The Pilgrimage Of the Hopefuls: Outsiders Attempt the Impossible

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ACT I – The Day the Outsiders Arrived with Clipboards

No one expected them to come in caravans.

Yet on a foggy Sequatchie morning, just one week after the Local Requirements Committee unveiled its elaborate rubric for official “Locals,” an entire procession of outsiders arrived on Highway 8 like some kind of homesteader-themed Comic-Con.

They came armed with:

• clipboards

• hydration packs

• laminated checklists

• solemn expressions typically reserved for tax audits and colonoscopies

Boot Barnes was the first to spot them. He leaned on the porch rail of his house-slash-repurposed-McDonald’s-playplace and squinted.

“Clovis,” Boot said, “is that a pilgrimage or a yard sale with too much ambition?”

Clovis Strickland lifted his binoculars – decorated with stickers reading NO OUTSIDERS, even though he bought them on Amazon.
“Boot,” he said, “I think these people came to try out for being locals.”

Boot sighed. “Well, they ain’t gonna make it. Anyone who tries ain’t a natural.”

Word spread quickly. Within an hour, Mabel Dean had brewed three urns of coffee, Sheriff Peeler had taken two aspirin and declared he was “off duty for spiritual reasons,” and the Fellowship Hall parking lot had become an orientation center.

A large banner hung across the entrance:

LOCALHOOD REQUIREMENTS TRAINING – ABANDON HOPE, YE WHO APPLY

The outsiders lined up anyway.

Some wore hiking gear. Some carried tents. One man from Ohio had brought a goat-shaped emotional support pillow, hoping it would count toward livestock requirements.

It would not.

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ACT II – The Feats of Strength (and Goat Endurance)

Clovis took charge of the trials, which was a mistake.

“Welcome, applicants,” he announced with a bullhorn he’d borrowed from Boot’s trunk. “Today y’all will complete the sacred rites of Séquatchie Localhood. If you pass, you may be considered local-adjacent. After 50 years of residency.”

One woman raised her hand.
“Is there a shorter path for seniors?”

“No ma’am,” Clovis said. “We ain’t running a theme park.”

Trial 1: Goat Holding

Contestants were instructed to pick up a goat, cradle it gently, and hold it until the goat either:

1. Accepted them,

2. Sneezed,

3. Or escaped out of pure judgment.

Most goats escaped.

A software engineer from Atlanta attempted to sing lullabies to his goat. The goat responded by walking calmly over to Boot Barnes, turning its back on him, and lying down at Boot’s feet.

Boot shrugged. “The goats know.”

Trial 2: Livestock Navigation Course

Participants had to navigate a maze constructed from:

• hay bales

• buckets

• several mildly insulted chickens

• two bored cows

• and a bull that Sheriff Peeler described as “mostly retired from violence”

It quickly became clear that the maze was less about navigation and more about spiritual surrender.

A young couple from Minnesota got stuck for 45 minutes because one chicken refused to let them pass and they “didn’t want to be rude.”

This earned them immediate disqualification.

Trial 3: Feat of Strength – Lifting the Sacred Cooler

Sequatchie lore states that whoever can lift Mabel Dean’s fully loaded church-potluck cooler without making a noise is destined to be at least 8% local.

Two men tried.

One succeeded – sort of. He lifted the cooler but let out a sound somewhere between a sneeze and a dying walrus.

Clovis shook his head. “Nope. Too loud. Locals lift in total silence. We suppress all emotions except blame.”

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ACT III – The Ritual Bed of Nails (and Discount Mattresses)

Around midday, a hush fell over the Fellowship lawn as Boot Barnes dragged out what looked like a low-budget carnival attraction but was labeled:

THE BED OF NAILS OF TRUE LOCAL ACCEPTANCE
(Underneath in small print: Donated by Sharp’s Discount Mattress Outlet)

Clovis explained:

“To be a local, you gotta prove your toughness. Outsiders panic about little things – traffic, zoning, the price of lumber. Locals? We withstand it all. This bed of nails represents our suffering.”

“It represents your lack of planning,” Mabel Dean muttered.

Nevertheless, the outsiders lined up.

Participants had to lie on the bed of nails for 30 seconds while reciting the sacred Sequatchie phrase:

“It ain’t none of my business, but…”

Boot kept time with a kitchen timer shaped like a chicken.

Some did surprisingly well. One yoga instructor from Asheville lasted 42 seconds and asked if she could do it again for “bonus points.”

“No,” Boot said. “This ain’t CrossFit.”

A man from Miami insisted on going shirtless to “maximize authenticity.” He lasted three seconds before yelping and rolling into a patch of grass that Sheriff Peeler later confirmed was “99% poison ivy.”

“That’ll accelerate his learning,” Bo Peeler said. “Locals don’t scratch in public either.”

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ACT IV – The Outsiders Learn to Reject Other Outsiders

After lunch – which consisted of cornbread, chili, and four contradictory opinions about the price of eggs – the applicants gathered for the final segment: The Rejection Ceremony.

Clovis stood on a folding table.
“To be a local, you gotta reject anyone who ain’t local. Even yourselves.”

A murmur rose through the crowd.

“So here’s today’s task,” he continued. “Turn to the person next to you, figure out why they ain’t local, and tell ’em politely.”

A woman gasped. “Politely?!”

Mabel Dean nodded. “Yes, dear. This is still a church lawn.”

The outsiders hesitated, then awkwardly faced each other.

What followed was the most polite mass rejection in county history:

• “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but your shoes are too clean.”

• “Your license plate ain’t dusty enough.”

• “You asked where the recycling drop-off is. That’s… not local behavior.”

• “You pronounced ‘Sequatchie’ as if vowels matter.”

Boot Barnes watched, shook his head, and whispered to Clovis,
“They’re learning too fast. We may have created something dangerous.”

Clovis nodded gravely.
“Imagine outsiders rejecting other outsiders before we can reject ’em. We’ll lose the only power we have.”

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ACT V – The Final Judgment

By sunset, the committee convened to evaluate the candidates.

Applicants gathered nervously, covered in hay, nail dents, mild bruising, and varying levels of poison ivy.

Mabel Dean stood at the podium.

“After much discussion,” she announced, “we are proud to award the distinction of Local-In-Training to…”

She paused for dramatic effect.

“…no one.”

A wave of groans swept the yard.

Clovis added, “But y’all are welcome to try again next year after you’ve spent twelve consecutive months pretending not to notice your neighbor’s business.”

Boot chimed in.
“Or if you marry into a feud. That always helps.”

The outsiders dispersed – some disappointed, some determined, some muttering about returning with better goats.

One man vowed, “Next year I’m bringing a bull.”

Sheriff Peeler overheard and wrote a note in his book labeled Potential Future Problems.

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EPILOGUE – Sequatchie Crossing Sleeps Uneasily

As the last outsider caravan drove away, Boot Barnes sat with Mabel Dean on the porch of the Fellowship Hall.

“You think they’ll come back?” Boot asked.

Mabel took a sip of tea.
“Boot, these people camped out on purpose. They lifted coolers. They let Clovis give instructions. Of course they’ll be back.”

Boot shivered.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”

She patted his hand.
“Well, don’t worry. The committee’s meeting next week to add more requirements.”

“Like what?”

She smiled.
“Oh, just a little section about surviving a Sequatchie church potluck without complaining about the beans.”

Boot gasped.
“No one can do that.”

Mabel nodded.
“Exactly.”

And Sequatchie Crossing slept under the glow of porch lights, comforted by the knowledge that becoming a local was still nearly impossible.

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DISPATCH DISCLAIMER

Sequatchie Crossing is a fictionalized town where every resemblance to real people, places, or goats is accidental, coincidental, or the result of poor life decisions made during a zoning meeting. None of this should be considered factual, enforceable, constitutional, advisable, or even sensible. Proceed with humor and a respect for livestock.

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