BONUS CONTENT - Jurassic Texas: The Legend of Brandon Herrera
The Texas sun scorched the plains, bathing the mesquite and sagebrush in a fiery glow. Brandon Herrera, "The Most Decorated Man in American History," stood tall on a rocky bluff, his Stetson low over his hawk-sharp eyes. His hands, etched with scars from battles past, cradled the AK-50, a monstrous rifle he’d forged himself. His rapier wit, corny as a county fair, was sharper than ever, ready to skewer any foe. Texas trembled under a new terror, and Brandon was its only salvation.
Velociraptors had overrun the state, not from some cosmic rift, but from the greed of rich ranchers. Hungry for exotic hunts, they’d bankrolled a lab to clone Parasaurolophus, the crested herbivores perfect for bragging rights. But in their haste, they botched the DNA, birthing velociraptors—sly, vicious killers. The beasts broke free, shredding livestock, ransacking towns, and spreading panic from Amarillo to Brownsville. The ranchers’ hired guns fled, and the National Guard’s choppers couldn’t match the raptors’ speed. Texas needed a hero. Texas needed Herrera.
Brandon didn’t blink. He’d stared down cartels, insurgents, and a ornery goat at a 4-H fundraiser. Strapping the AK-50 across his back and honing his corniest quips, he rode to the fossil beds near Big Bend, where the raptors had first escaped. There, munching cacti, was his mount: a living Ankylosaurus, its armored hide like a Sherman tank, its tail club a demolition ball. “Well, Betsy, let’s saddle up and make these dinos wish they stayed extinct!” he chuckled, tossing her a bale of ferns. With paracord and leather, he rigged a saddle, climbed aboard, and charged into the fray.
The hunt kicked off at dusk. Raptor tracks wove through the desert, pointing to a gulch where the pack had holed up. Brandon guided Betsy across the scrubland, her earth-shaking steps rattling the sagebrush. His radio crackled with dire reports: the raptors had gutted a ranch near Midland, leaving nothing but bones. Time was running dry.
At the gulch’s edge, he spotted them—dozens of velociraptors, their sickle claws glinting in the moonlight. The alpha, a hulking brute with a scarred maw, hissed a challenge. Brandon grinned, his wit dripping corn like a buttered cob. “Y’all must be the ranchers’ new lapdogs! Sorry, fellas, but this dog park’s closed—permanently!”
He spurred Betsy forward, her bulk smashing through the gulch like a runaway semi. The raptors swarmed, their speed dizzying, slashing at Betsy’s flanks. Brandon unleashed the AK-50, its .50 BMG rounds ripping through the pack like a hot knife through brisket. One raptor lunged for his neck, but Brandon’s wit struck first: “Nice moves, partner, but you’re dancin’ with the wrong cowboy!” The beast hesitated, dazed by the corniness, and Betsy’s tail club sent it flying into a cactus patch.
The alpha was craftier, slinking through the chaos, eyes fixed on Brandon. It darted in, claws flashing. Brandon swung the AK-50 like a baseball bat, knocking it back, then fired a burst that nicked its hide. “You’re faster than a jackrabbit on a jalapeño,” he quipped, “but my rifle’s got more kick than a mule at a hoedown!” The alpha sprang again, but Brandon was ready. He rolled off Betsy, baiting it closer. Betsy swung her tail, the club landing with a bone-crunching thud, flattening the alpha into the dirt.
The surviving raptors bolted, but Brandon was a bloodhound. For weeks, he and Betsy chased them across Texas—through wind-swept prairies, deserted oil rigs, and tumbleweed towns. With the AK-50, he dropped stragglers from a mile off. His corny barbs shamed the ranchers into funding the cleanup: “Y’all cloned a mess, but I’m the janitor who sweeps with lead!” He lured packs into box canyons, baited them with decoys, and finished them with Betsy’s might and his rifle’s roar. Ranchers carved his initials into barn doors, and kids in Houston doodled him on their lunchboxes.
By summer’s end, the last raptor fell, its hide Swiss-cheesed by AK-50 rounds. Brandon stood over it, Betsy grazing under a mesquite tree. He lit a cigar, the smoke swirling into the starry sky. “Well, boys, you picked the wrong state to crash,” he muttered. “Texas don’t take kindly to uninvited guests.”
In Austin, the state capitol gleamed as Governor Greg Abbott called Brandon to the steps. A crowd of thousands roared, waving flags and holding signs that read “Herrera Saves Texas!” Abbott pinned a gleaming Lone Star Medal of Valor to Brandon’s chest, the highest honor the state could bestow. “For ridding our land of this prehistoric plague,” Abbott declared, “Texas owes you everything.”
Brandon tipped his Stetson, his grin as corny as a roadside diner’s pie. “Shucks, Governor, I just gave those raptors a one-way ticket to the fossil factory! Texas is tougher than a longhorn’s hide, and I’m prouder than a peacock in a pumpkin patch to keep her safe.” The crowd erupted, chanting his name as he saluted, Betsy snorting proudly nearby.
Brandon’s legend was cemented, etched into Texas lore. The raptors’ bones, scattered across the plains, quaked in fear of the man who’d ended them with a rifle he built, a wit cornier than a corn maze, and a heart as big as the Lone Star State.
