Rebels of the 512 is the best novel about pirates, ninjas and evil politicians in Austin, Texas you’ll ever read.

Is this because it’s likely the ONLY novel about pirates, ninjas and evil politicians in Austin, Texas you’ll ever read? I can’t answer these types of hypothetical questions, as I only deal in absolutes.

It is, however, a novel that was written in just 3 days (for Canada’s infamous 3-Day Novel Contest), and inspired by the consistently infuriating and boneheaded moves made by Texas Governor Rick Perry, aka “Governor Goodhair,” aka former 2012 Presidential candidate.

Rebels of the 512 is now available at Amazon and Smashwords in all e-reader formats, and in print at CreateSpace.

Want to check out an excerpt? Read on!

REBELS OF THE 512: A 3-DAY NOVEL BY LAURA ROBERTS

“You may all go to hell and I will go to Texas.”
—David “Davy” Crockett, disillusioned politician

It was just another 105-degree Tuesday morning in Austin, Texas for Suzie Jimenez. Around 10 o’clock in the morning, the radio was already announcing the 27^th straight day of 100+ degree weather for the capital city, hollering about margarita specials at an assortment of local bars and the importance of keeping your air-conditioning set at an absurd 80 degrees to prevent rolling blackouts.

Seated at her computer, sipping a cold-pressed coffee and listening to the purr of the ceiling fan (as well as the whir of the smaller electric fan trained directly at her face), Suzie was busy prepping for another back-to-school season at Rebel Yell High School. As the fans cooled her face, she searched the internet, trying to find out whether the Texas School Board had recently changed History yet again by removing such “un-American” characters as César Chávez from the curriculum.

She was poring over the latest news in her RSS feeds, wondering how she could shoehorn a few new exercises in public dissent into her yearly agenda, when there was a loud Ping! from her inbox.

“This better not be another round of school lunch menus,” she muttered.

The previous school year’s big PR fiasco had occurred when a group of vegetarian students went on strike, refusing to attend classes until the cafeteria’s menu included anti-meat-lover’s options like deep-fried Tofurky sticks and black-bean burritos slathered in queso. Never mind the fact that the school’s queso was quite obviously thickened with gelatin, which was created by melting down horse’s hooves and pig’s feet. Suzie shook her head, marveling both at her students’ ignorance and their tenacity; even if they didn’t have all the facts straight, she was glad they were questioning authority.

As some of her fellow teachers occasionally pointed out, “You might could change a few things ’round here, but you can’t take no queso away from a central Texan.” She took that to mean that no matter how committed to a vegetarian lifestyle certain Austinites might be, queso was just a matter of course.

A former “damn Yank,” Suzie still wasn’t sure what all the fuss was about when it came to queso; it seemed mostly to consist of melted Velveeta cheese, and was frequently mixed with the New York City affront to Tex-Mex, Pace Picante Sauce. She was sure she’d had far more authentically Mexican dishes served to her from taco dives in New York City, but she knew enough to keep her mouth shut when she saw the gallons of queso the school bought every week. It was one of those peculiar “Texas pride” topics that people figured you shouldn’t question too deeply if you wanted to get along in polite society.

Suzie eyeballed the jumping icon of her email program for a few seconds, trying to fathom what item of interest it could possibly contain, and finally clicked over to find out. Scanning over the short note, her jaw dropped.

“Dear Teachers of Rebel Yell High School,” it read. “As per Governor Nick Harry’s latest round of budget cuts, our school will be closing its doors indefinitely. We deeply regret the loss of our excellent teaching staff, and will be in touch with further details as events progress. Sincerely, Principal Mylene Leroux.”

“Holy hot sauce, did I just get fired by email?!”

Suzie spun into action, grabbing her cell phone and calling the school’s direct line. The phone rang and rang, but no one answered. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. Somebody had to be there, sending these cryptic emails. She jumped into a pair of cowboy boots parked at the front door and marched the two blocks from her house over to Rebel Yell High, determined to get to the bottom of things.

As she approached the front doors of the high school, a security guard spoke into his walkie-talkie and motioned for Suzie to step back.

“What’s going on here?” she demanded.

“Funding’s been cut by Governor Harry. This school is officially closed,” the burly guard informed her, crossing his arms over his barrel chest.

“Where’s the principal? I’m a teacher here. I need to speak to Mylene.”

“Ms. Leroux has informed all teaching staff via email about the situation. I am authorized to remove any troublemakers from the property,” he said. The walkie-talkie crackled, and someone on the other end barked “10–4!”

“Troublemakers? I just told you, I’m a teacher here. I need more information. Let me in!” She tried to dodge the security guard, who pushed her back with both arms.

“Ma’am, if you don’t step back, I’m going to have to escort you off the premises,” he warned. “I have authorization to use all necessary force.”

Suzie noticed his hand on his hip, one fist curling around the end of a revolver. She stepped back a pace, her gaze moving from the guard’s impassive mirrored glasses down to his leather holster. She narrowed her eyes at him and crossed her own arms over her chest. “You wouldn’t dare shoot a schoolteacher—a fellow employee of the state of Texas.”

“Watch me,” he grinned. His yellow teeth glinted maliciously in the late-morning sun, and Suzie could smell the odors of cheap coffee and breakfast tacos wafting on his breath. This guy obviously got off on screwing with people’s minds, and he began to pull the gun from its holster to further illustrate his threat.

“You know you’d go to jail for the rest of your life,” she growled.

“For killing some spic teacher? Not likely.”

“You bastard.” She spit on the ground, hitting the guard’s polished black boot.

She heard the click of the gun’s safety being taken off, and leapt to one side, hitting the dead, yellow grass of the school’s lawn as the cop fired three times in quick succession. The bullets buried themselves in the trunk of an enormous oak tree in the front of the schoolyard, and the guard swung his weapon toward Suzie, towering over her with his gun pointed directly at her head.

Two more security guards rushed toward them from behind the school, yelling “Hold your fire!” and were able to subdue their co-worker as Suzie scrambled to her feet and took off running.

“I’ll get you, you fucking spic!” she heard the guard screaming as she rounded the corner. She pressed herself up against a neighbor’s tree, breathing hard as she tried to restrain her wildly beating heart.

“What the hell was that all about? I thought I heard shots.” Suzie’s neighbor, Bill, poked his head out of the front door, which was cracked just wide enough for him to see her crouching in the yard.

“You did,” Suzie said. She peered around the tree trunk, and saw the two security guards cuffing the one who’d shot at her. One had his knees on the guy’s back, while the other shouted “What the hell do you think you’re doing shooting at civilians?” next to the psychotic guard’s face. They all looked equally dangerous to Suzie, their faces red and their voices raised in angry confrontation. If each had a state-issued gun, that made everything twice as scary.

“Come inside,” Bill hissed.

“I’m okay,” Suzie whispered. “But those rent-a-cops are out of control.”

“What happened?”

“All the teachers have been laid off. Governor Harry cut our funding.”

“What? How can he do that?”

“He’s the Governor. He can do whatever the hell he wants, apparently.”

“Well, I didn’t vote for him, and I certainly didn’t vote for that,” Bill said. “What should we do?”

“Lay low. I’ll be back,” Suzie said. She scuttled down the street, crab-like, aiming for the cover of parked cars, tree trunks and trash cans until she was safely back in her own house.

* * *

It was useless to fight armed guards, Suzie reasoned. She didn’t want to get shot in the face after she’d just been laid off. What a way to add insult to injury to her hospital bills! She needed to get in touch with Mylene and the other teachers, so they could all find out what their options were. She flipped through her computer’s address book, searching for the principal’s cell phone number, and added it to her speed dial. When she called, the phone rang and rang, and eventually switched over to voicemail.

“Hi Mylene, it’s Suzie Jimenez, History, grade 12. I got your email, and just had a little run-in with some security guards at the school. If you can give me some more info on what’s going on, I’d really appreciate it. Thanks, bye.”

How could Mylene be avoiding calls at a moment like this? Surely she’d heard the gunshots? Maybe she’d turned her phone off, anticipating the flood of angry calls. But now was no time to turn her back on the teachers; they needed her leadership!

Suzie kicked the wall of her bedroom, scuffing it with the cowboy boots she was still wearing. Her cat, Steinbeck, jumped and ran for cover in the next room.

“Sorry!” she called to his departing form. “Fuck, I’m just spinning my wheels here. It’s time to hit the dojo.”

With that, she grabbed her gym bag from inside the front closet, her keys from the hook near the door, and headed out to her car.

The dojo was actually a small tae kwon do facility named Kick-Ass Karate, located just a few miles from Suzie’s house. While most of the classes took place in the afternoons and evening hours, Suzie was sure she’d find her boyfriend, Ira Gold, either sweeping the floors, making phone calls, or simply practicing his forms in the front room of the dojo. He lived in the apartment above the practice space, and was almost always up and at ‘em by sunrise.

Suzie still wasn’t sure why the place was called Kick-Ass Karate, since they’d never taught karate and always had plenty of confused would-be students asking why they didn’t teach the Bruce Lee fighting styles of Jeet Kune Do or even Wing Chun, but she figured it must be like the Tamale House down the street that only served breakfast tacos.

Welcome to Austin, the official home of Keepin’ It Weird.

Pulling into the parking lot, Suzie could see Ira in the shadows, already dressed in his spotless white gi and black belt, meditatively progressing through his forms. She knocked softly on the door, even though she knew it was open, just to let him know she was there. Sometimes she’d startled him by entering the room too quietly, and he’d spun around ready to strike an intruder with a death blow. She’d suggested purchasing an automated doorbell that would ring when the door opened, but he’d nixed the idea as “too obnoxious.”

“Hey, pretty lady,” Ira said, greeting her with a kiss. “To what do I owe the honor of your presence?”

“I got laid off,” Suzie said. She slumped into one of the chairs near the door, usually reserved for parents watching their children at practice.

“What? When? How? Why?”

“You forgot Where and Who,” she smiled sadly.

“I already know who, you,” he joked. “But seriously… what happened?”

“Governor Harry cut our funding. The state of Texas is basically bankrupt; the budget is 8 billion dollars short. I don’t know what to do.” Suzie put her head in her hands and began to cry, softly at first, then harder as Ira pulled her into a tight hug.

“We’ll figure something out, Suzie,” he soothed. “Don’t worry.”

“There’s no crying in tae kwon do,” said a deep voice from the back of the room. Master Gray stepped forward, a small but formidable Korean man dressed in a cerulean blue gi. He wore a black belt and his uniform was embroidered with a variety of awards and patches from competitions around the world. As a lifelong devotee of the martial arts, Master Gray had the accolades to prove it, as well as the dojo he’d founded in the 1970s. Ira was his second in command, and turned to bow to Master Gray, even though he’d undoubtedly already saluted him earlier in the day.

“Suzie lost her job,” Ira told him. “Governor Harry cut the school’s funding.”

“Hello, Master Gray,” Suzie said, drying her eyes. “It’s good to see you again.”

“This is very bad news,” Master Gray said, looking worried.

“There must be something we can do,” Ira said. “Have you contacted any of the other teachers yet?”

“No, but I’ve been phoning Principal Leroux trying to get more information. She hired some psycho security guards to chuck all the teachers off school property, and one nearly blew my head off. That’s when I decided to come here.”

“You made the right decision,” Master Gray said. He nodded his head slowly, momentarily lost in thought, then added, “We’ll set up a command center here in the dojo.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s get on the phone, start making calls. Email all the teachers. Now is the time for action, for community. We must find out more, get everyone together for a discussion, move forward. School starts next week, doesn’t it? The children’s education must not be jeopardized.”

“Agreed,” Suzie said. “I’ve got a list of all the teachers at our school, and unless Mylene has already shut it down, at least one of them must have access to the website and the school district’s database. We’ll mobilize, get all the teachers together, and figure out a plan.”

“Count me in,” Ira said. “What can I do to help?”

“I’ll get you a phone list and you can start calling some of the older teachers who don’t check their email as regularly.”

“Great. Master Gray, what should we do about classes this afternoon?”

“Don’t worry about that, Ira. This is important.” He turned the sign on the door from Yes, We’re Open! to Sorry, We’re Closed.

They got to work, with Suzie emailing all of the teachers she knew how to reach, and Ira making phone calls. Master Gray brought coffee and sandwiches from the café next door, and began to meditate on the mats in front of the dojo’s Buddha statue. The master’s low chanting provided a calming background drone as the two worked to mobilize the affected teachers.

Eventually the phones began ringing off the hook, and Suzie invited the teachers to join them at the dojo for a planning meeting, spreading the word about her run-in with the security guard at the school.

“What the eff?” Darla Fassbinder shouted, slamming into the dojo like a hurricane. “I can’t believe a security guard tried to KILL you, Suzie! Why didn’t you give him one of those flying scissor-kicks or break his effin’ nose?”

Suzie smiled. “I may be a black belt in tae kwon do, but I still believe in a path of non-violence.”

“Non-violence my bum! I’d have kneed that son-of-a-bee in the groin and maced that mofo until he was red as a hot chile pepper.” Darla was a feisty, rotund redhead who taught freshman English. She didn’t like to swear in front of the students, but had a temper, so she was continually substituting cuss words for their less offensive counterparts. The more sons of bees and effs she employed, the more passionately she was enraged. She spoke loudly so she had no need to carry a big stick, but like most native Texans, she still endorsed the concealed weapon laws.

“I should’ve been carrying, actually, but I had no idea they were arming mere rental cops these days,” Suzie mused.

“Dang right! Bust out that .45 special and show him who’s boss! Yehaw!”

Three more agitated teachers entered the dojo, their greying hair frizzing out wildly in all directions and their clothing oddly mismatched. These were the Sullivan sisters: Ella, Billie and Anita. Spinsters all, they were equally dedicated to teaching the children of Rebel Yell High how to succeed in Home Economics, Music and Art, respectively.

“Welcome, ladies,” Ira said. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, donuts?”

“Oh no, we’re just fine, thanks,” Ella said, speaking for all of them. Billie and Anita nodded their heads in confirmation.

As the Sullivan sisters were settling into a few folding chairs Master Gray had set up on the mats, another crush of teachers entered the building. Jack Burnside, the Phys-Ed teacher, burst through the door, his NBA-grade whistle still dangling from his neck; Marilyn Mackie, the Math instructor every adolescent boy swooned over, thanks to her low-cut blouses and over-sprayed blonde bouffant, jiggled her way through the door, nearly tripping over the mats in her stiletto heels; Humphrey Duvall, the Physics teacher, almost had to stoop to enter the building he was so tall, and his pocket protector—normally bursting with pencils and pens—seemed oddly empty, and slightly askew. Even Frank Pennington, the Biology teacher who always wore a smart button-down shirt and outlandish tie, looked windblown as a desert tumbleweed, with his shirt half-tucked and his loosened tie dangling slack around his neck.

The question on everyone’s mind was suddenly chorused by all at once: “Where’s Mylene?”

“Fellow teachers,” Suzie began, “I’ve invited you all here, as I’m sure you know, because our principal has left us in the lurch. Governor Harry has de-funded our school, despite its proven track record of academic excellence, and our Principal is nowhere to be found. What we’re here to discuss is what we should do, given this absence of leadership, and how to proceed before the school year is set to commence next Monday. Who would like to speak?”

The buzzing crowd of teachers was strangely silent.

“C’mon, y’all, I know this is a shock, but we’ve got to do something,” Suzie prodded. “Any ideas?”

“Let’s protest!” Marilyn said, in her squeaky little voice.

“We’ll march on the Capitol!” Darla shouted.

Want more? Rebels of the 512 is now available at Amazon and Smashwords in all e-reader formats, and in print at CreateSpace.