Today's story comes from our friend, Kat Volzer, who's running a fabulous Substack called Kat Joins the Circus.

Kat's well-known in the mountain biking community, but to me, she's a gutsy, bold writer who's attempting the Ray Bradbury Challenge:

Each day, read one poem, one short story, one short essay. And, each week, you write one short story for 52 weeks.

Hence, her Substack.

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It started with this essay: the Welcome to the Circus: My Black Widow Manifesto, which I loved automatically as soon as I read the title. (It's well worth your time to read it.)

Back in March, she published a short story called "The Trouble with Claude." At the time, ChatGPT was going gangbusters, apparently the most downloaded app.

She'd never heard of it.

Nor Claude.

"I thought it sounded like a good name for a goat, though," she wrote.

It's both hilarious and deeply insightful, a timely story that serves as a good follow-up to last week's kit-and-caboodle story on AI. I heard from lots of you about this, so expect a Part Three that answers your questions more directly.

In the meantime, let's enjoy reading a short story — one of 52, remember — that's speaks directly into this troubling moment of AI, farmland and data centers. (Remember: the story's fictional. All photos match real people, not anyone or any place described here.)

Welcome to The Trouble with Claude, by Kat Volzer.

Seth Johnson was 36 years old and overly confident.  He had a lot of success in Silicon Valley as a real estate broker and so far, purchasing property in the rural southeast was a walk in the park.  Actually, if one had to assign a cliché to it, it was more like stealing candy from a baby.  Only in this case, the baby was an old farmer in rural west Tennessee, the candy was his land, and the pacifier was several million dollars.

Seth arrived at Farmer David Johnson’s house and property on a warm summer day in his Ford Mustang with the top peeled back.  He walked up the skinny, broken sidewalk that led to the front door, reached out his fist and rapped on the door three times.  

“Just a meen-ut,” he heard someone say on the other side of the door in a thick country accent.  The word “minute” was elongated and hung in air for way longer than it should have.  In order for Seth to even hear the words that clearly, the walls of the old farmhouse must have been paper thin.  A heavyset old woman answered the door.

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“Hi!  I’m Seth Johnson with Claude.  I’d like to speak with David Johnson please,” Seth said.

“What fer?” said the old woman.

“Well, I’m with Claude, and…”

“No you ain’t,” the old woman cut him off.

Seth was confused.  He hesitated for a moment.  “Yes mam, My name is Seth Johnson and I’m with Claude…”

“No. You. Ain’t,” The old woman said again, sternly.

“Is there a David Johnson here?” Seth said, trying to regain control of the situation.

“He’s out back balin’ hay.  Claude’s with him,” the old woman said.  

Seth was very confused. “Do you mind if I speak with him?” Seth asked.

“Go own,” The woman said.  The word “on” was stretched out like taffy and hung in the humid summer air.  “Don’t mind if I don’t follow yer.  I’s got vittles to tend to.”  

Seth grew up in Southern California and had no clue what Mrs. Johnson was saying, but he took that as a yes.  

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“Thank you mam.  I’ll find my way,” Seth replied as he turned and walked down the skinny sidewalk.  He walked around the side of the home to find the “out back” she referred to.  David Johnson’s farm was about 800 acres.  He could be anywhere.  

Seth trudged through the field in the hot sun. He hardly knew anything about farming, west Tennessee, or baling hay, and he certainly didn’t wear the right kind of footwear for traipsing around on a farm.  Lucky, the farmer Johnson was just over the hill in the first field and could be seen high on his tractor.  Seth made his way over to the man as he began to sweat.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said Seth.

David Johnson didn’t stop what he was doing.  “Afternoon,” the farmer said. 

“I’m here to talk to you about your land,” said Seth.  “You see, I’m a representative with Claude…”

“Claude? Claude ya say? What he done this time?”

Seth hesitated.  “Excuse me, sir?”

“What’d Claude do this time?” asked the farmer Johnson.

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t understand.  I’m with Claude.  It’s a brand new generative artificial intelligence and we were wondering if you’d be interested in selling your farm,” the buyer Johnson said.

“Farm’s not for sale.  Don’t care who you are.  Now where’s my goat and what’s he done this time?”

“Goat?  I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  The buyer Johnson was very confused.  

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Farmer Johnson stopped baling hay for a moment and started looking around his land.  He gave a high whistle.  Suddenly, from the barn not too far away, there was a blood curdling scream. 

“What was that?” Seth Johnson’s voice jumped up an octave.  

“That was Claude.  He’s been with me all day, so whatever he done, must’a been in the past,” David Johnson said.  Without further explanation, he jumped up on his tractor and drove the hay bales to the barn where the scream occurred.  For such a panicky, murderous sounding scream, the farmer was not in a hurry.  Seth anxiously trotted after the farmer as he drove his tractor.

The farmer pulled his tractor into the barn.  In the barn was not a murder scene like Seth had expected.  Instead, there were stacks of neatly baled hay piled almost to the ceiling of the old wooden building.  On top of one of the hay bales stood a brown goat with yellow eyes, staring directly at Seth.  Seth stared back at the goat, solving the mystery of the blood-curdling scream.

“Wait.  So that whole goat screaming meme was real?” Seth said out loud.

“I don’t know ‘bout no memes, but yeah, goats scream like people do,” David said.  He continued to unload the hay, adding to the piles of neatly stacked bales.

“Why do they scream like that?” Seth asked. 

“Why does the rooster crow?” Seth stared at him blankly.  “Because he can,” David answered his own question.  He pointed to the goat still perched on the hay.  “That’s Claude.  Now what was you sayin’ about him?” 

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Seth finally realized what was going on and began to laugh.  

“Oh no sir.  I’m with Claude.  Claude is a generative artificial intelligence.  We’re interested in buying your property for one of our new data centers.  We would pay top dollar for your farm.”

“It ain’t fer sale,” David replied. 

“I have a written offer in my hand right here.  $10,000 an acre,” Seth replied with confidence.  

“Son, I’m busy.  I already told you it ain’t fer sale.”

“I have an offer letter right here.  $8 million cash.  Is it okay if I leave the offer with you?  Maybe you and Mrs. Johnson can think about it.”  Seth took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and tried handing it to David.

The old farmer stared at Seth with a side eye and a scowl.  His eyes shifted from Seth, to the envelope, and back again.  David’s face was wrinkled and tanned like leather from years of hard work and sun exposure. He spit some tobacco out of the side of his mouth.  Finally, without saying a word, David took the letter from Seth.

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A week went by and David and Mrs. Johnson were relaxing in their home on a Sunday evening when they heard a knock on their front door.  Mrs. Johnson got up from her knitting and answered the door. 

“Hello Mrs. Johnson.  Is David Johnson home?”  

“David, honey, that boy’s here again,” Mrs. Johnson opened the door wide and motioned for him to come in.

Seth entered the front door into a sitting area.  The room was small and simple.  There was a couch where Mrs. Johnson was doing her knitting and a recliner where David was sitting, reading a book.   Because he was raised with manners, he was obliged to get out of his chair, walk across the room and shake the hand of the man who entered his home, even though he didn’t want to.  David made his way out of the recliner slowly.

Seth saw the man struggling to get out of the recliner.  “Oh please, sir, don’t get up,” Seth said.

“I’m already halfway there, son,” said David as he continued wriggling out of the chair.  “What can I do ya fer?”

“I was just wondering if you had a chance to look over that offer letter.”  

“I seen it.”

Seth caught a glimmer of hope.  “What do think?  $8 million could set your family up for generational wealth.”

“Shoot.  That all?  Wayne Hayworth up the road turned down an offer worth twice that much.”  

“Well Mr. Johnson, it was all in the offer letter.  The $8 million is the cash offer.  We’re willing to negotiate of course.  Do you have the offer letter?”

David Johnson stared hard at Seth Johnson, making the buyer Johnson feel uneasy. 

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“This farm helped feed my family in times of rationing in the Great War.  It’s fed the community during the Great Depression.  It’s survived draught, the economy and whatever economics our government has thrown at it.  My grandaddy died farming this land.  The land has supported us through good times and bad.  We ain’t selling it to you or nobody else and it don’t matter if you got more money’n God,” the farmer Johnson said coldly.  “Besides.  What kind of a name is Claude for a data center anyway?  That goat was always trouble and far as I’m concerned, so is you.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Seth said.  “Artificial intelligence is the way of the future and it won’t be long before one of your neighbors takes me up on that offer.”  The young buyer made his way to the door.  

The farmer opened the door to show Seth out.  “Think about this the next time you sit down to eat a meal.  No farms, no food.  No food, no future.  You’s nothin’ but trouble and so is Claude.  Get off my property and take Claude with ya.” 

Seth turned and walked down the skinny, broken sidewalk back to his Ford Mustang convertible.  Claude, the goat, was in the backseat and had already eaten a majority of the leather off the driver’s seat before he began working on the peeled back ragtop.  

Story ideas, questions, feedback? Interested in partnering with us? Email: david@foodasaverb.com

This story is 100% human generated; no AI chatbot was used in the creation of this content.