The last excerpt from “The Weekly Farm Report,” a story in progress. For the previous excerpts, please click (in this order) here and here and here. I plan to publish the finished story in my upcoming short-story collection—upcoming in a rather leisurely fashion.
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Two days later, Tuesday, 8:06 AM, on Truth Social. Another message from President Trump.
A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again. I don’t want that to happen, but it probably will. However, now that we have Complete and Total Regime Change, where different, smarter, and less radicalized minds prevail maybe something revolutionarily wonderful can happen. WHO KNOWS? We will find out tonight, one of the most important moments in the long and complex history of the World. 47 years of extortion, corruption, and death will finally end. God Bless the Great People of Iran!
“You still think this is just his way of negotiating?” Taylor asked a few hours later. “This is much, much worse.” Reading aloud from her phone: “ ‘A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again.’ Hitler would have said something like this.”
“Ah yes,” I said, sitting across from her, at our usual Brew Crew table. “In almost every political discussion, no matter the topic, eventually someone brings up Hitler.”
“Well, if you act like a genocidal maniac—”
Taylor sipped her medium peppermint herbal tea, the first time she’d ordered something different at that coffeehouse, at least up to that point in our relationship, though she did still wear the dinosaur hoodie I’d given her.
“You think Trump’ll nuke Iran?” she asked.
“I don’t think he will,” I replied.
“Why not?”
“Because, uh, wait.” I picked up my large double-caramel cappuccino. I took a sip. I carefully set the cup back down onto the table. “Okay, because—okay, Trump would want us control Iran’s oil production after the war, right? But if we nuked them, that would make the oil too radioactive to use.”
Taylor paused. “You know, that explanation almost makes sense.”
“Almost?”
“Trump’s mind has turned to mush, due to dementia or mental illness or too much fast food or whatever. Maybe he wants to turn his negotiating tactic into reality.” Taylor scrolled through her phone for a few seconds. “Plus right after Trump’s unhinged post, JD Vance”—the vice-president—“could have said ‘Heh heh, just kidding, folks. We don’t reeeally plan to wipe out an entire nation.’ But that would have displeased his highness, Donald the Mad King. So instead, Vance said our nation has ‘tools in our toolkit that so far we haven’t decided to use’ against Iran.” Yep, this war is a home-improvement project. And with the nuclear winter that would result after our attack—”
Taylor placed her phone down onto the table.
“The human race had a nice run,” she said, her eyes trying to crowd out her other facial features, her mouth the extreme opposite of the smiley-faced dinosaur’s mouth, her lower lip imitating hummingbird wings (or one hummingbird wing—that poor amputee bird, or maybe not an amputee, maybe just a creature vigorously waving either hi or bye). I’d never seen Taylor look distraught until now, making me feel distraught, though I managed not to show it by sheer exertion.
“Okay,” I said, reaching across the table and covering my hand with hers. “Whatever happens, please remember—we still have each other. We’ll always have each other.”
Her lower lip stopped quivering. Her mouth slowly turned into the hoodie dino’s mouth again.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you too,” I said.
Untold seconds of wordless adoration followed, the other coffeehouse customers partaking of beverages as mellow music—strummy acoustic guitar, plunky piano—flowed from the intercom.
“I have a suggestion,” Taylor said.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Let’s blow off classes, go to my place, and, heh heh, consummate our relationship. Let’s consummate it all day. This may be the last day life exists on Earth, so we might as well make the best of things.”
Copyright © 2026 by David V. Matthews
DAVID V. MATTHEWS 