All the Governor’s Rocks
“Governor, they found the rock.”
Of all the calls Perry never wanted to get at 3:00 AM, this had to be the worst. Better to learn that Austin had been reduced to a glowing slag-heap than to receive “the painted rock call”.
Groggy but still canny enough to realize the phone might be tapped, he played dumb while he collected his thoughts:
“What in the hell are you talking about? What rock? Do you know what time it is?”
“The N-word Head rock, Governor.”
Oh Lord in Heaven, not the Imperial Wizard Crypto-Racist Southwest Politician of the Year Plaque, awarded personally by Robert Byrd, in full robes no less. Think Rick, think!
“Are you talking about that stupid sign at the hunt camp, the one we painted over, then flipped?”
“Yes Governor. Evidently if you turn the rock back over and look at it at an angle of 20-40 degrees off the perpendicular you can still see the N-word.”
Damnation! He had told his people not to cheap out on the paint. Two coats, they couldn’t understand two coats? Even strokes, put down drop cloths first, all ignored! How was he expected to restore racial purity to an unsuspecting nation if his minions couldn’t follow simple instructions?
“It was the Post wasn’t it?”
“Yes sir, they are relentless, especially the ones on the roadside artifacts beat.”
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