UT Arlington 1990. He worked in the aerospace industry for 30 years before retiring in 2018. He lives in north central Texas with his wife and youngest daughter and has spent much of his life in rural communities and on the ranch. He combines his love for Texas, lying, the outdoors, engineering, and his children in his writing.