Marshall Ramsey

Press release from the Governor’s office: This morning Governor Haley Barbour had minimally invasive, out-patient surgery on his low back. The surgery was scheduled to address a minor back issue commonly encountered in active individuals and former athletes.

Or so Mississippians thought.  Instead, a  sinister political plot was being hatched.

Four years ago, using Katrina Block Grants, Go Zone tax breaks and funding from the federal animal disease research facility (that eventually ended up in Kansas), a secret lab was built deep beneath the Mississippi Governor’s Mansion.  Its sole mission: To clone Mississippi Governor Haley Barbour.

The “back surgery” was performed by a team of Korean doctors who removed spine cells from the Governor’s back.  The spine cells would then be used in a secret process to create a secret army of Haley Clones. Clones to take over the American political system.  The Haley Clone Army.

It all started six years ago when the Governor was on a “business” trip in Asia.  The official story was that he was wooing Hyundai for Meridian — but truthfully, a bigger plant was in mind.  A human reproducing factory. In a hotel in Seoul, the Governor met with infamous Korean cloning doctor, Hwang Woo Suk (his real name, seriously) who pitched the idea of a developing a clone army to crush the Democratic Party once and for all.  “Let’s go CLONING!” he said to Marsha. Marsha rolled her eyes and hung up the phone.

The cells were mixed in a solution of Maker’s Mark and put in a special incubator.  The incubators were then shipped in the State Infiniti to “Casinas” around the state. Mississippians thought the Governor’s support of “casinas” being put on land was justgood business after Katrina. Oh no. Secret labs were built underneath each gaming floor. It was pure genius.  The constant ringing of the slot machines drowned out the noise of the machinery growing the GOP army below.

Haley Barbour was famous for playing chess when his opponents were playing checkers. While they were moving one move, he was moving three moves ahead. Creating an army of former lobbyist-turned-politicians from him was a brilliant idea. Actually it was Ronald Reagan’s. Reagan had initially thought of using his own cells — but there was only one Ronald Reagan.  Haley Barbour, on the other hand, was the perfect template. Modest. Fast-talking. Athletic. Persuasive — he’d make an unstoppable army.  They’d destroy the Democrats like a “hurrican”.

It was 4 a.m. at the Lucky Dice Casina and if the lady smoking the cigarette while huffing oxygen had looked up from her slot machine, she would have noticed 56 Haley Barbours strolling across the “casina” floor.  The Phil Bryant campaign bus rolled up to the front door (on loan from the Lt. Governor) and the Haleys all piled on board. From every casina, a bus headed to the Jackson Evers International Airport where a waiting Air Force of State Planes were waiting for their new clone pilots and clone paratroopers. Haleys spread across the land like kudzu. Their final destination: The White House.

“Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.” “Marsha and I.”

The clones chanted as they followed their meticulously crafted attack plans.

Unions fell first.  Wisconsin Public Employee Union HQ was left ablaze.  Teacher Unions crumbled next.  A radio signal from BGR Group guided the clones toward their objectives.  Howard Dean screamed like he never had before.  Bill Clinton fled the country with a flight attendant from Portland.  Nancy Pelosi and Harry Reid set up a Democratic resistance movement in San Francisco. Hillary Clinton was stranded in Europe. Tort reform was passed in 49 1/2 states. The Haley Clone Army took NPR’s headquarters during an episode of All Things Considered.  It was soon called Only Right Things Considered. Blue states fell like rain.

Haley Barbour was everywhere. Iowa. New Hampshire. Budget negotiations. Surveying tornado damage. South Carolina. Meet the Press. All at the exact same time.  Even Phil Bryant was clueless how he did it all.

The Haley Clone Army had achieved world denomination.

Writer’s note: I’m thankful the Governor’s back procedure was a success and I hope it provides him relief from his back pain.

The Gulf was quiet today.  Gray. Calm. Like a sleeping pit bull dreaming of his next attack.

The bearded, scarred bartender cleaned the glass, looked around his shop and took a deep breath. The smell of new wood told the story of his life.  His bar, like his life, had been rebuilt after the killer hurricane five years ago.  He put the glass carefully down.  His mind flashed back to the debris.

That happened less and less but was still unsettling when it did. PTSD is what the doctor called it.  A nightmare was the term he used.  He looked at the pictures on the wall.  Many of them were wrinkled and watermarked.  Salvaged from the debris.  Like so many of the memories of his life.

“Can I have a beer, old timer?” said the college kid with the tan.  The kid had better use more sunscreen or he’d end up with a few melanoma scars like old man had.

“Sure,” the bartender said. The kid handed him a debit card (probably his dad’s) and the bartender rang the sale.  The bartender checked the kid’s ID and handed him the beer. One more sale. A few more bucks to repay the bank.

The hurricane came in like a rabid beast.  Many had not evacuated. “We survived Camille,” they said.  Thirty six years later, Hurricane Camille killed her last victims.  One of those victims had been his wife.  She was on his mantle in an urn now.  Right there with his heart.  She was the love of his life.

Every morning, the bartender stared at the killer who had taken so much from him. He stared it in the eye. But he had found peace.

A team of college kids on a mission trip had helped him clean the debris off his home’s lot that cold, December day. A young girl from a Catholic church in Allentown, Pennsylvania had found it — His wife’s wedding ring.  One of the other kids thought the search for the ring had been stupid.  But little did she know they had just done the most Christian thing they’d ever do into their lives: They had helped the bartender heal. They had helped him bring closure to his worst nightmare.  His wife had taken the ring off to do the dishes right before the storm hit. The dishes were found a 1/4 mile away. His wife’s body in a tree nearby.

“Nice ring,” the kid said. The bartender startled back to consciousness.  He pointed to the ring hanging on the chain around his neck.

“Thank you.  It is my reminder that I must rebuild and go on. How precious and fragile life really is”

The kid walked away from him, not understanding what the old man meant.  But that was OK. You had to have survived Katrina to understand it.  Life on the Gulf Coast wasn’t for the timid.  Most things worth living aren’t.

He picked up another glass to wash, stared at the Gulf and gripped the ring one more time. He knew he’d soon see his precious wife again.

He smiled. The clouds parted and the Gulf turned from gray to blue.