Clovis Buys Drone, Declares Himself FAA

The first anyone in Sequatchie Crossing knew of Clovis Strickland’s latest “official position” was when he marched into the Fellowship Hall last Thursday evening, carrying a plastic remote controller the size of a hymn book and a brand-new drone box tucked under his arm. He slammed the box on the refreshment table—directly on top of Mabel Dean Ashcroft’s pecan pie—and cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Clovis announced, “from this day forward, I am the FAA in Sequatchie County. All flight operations will henceforth be routed through me.”

Pastor Gentry, who had only stopped by to see if there were leftover meatballs from the quilting circle, blinked slowly and asked the room, “Does he mean Federal Aviation Administration or Freewheeling Aerial Antics?”

Clovis was already peeling the protective film off the drone’s glossy black wings. “This here is a DJI Phantom something-or-other, top of the line. I bought it off the QVC midnight special. Comes with night-vision and a warranty card. From now on, all takeoffs, landings, and air rights within a three-mile radius of the Dollar General parking lot are under my jurisdiction.”

Act I – The Maiden Flight

By sunrise Friday, Sequatchie Crossing had its first “FAA-regulated” drone launch. Clovis had dragged a plastic lawn chair to the churchyard and announced over a bullhorn that “flight operations are commencing.” Sheriff Peeler leaned on his cruiser and muttered to Daisy the hound, “I ain’t seen this much hot air since Billy Hooper’s nacho cheese incident.”

The drone took off with a loud whir that rattled the stained-glass windows of the church. Boot Barnes, whose hearing aid whistled in sympathy, declared, “Sounds like a weed eater with aspirations.”

For fifteen glorious seconds, Clovis’ drone hovered majestically above the steeple—before veering hard left, clipping the bell rope, and spooking the entire youth choir practicing inside. The flight log (hand-written by Clovis in a spiral notebook) records this as “controlled deviation.”

Act II – The Pig Lot Inspection

By afternoon, Clovis had rerouted the drone toward Ned Barlow’s pig lot, declaring it a “critical agricultural flyover.” Ned emerged in his boots, waving a slop bucket like a weapon. “Clovis, if that thing scatters my hogs one more time, I’ll classify you as feral livestock.”

Boot Barnes, still fuming about nachos, tried to mediate: “Ned, calm down. Maybe the FAA needs to see if your pigs are fit for export.”
“Export where?” Ned snapped.
“To the concession stand at the Corn Festival,” Boot replied, before realizing he had just volunteered for hog-related paperwork.

The pigs, meanwhile, regarded the buzzing intruder with suspicion, eventually forming a united front and charging the fence until the drone retreated.

Act III – The Overlook Reconnaissance

The final mission of the day was the infamous Sequatchie Overlook. Clovis announced this as “aerial surveillance for national defense.” Folks who had gathered to watch paragliders drift lazily through the valley now had a new spectacle: Clovis’ drone zig-zagging like a moth in a lampshade factory.

Mabel Dean Ashcroft, arms crossed and jaw tight, hissed, “Mark my words, that thing will collide with a paraglider and we’ll have a mid-air scandal. Then who will clean it up? Not the FAA.”
“Actually, ma’am, I am the FAA,” Clovis corrected, as the drone narrowly missed a paraglider’s sail.
The paraglider hollered, “Tell your toy plane to mind its manners!” before drifting away toward Pikeville.

Act IV – The Licensing Crackdown

By Saturday, Clovis had taped hand-drawn “Drone Registration Required” signs to every corkboard in town. He even tried to issue permits at the Farmer’s Market, charging five dollars per kite, balloon, or anything that could theoretically leave the ground. Children’s bubbles were grandfathered in, “for now.”

Sheriff Peeler finally had enough. He called a “town airspace meeting” in the Fellowship Hall. After a heated hour of testimony—including Boot’s demand for nacho reconnaissance, Mabel’s formal protest against “sky spying,” and Daisy the hound howling whenever Clovis waved the controller—the Sheriff ruled:

“Clovis can keep his drone. But he ain’t the FAA. He’s just a guy with a battery charger. Case closed.”

Clovis, undeterred, scribbled “Appealed to Higher Authority” in his spiral notebook and stalked out into the night.

Epilogue – The Crash Heard ‘Round Sequatchie

On Sunday morning, just as Pastor Gentry began preaching on humility, the congregation heard a muffled thunk above the rafters. Seconds later, Clovis’ drone—missing a propeller and trailing caution tape—plummeted directly into the baptismal font. The splash doused the first three pews.

Pastor Gentry, dripping and unflappable, simply declared: “Well, brothers and sisters, consider yourselves baptized by the Federal Aviation Administration of Sequatchie Crossing.”

The town laughed, groaned, and agreed on one thing:
No one was safer, but everyone was certainly more entertained.

Disclaimer

This Dispatch is satire. Sequatchie Crossing has no official FAA office, and Clovis is not recognized by any governmental body—though he does recognize himself with surprising confidence.

Real Places Behind the Ruckus – From The Dunlap Directory

Real Places Behind the Ruckus – From The Dunlap Directory

Yes, this story was fictional; even the parts that weren’t true. These places? Absolutely real. Stop by, support local, and keep the Wi-Fi away from livestock:

• Ladd Construction
• New Dimensions Complex
• H&M Armory
• Brockdell Produce
• MaxFit Dunlap
• Happy Bottom Office Services
• Dunlap Dental Center
• Fall Creek Falls – Family Campground A & E
• Buy & Sell, Pikeville & Dayton & Dunlap
• Peto Farm
• Rallo’s Bar & Grill
• Cates Street Pharmacy
• Mossy Oak Properties Land Sales, LLC.
• Lee Outdoors
• Highland Enterprise
• Big Soddy Creek Gulf
• Manderley Farms
• Sunrise Sorghum

Real Places Behind the Ruckus – From The Dunlap Directory

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