Remember the Alamo (Because Texas Is About to Do It Again)

Texas is using “freedom” branding to execute a slow, bureaucratic siege that only large operators can survive — and calling it regulation.

Every war needs a last stand.

Texas found one in hemp.

I’m standing in a Texas hemp shop where the shelves are stocked, the lights are on, and the operator is doing math that does not end in survival.

On the counter: a laminated price list. On the phone: a lawyer. In the inbox: a notice from the state explaining, politely, that continuing to exist is about to get significantly more expensive.

This is not prohibition.

This is licensing by artillery.

Texas Discovers a New Way to Say “Pay Up”

The State of Texas is proposing dramatic increases to hemp licensing fees — increases that turn a survivable cost of doing business into something that reads like a ransom note with a seal on it.

For small operators, the numbers don’t say “regulation.”

They say “exit.”

Pay to stay.

Or don’t.

There is no volume adjustment. No margin consideration. No concern for reality.

Just a number and a deadline.

Texas Loves a Doomed Defense (As Long As It’s Not Theirs)

Texas mythology thrives on heroic loss. Brave resistance. Impossible odds. A proud collapse dressed up as destiny.

That’s the energy here.

Small hemp operators aren’t fighting for dominance. They’re fighting for oxygen. The state isn’t negotiating — it’s advancing slowly, bureaucratically, with spreadsheets and PDFs.

No cavalry.

No exemption.

No sympathy required.

Just compliance.

Independence, Texas-Style

The irony could be sharpened into a weapon.

Texas markets itself as allergic to overregulation, hostile to bureaucracy, and spiritually opposed to nanny-state behavior. Hemp was supposed to be the proof — a free-market compromise, a legal lane.

Instead, Texas discovered the most Texan move possible:

Declare independence, then tax it until it collapses.

Operators aren’t asking for favors. They’re asking for math that doesn’t assume infinite capital.

The response has been silence, followed by another attachment.

This Isn’t Safety — It’s Market Selection

Here’s the part the state doesn’t have to explain:

Licensing fees don’t scale.

They don’t care if you sell a lot or a little.

They don’t care if you’re profitable.

For large operators, it’s a nuisance.

For small ones, it’s a death sentence delivered politely.

This isn’t enforcement.

It’s filtration.

Who Survives the Siege

The outcome isn’t complicated.

Operators with:

• outside capital

• legal teams

• multi-state exposure

will survive.

Everyone else will:

• close

• go underground

• sell to someone who already won

The state will call this “market maturation.”

The people packing their shelves will call it something else.

How the Alamo Actually Ends

Nobody here is talking rebellion.

Nobody is lighting torches.

They’re doing something quieter and more Texan than that.

They’re running numbers. Calling partners. Deciding whether to walk away.

That’s how the Alamo really ends.

Not with a charge. With paperwork.

Texas hemp didn’t ask to be symbolic.

It asked to exist.

Instead, it got a licensing regime that treats survival like a luxury upgrade.

The flags are still waving.

The slogans are still loud.

The small operators are still brave.

But bravery doesn’t pay a fee increase.

Texas will remember the Alamo. It just won’t remember who it buried.