Clovis Takes to the Skies: Biscuits, Bolts & Bad Ideas In Flight

I. Dawn Over the Valley, Dreams Over the Limit

Clovis Strickland had always believed he was one good idea away from “regional influence.”
Not national. Not global. Just regional. That felt safer, more realistic, and — as he would often remind people — “less threatening to federal agencies.”

So when he marched into Mabel’s Diner one Tuesday morning carrying a laptop, four mismatched charging cables, and a tiny drone with one cracked propeller, folks knew something was cooking. And it wasn’t just Mabel Dean Ashcroft’s biscuits and gravy, which were steaming up the windows like usual.

“Clovis,” Mabel said, hands on her apron, “the last time you showed up with electronics in this diner, we lost two ceiling tiles and the jukebox played the national anthem for fourteen straight minutes.”

“This is different,” he said, tapping the drone. “I’m bringing Sequatchie Crossing into the future. We’re launching a drone delivery service.”

Boot Barnes, seated at the counter in his ceremonial sash from the Miss Corn Festival fiasco, blinked. “Aerial biscuits and gravy?”

“And hardware tools,” Clovis added proudly. “Biscuits, gravy, bolts, screws — if it fits in a box, it flies.”

Trixie Jo Bartlett snorted. “People can barely get cell service on the south side of town. But sure, let’s put breakfast in the sky.”

Clovis ignored them. He had a plan. Or at least the outlines of one scribbled on a napkin with the words Projected Revenue underlined three times and no numbers written anywhere.

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II. The First Launch: Hope Lifts Off, Biscuits Do Not

By noon, half the town had gathered behind Mabel’s Diner to witness the “historic first flight.”
Clovis had assembled a fleet of three drones in various states of repair:

• Drone #1: Painted camouflage, missing one landing foot.

• Drone #2: Had googly eyes glued to the front for “brand friendliness.”

• Drone #3: Looked like it came from a yard sale in 2009 and buzzed ominously even when powered off.

Mabel supplied a fresh order of biscuits and gravy for the inaugural run.

“Make sure it gets to Mrs. Pritchard’s porch,” she said. “She can’t drive no more, and I promised her lunch.”

Clovis saluted like he was launching a lunar shuttle.
The crowd held its breath.
The drone lifted gracefully — for about four seconds.

Then it banked hard left, circled the garbage cans, and dumped the entire order squarely onto the windshield of Sheriff Peeler’s cruiser as he was pulling into the alley.

Peeler got out, looked at the dripping gravy, and sighed. “Clovis… I’m not even surprised anymore. Just disappointed.”

“It’s a calibration issue,” Clovis announced. “Minor.”

“It’s gravy, Clovis,” Peeler replied. “It’s always gravy.”

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III. Hardware Store Havoc

Clovis didn’t give up. Not after one crash, or two (the second drone embedded a biscuit inside the town’s community notice board), or even three (the googly-eyed drone spiraled into Pastor Gentry’s birdbath and baptized itself without permission).

Instead, Clovis expanded his vision.

He approached Hank Overton at Overton’s Hardware.

“Hank,” he said, slapping a laminated brochure on the counter that was clearly printed on Mabel’s receipt paper. “How’d you like drones delivering tools directly to customers’ yards?”

Hank shrugged. “If it means fewer people asking me where I keep the left-handed screwdrivers, I’m in.”

The first hardware delivery was to Newt Colburn, who had ordered a box of assorted screws.
The drone dropped the box from thirty feet up.
It survived the fall.
Newt did not — he got pelted and chased the drone down the driveway shouting something about “robot revenge.”

The next order went to Daisy Mae Lankford, who’d asked for a hammer.
The drone placed it gently on her roof.
It remained there for eight days.

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IV. Meanwhile at Mabel’s: A New Business Model Emerges

Mabel was starting to see unintentional benefits.

For one thing, every time Clovis’s drones crashed — which was often — the townsfolk gathered at the diner to watch, gossip, and order more food.

“I ain’t saying I support the idea,” Mabel told Trixie Jo while icing muffins. “But I sure am selling a lot more coffee.”

Boot Barnes started giving “Flight Status Updates” on a whiteboard by the door:

• Drone #1: Missing in action. Last seen drifting toward the silo.

• Drone #2: Grounded due to “attitude issues.”

• Drone #3: Under pastoral investigation.

Tourists started stopping by just to watch the spectacle.

Sequatchie Crossing hadn’t had this much entertainment since the Church Potluck Subcommittee declared butter illegal (a decision overturned within 45 minutes).

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V. The Historic “Two-Item Delivery Attempt”

Clovis decided to attempt something “more ambitious than any civilian drone user in the tri-county area had ever attempted.”

A dual-order delivery:

1. Biscuits and gravy for Mildred Hensley.

2. A pair of pliers for Leland Brock.

He rigged two small baskets under Drone #1 and gave a speech no one asked for.

“This is not just a delivery,” he said grandly. “This is a statement. A statement that Sequatchie Crossing can soar.”

Pastor Gentry muttered, “Lord, please ground this endeavor.”

The drone rose up — astonishingly steady — and the crowd gasped.
It hovered, rotated beautifully, and—

A hawk, mistaking the gravy for an unauthorized threat to its territory, dive-bombed the drone.

Chaos erupted.

• The biscuits and gravy landed on Mildred’s scarecrow.

• The pliers dropped into Leland’s bird feeder.

• The hawk flew away offended.

• The drone spiraled down into Hank Overton’s truck bed, still buzzing like it was ashamed.

Clovis took it well.

“No innovation survives first contact with wildlife,” he said.

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VI. The Town Meeting & The Compromise

At the emergency town meeting (called primarily because Sheriff Peeler refused to fill out any more “drone-related incident” forms), folks debated whether Clovis’s enterprise should be “regulated,” “forbidden,” or “very gently discouraged.”

Trixie Jo argued for safety.
Boot Barnes argued for economic progress.
Pastor Gentry argued for divine intervention.
Mabel just wanted to know if she needed to fill in liability paperwork for “airborne biscuits.”

In the end, the council agreed on a compromise:

• Drones may deliver items.

• Drones may NOT deliver gravy unless contained in “spill-proof containers.”

• Drone routes must avoid barns, schoolyards, church parking lots, and anywhere near Mrs. Pritchard’s cat.

• Hank Overton is not responsible for tool strikes from above.

Clovis announced, “This is excellent. Boundaries fuel creativity.”

Sheriff Peeler muttered, “They also prevent lawsuits.”

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VII. Epilogue: Skies Clear, Spirits High

A week later, the drone fleet had improved.
Mostly because Trixie Jo quietly recalibrated them after hours.

Clovis now delivers:

• Breakfast sandwiches (less aerodynamic chaos)

• Dry biscuits (still problematic but manageable)

• Small hardware items (with parachutes)

And Sequatchie Crossing, having endured many stranger endeavors, accepted this new airborne chapter with resignation and mild amusement.

Mabel still sells more biscuits than ever.
Hank Overton now keeps a “Drone-Drop Discount Bin” for dented items.
Pastor Gentry prays over the skies every morning.
Sheriff Peeler parks under trees.

And Clovis?

He’s working on Version 2.0:

“Drone-delivered sweet tea,” he said proudly.

Sequatchie Crossing collectively shuddered.

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Key Takeaways

• Clovis continues to represent the perfect collision of ambition and malfunction.

• Mabel’s Diner always profits from chaos.

• Hardware tools + drones = town-wide entertainment.

• Wildlife remains the natural enemy of innovation.

• Sequatchie Crossing survives everything with humor, biscuits, and mild exasperation.

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DISCLAIMER

This story is a work of fiction set in the whimsical world of Sequatchie Crossing, where drones are held together with hope, hardware-store epoxy, and Clovis Strickland’s brand of engineering optimism. No real drones, diners, hardware stores, sheriffs, or hawks were harmed, consulted, or insured in the making of this tale. Any resemblance to real businesses, people, delivery services, or public officials is purely coincidental — and if anyone tries to claim otherwise, Clovis is prepared to present his hand-drawn flight diagrams proving that gravitational mishaps are a natural part of innovation. All depictions are created for entertainment, satire, and community storytelling.

At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.

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