In Which the Town Debates Rubber Ethics, Ghostly Law Enforcement, and Whether a Burnout Contest is a Sign of Freedom or the End Times.
By Tom Seest
At Sequatchie Crossing, we tell the stories of Sequatchie Crossing.
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🎤 Audio Overview
Every story in Sequatchie Crossing begins the same way: a flyer appears on the bulletin board at the Piggly Wiggly, laminated in thick packing tape, angled just off-level, and controversial enough to split the town clean down the middle like a dry biscuit.
This time, it read:
SMOKE FEST 2025
The Great Burnout Showdown
Friday at Sundown – County Fairgrounds
“Bring your muscle, your mufflers (optional), and your mama’s forgiveness.”
It was signed in Sharpie: “Presented by Boot Barnes & Sons”
—though no one had ever met any of his sons, leading to speculation that “& Sons” was metaphorical, aspirational, or referring to a pack of raccoons that lived in his garage.
Within 24 hours, the town was in flames. Metaphorically.
The Lines in the Pavement
Two distinct factions emerged:
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Team Freedom: Comprised of burnout enthusiasts, gearheads, and every guy in town who had ever described himself as “a bit of a torque poet.” They considered burnouts a celebration of freedom, horsepower, and loud choices.
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Team Common Sense: Comprised of retired teachers, the ladies from the Fellowship Hall quilting circle, and anyone who had ever had to clean rubber residue off a church van.
Leading the charge for Team Freedom was none other than Boot Barnes, wearing aviators, a sleeveless shirt that read “Smoke ‘Em if You Got ‘Em,” and a backwards Sequatchie County Fair hat he insisted was vintage.
On the other side stood Mabel Dean Ashcroft, civic watchdog and former Home Arts Pavilion cornbread champion, who argued, with her usual surgical precision, that the event was “equal parts danger, foolishness, and ecological war crime.”
Emergency Town Meeting: Popcorn Not Provided
Mayor Lucille Halpern, who hadn’t finished her lunch in peace since 2019, scheduled an emergency town meeting. She arrived fanning herself with a fire safety brochure and muttering, “Why is it always Boot Barnes?”
The whiteboard read:
AGENDA
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Burnout Contest
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Insurance Concerns
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Moral Decay
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Miscellaneous (goat-related)
Boot Barnes opened with a PowerPoint called “The Physics of Freedom: Why Tires Deserve to Scream.” His slides included:
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A bar graph of “Horsepower vs. Local Joy”
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A photo of him peeling out in front of the courthouse
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A quote, possibly misattributed to George Washington, reading: “Let us smoke, not in anger, but in horsepower.”
Mabel Dean countered by pulling a melted Croc from a ziplock bag and slapping it dramatically onto the podium.
“This belonged to young Trevor Lindell,” she declared. “He got too close to a burnout last year. His foot was fine, but his summer was ruined.”
A hushed gasp swept the room.
Then Sheriff Deets Holloway stood up, rubbing his temples with two fingers and speaking slowly:
“I’ll allow it under three conditions:
Helmets on everybody, even that Chihuahua.
Three-second limit per burnout.
No bootleg brake fluid. I’m looking at you, Clovis.”
Clovis Strickland, who had come wearing a “Meat Smoking Is a Lifestyle” apron and mistakenly brought a Crock-Pot full of burnt ends, raised both hands in innocent confusion.
“I thought this was a BBQ thing. I brought sauce. I regret everything.”
A Compromise with God and Rubber
Seeing the room turn tense, Reverend Gentry proposed a compromise:
“Let us open the event with a Prayer of Exhaustion and Safety, followed by the children’s choir singing Amazing Brake. Then and only then, let rubber be redeemed.”
The vote passed 4 to 3.
Event Night: Smoke, Squeals, and Redemption
The fairgrounds trembled with anticipation. Homemade bleachers groaned under the weight of excited fans. Popcorn vendors set up next to fire extinguishers. The First Baptist Church booth sold “Blessed Be the Torque” t-shirts.
Boot Barnes revved his Camaro, nicknamed “Judgment Day,” which had no muffler, no paint, and at least one prayer candle duct-taped to the dashboard.
Ezekiel the goat, traumatized from his last appearance in a patriotic choir debacle, was seen chewing on a traffic cone behind the funnel cake stand. He wore mini earplugs and had a faraway look in his eyes.
The children’s choir sang, shakily, as Reverend Gentry raised both hands and hollered:
“Let the smoke rise like incense before the Lord!”
And rise it did.
Boot’s burnout sent up a cloud thick enough to set off two inhalers and a smoke alarm at the adjacent 4-H barn. Mabel Dean, standing stoically with a clipboard and gas mask, recorded tire diameter and carbon odor ratings.
A Ghost and a Goat
Midway through the event, several attendees claimed to see a ghostly figure pacing the burnout strip—believed to be Sheriff Cletus Harlan, who famously once impounded his cousin’s hot rod for “excessive flair.”
Some say he appeared only in the smoke, mumbling about “tread depth violations” and slowly shaking his head like a disappointed uncle.
Meanwhile, Clovis’ Crock-Pot caught fire briefly, but was extinguished by Boot’s Camaro backfiring near a jug of ice water.
“It’s a miracle of meat and combustion,” he whispered, teary-eyed.
Aftermath and Division (as Usual)
When the smoke cleared and the echo of tires faded, the town remained as it always was—partly amused, partly scandalized, and entirely itself.
Boot Barnes received a trophy made from melted tire bits and a broken leaf blower.
Mabel Dean filed a resolution to limit public “vehicular expressions of masculinity” to no more than twice annually.
Mayor Halpern went home and wrote the words “Resign in October?” in the margin of her planner.
And somewhere in the distance, the faint whisper of Sheriff Cletus lingered:
“Check your air pressure, son…”
Closing Line:
In Sequatchie Crossing, the debates never really end. They just backfire, roll smoke, and get penciled into next year’s calendar—right next to Goat Awareness Day.
Disclaimer: The Sequatchie Crossing Dispatch is a work of fiction rooted in satire, folklore, and the uniquely combustible charm of small-town life. The events, characters, and ghostly apparitions in this article are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or spontaneously combusting, is purely coincidental — unless they happen to own a Camaro named Judgment Day, in which case… that’s on them. Sequatchie Crossing does not officially condone unpermitted tire smoke, ghost policing, or the mixing of barbecue and brake fluid. The opinions expressed by Boot Barnes do not reflect those of the town council, the quilting circle, or most mammals. No goats were harmed in the making of this story, though Ezekiel did request hazard pay. Please consult local ordinances before organizing burnout contests, emotional exorcisms, or competitive meat-smoking within town limits. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real bake-offs, sweet cornbread heresy, or historic skillets is entirely coincidental—but in Sequatchie Crossing, entirely plausible. Just in case. Any resemblance to real people, living or just stubborn, is purely accidental—but also maybe a little flattering. Sequatchie Crossing exists only in the minds of those brave enough to imagine a town where zoning laws, casseroles, and conspiracy cassettes collide in glorious disarray.
Please share this post with your friends, family, or business associates who may want help telling the stories of their legacy.
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