The Last Lesson II

I hurried to school that morning, running terribly late and dreading the scolding I'd surely get from Mr. Smith.

What made it worse was that he'd announced we would be tested on naming all 96 genders, and I couldn't recall a single one beyond the basics.

I contemplated skipping school altogether and heading to the motel for an orgy instead.

The weather was gloriously warm—robot dogs strolled leisurely at the forest's edge, while behind the marijuana factory, Chinese soldiers practiced the art of caramelizing sugar in their woks.

These sights were infinitely more captivating than memorizing 96 gender classifications, but I somehow mustered the discipline to continue toward school.

Passing through Times Square, I noticed crowds gathered before the massive screens. For two months now, these screens had broadcast nothing but calamities: our aircraft carrier group sunk by Chinese sixth-generation fighters, our military decimated by their drone swarms, Minister Musk absconding to China with billions in tow.

I didn't pause, only wondering silently: "Is Musk returning next week as rumored?"

Homeless people also clustered around the screens. One with distinctly Chinese features spotted me and called out, "Dinner's coming, brothers!"

When I reached the school, something felt off. Typically, the place buzzed with noise—boisterous conversations spilling into the street.

"Eggs are up again today—haven't tasted one in months!"

"Mom sold blood again this morning. Says tonight she'll try that Chinese recipe from Red Notes to make us steamed egg custard."

But today, an unnatural silence prevailed.

I reluctantly pushed pen the door and slipped into the eerily quiet classroom under everyone's gaze.

Mr. Smith noticed my arrival and, surprisingly gently, said, "Little Mike, we're just about to start. Please take your seat."

As I hurriedly sat down, I realized Mr. Smith was dressed rather unusually—a fetching green dress paired with white stockings, his beard meticulously groomed, and makeup applied with remarkable precision.

Such attire was reserved exclusively for LGBT Association award ceremonies.

Even more startling was the presence of several burly individuals seated along one side of the classroom. Their necks were sunburned crimson, their shirts emblazoned with oversized "MAGA" lettering, and their expressions uniformly somber.

Before I could process these oddities, Mr. Smith approached the podium and addressed us with soft yet grave solemnity:

"My children, today I teach you for the final time. The Chinese authorities have decreed that henceforth, only Mandarin shall be taught in American schools. This is your last American language lesson."

These words struck me like a physical blow. My last American language class! I could barely compose a simple sentence like "We are winning bigly under Donald Trump's leadership." How could my education in American simply end?

I regretted my past negligence—skipping classes to find toad-like leaves to smoke as weed, , peddling fentanyl to the homeless from pharmacy supplies... The weight of my poor choices crushed me.

Now I understood why Mr. Smith had dressed so elaborately—to commemorate our final lesson.

When he called my name to recite the 96 genders, I managed only "male" and "female" before my mind went blank. How desperately I wished I could smoothly enumerate all ninety-six!

I stood frozen, mortified, unable to meet anyone's eyes.

"I won't reproach you, Little Mike," Mr. Smith said softly. "You must feel terrible enough. But we're all complicit here. We've collectively thought, 'Whatever, let's smoke weed first—there's always tomorrow for studying.'

"Well, now we face the consequences. The Chinese have utterly defeated us. This preference for getting high rather than hitting the books has been America's fatal flaw.

"We lack engineers to develop sixth-generation aircraft and advanced drones. We have no scientists researching superconductivity or quantum technologies. Our soldiers can only offer their skulls to intercept Chinese drones.

"Now they have every right to mock us: 'You call yourselves Americans? You can't even enumerate your own genders.'

"But Little Mike, the blame isn't yours alone. We should all reflect. Your sperm and egg providers failed you, preferring you wash dishes at Popeyes or work cash registers at gas stations rather than pursue education.

"And haven't I, too, regularly asked you to help with my student loan payments? Haven't I dismissed classes whenever I attended LGBT parades?"

Mr. Smith then pivoted to discussing the American language itself—praising it as the world's most beautiful, precise, and clear tongue, uniquely capable of articulating 96 distinct gender identities.

"Never forget it," he insisted. "A conquered people who preserve their language retain hope. Even against China's formidable capacity for cultural assimilation, maintaining our linguistic heritage gives us a fighting chance."

After the gender lesson concluded, we studied Donald Trump appreciation—a subject Mr. Smith typically despised, but Chinese occupation had evidently rearranged his priorities.

He distributed materials chronicling Trump's supposed achievements: "Since Donald Trump's ascension, America wins daily and spectacularly." "Donald Trump secured Canada and Greenland for America."

The class studied with unprecedented focus and silence.

Whenever I glanced up, I caught Mr. Smith sitting motionless, his gaze hungrily scanning the room as if trying to permanently imprint every detail in his memory.

Following the Trump appreciation segment, he taught "barbarian studies," informing us: "Within China, sympathetic Great Leaders still view America as humanity's beacon. When these allies launch their offensive, our fortunes will turn."

The history lesson came next. Mr. Smith explained how America once reigned as the world's premier industrial power, but recent decades saw us abandon manufacturing for financial engineering. China seized this opening to not merely catch up but surge ahead decisively across all industrial domains, establishing insurmountable generational advantages.

The dismissal bell suddenly rang, accompanied by laughter from Chinese soldiers outside—their caramelized braised pork ready, its tantalizing aroma wafting through our windows.

Mr. Smith rose, ashen-faced. "My friends, I..." His voice caught.

Turning to the electronic screen, he seized the laser pointer and, with every ounce of strength, inscribed: "LONG LIVE AMERICA, LONG LIVE DONALD TRUMP, LONG LIVE LGBT!"

Then he remained there, forehead pressed against the wall, speechless, simply gesturing to us: "Class dismissed. You may go."