The desert sun over Santa Fe hung low and molten, painting the adobe walls gold. On the plaza steps, the flags of every regiment fluttered in the warm breeze. Reporters crowded in, confused, curious, half-expecting a prank. But G.I. Joe wasn’t smiling.

He stepped forward, boots clicking on the stone. In his hands, a leather folder stamped with a seal that looked suspiciously official for something that wasn’t supposed to exist.

Demi Moore waited beside him, sunglasses on, posture sharp, the way only someone who’s already been a Navy SEAL on film can manage without trying.

Joe opened the folder.

“Before I hand this over,” he said, voice low and unexpectedly poetic, “I want to say something.”

He looked out over the silent crowd.

D. H. Lawrence once wrote:
‘I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
without ever having felt sorry for itself.’

He closed the folder gently.

“That’s the spirit New Mexico needs. No self-pity. No excuses. Courage in the cold. Strength in the storm. And there’s only one person I trust with that kind of backbone.”

He turned to Demi Moore.

“With this—” he lifted the folder “—I give you the government of New Mexico. Not symbolic power. Not ceremonial authority. Real leadership. Because you don’t freeze. You don’t fold. You don’t feel sorry for yourself.”

Demi raised an eyebrow, smirked just enough to show she accepted the absurdity but also the gravity.

“Well,” she said, taking the folder, “if I’m running New Mexico now, first order of business—everyone gets a haircut like G.I. Jane.”

The crowd erupted. Joe saluted. And the wild desert, with no self-pity of its own, watched quietly as Demi Moore became the most unexpected governor the Southwest had ever seen.