Portland. A local man, Carl Schlipty, a faucet hinge cleaner, turned himself into to police custody recently after experiencing several "unsettling" dreams involving tornadoes.
"I was afraid I'd be a danger to myself and to others. I just couldn't risk it," reported Mr. Schlipty, wiping tears from his eyes. "I mean, wouldn't you be concerned that you'd be dangerous?"
Though mystified, police agreed to the man's request and put him in a holding tank for seventy-two hours, apparently the maximum amount of time allowed. Technically, that rule applies to incarcerated nut jobs (no offense) who do NOT want to remain incarcerated. Local government attorneys are researching whether Mr. Schlipty may stay longer than seventy-two hours, should he have that desire, which seems likely, given his overall nervousness.
"It looks good on our facility record," noted intake Sergeant Al Little. "Our funding is based on how much time the local miscreants are kept behind bars. Heck, Schlipty is just what we needed right before the facility budget talks begin next week. Who cares what kind of nut job (no offense) he is?"
At suppertime, the in-house caterer delivered tornado fries to Schlipty, who promptly ate them without comment. An audible groan erupted from an adjacent room, where, apparently, police were wagering on whether he'd experience a traumatic response.
Those police officers would be reprimanded after the airing of this story.
"Now tell me about your tornado dreams," asked the local custodian, mopping up spittle from an unruly visitor next to Mr. Schlipty's cell. He pulled out a pipe and began to puff on it.
"I have them all the time."
"I see. And what do you think they mean?" The custodian spit into his slop bucket, a bit of tobacco juice jumping out and settling on Mr. Schlipty's shoe.
"They mean you need to get back to work, Ralphy," ordered the local police psychiatric consultant, who had been noticing that the custodian pretended to be him whenever a nut job (no offense) showed up. It was flattering in a way, though the spittle-ridden slop bucket did not reflect well upon the psychiatric profession.
Then the police psychiatric consultant sat down in Mr. Schlipty's cell and began to smoke his pipe. "Now tell me about your tornado dreams," he ordered.
"I have them all the time."
"I see. And what do you think they mean?"
The police psychiatric consultant banged the old tobacco out of his pipe. "I see."
He got up and left.
"I'm sorry," said intake Sergeant Al Little to Mr. Schlipty. "Apparently, the head shrinker says you're unfit to use up space in our facility. Damn. We could use the money. He says to kick your butt out on the street where you belong. Sorry, bud."
Mr. Schlipty got up and headed for the door.
According to a review of weather reports: Outside it was raining. The wind was coming up. The sky was ominous.
"You want a ride home?" asked an Uber driver, who later reported that he had asked Mr. Schlipty that question.
At that point, the story becomes a little hazy. Even LeRoy Ephers can't provide any insight, even if he weren't on strike against The Spoof. (See his manifesto.)
As best as local reporters can piece together the story, apparently, Mr. Schlipty and his Uber driver drove straight into the middle of a storm. There was lots of rain. A little hail. Some wind. A few branches blew across the street. And then it was over. Really nothing more than a quick squall.
When Mr. Schlipty got home, he went straight to bed, where, apparently, he had another tornado dream. That's speculation at this point. But it seems reasonable, given the lack of opposing information.
He's never been seen since.
His neighbor Frieda Dubbler thought she'd seen him one morning, but, apparently, it was only her cat Boop-Boop. She was relieved he'd finally returned home after more than a week. "Or was it two weeks?" mused Frieda. Her friends later reported that Boop-Boop had never left. They said Frieda drinks. An intervention is planned.
When investigators reached Mr. Schlipty's bedroom, they noted that his bed was left in a real mess. In fact, it looked like it had been hit by a tornado. One wizened investigator noted: "This slob's #!*#! bed looks like an #!*#! F-4 tornado hit the #!*#! out of it!" He would have been later reprimanded, but his supervising officer was afraid of him.
Investigations are ongoing.
About Mr. Schlipty's whereabouts, that is.
Editor's Note: As pointed out by LeRoy Ephers, during one of his lucid, relatively sober periods, the story ends on kind of a cheap pun. The bed did not literally look like a real tornado hit it because if that were the case the rest of the house would also be in shambles. It wasn't, according to local reporters who checked. The writer apologizes that when he said, "It looked like it had been hit by a tornado," he was merely using a well-worn expression often used by mothers to nag their kids into making their beds--usually with little success. How any of this relates to Mr. Schlipty's whereabouts is unknown at this time. Investigations are ongoing.
Editor's Second Note: While the use of "apparently" was deliberate to establish a kind of whimsical tone, some readers may be a little put off by such a pointless device. Please accept our apologies. On a related note, LeRoy Ephers adamantly points out that we should never have published this story in the first place. Not only is it an exercise in pointless frivolity, it may motivate other emotionally unstable people (nut jobs (no offense)) to scurry off to law enforcement whenever they have a scary dream--which would be a nightmare for the cops, he added, without apology for the pun. Ephers then accused the story of sounding derivative, though he wouldn't say what was derivative about it. Apparently, while in his usual beer haze, he enjoys lobbing unfounded accusations at well-meaning fake news writers. Well, we take great exception to being called copycats. We are not.
*We congratulate ourselves for making no mention of . . . you know . . . the gaslighter that dominates about 90% of this site. We feel good about that. If anyone would like to nominate this story as The Spoof Story of the Year on that basis alone, we humbly appreciate your support, and will share a beer with you should we bump into each other at the local bar . . . which, unfortunately, is unlikely because Ephers drinks in his camper and doesn't like visitors. I'll keep working on him. Again, thanks in advance.