by Jack Cashill
A few years back, my friend Mike McMullen and I were driving to Oklahoma for a seriously incorrect weekend of eating, drinking, and shooting, when Mike posed a question. He asked if I had time to take a look at a novel he was working on.
An engineer by profession and an outdoorsman by inclination, Mike did not strike me as a would-be novelist.
“What’s it about?” I asked. “We’ve got another hour so. We can just talk it through.”
“Well,” said Mike shyly, “it’s about this concealed-carry expert. One night he’s out walking his dog, and he runs into a . . . uh . . . uh . . . he runs into a . . . Martian.”