TumbleDweeeb

Episode 3: The Great Valiant Conversion
Written by: Emmitt Owens
*As narrated by: Waylon*

📜 Dedication
  This story is dedicated to my father, Keith L. Owens Sr.,
June 26th, 1957 – December 26th, 2023.
   Back in the summer of 1994, my dad had taken a rusted-out ol’Plymouth Valiant in a Michigan driveway and turned it into something no one had ever seen… a half-wooden car pickup truck that he called “The Alien”.
It ran… It hauled… It confused neighbors… It lived.
   It’s that spirit, the one that says “Yeah, it’s crazy, but it might just work”, is the same con’sept that I’m using in my Mad Mechanics stories. This story is for him.
    Rest easy, Pop. The garage light’s still on.

—For every chainsaw fixer, grease-stained dreamer, and backyard engineer who ever turned rust into motion.

   Waylon, Intro: “Well now, folks, settle in for a tale that’ll make you question the very definition of the word “automobile.” This here story takes place on one of them sweltering Alabama afternoons when the heat was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife and serve it with beans & cornbread.”

   The boys at Mad Mechanics had just acquired themselves a 1974 Plymouth Valiant that had more scars than a moonshiners back bumper. The poor thing was rust-colored in places that were never supposed to be rust-colored, and it looked like it got in a brawl with a stampede of shopping carts.
   Chester was standin’ in front of that sorry excuse for a car, scratchin’ his head and lightin’ up a Buzzard Dust non-filter. From the old clock radio perched on a stack of an assort’mnt of warped heads, Johnny Cash was growlin’ out “One Piece at a Time,” which seemed mighty appropriate for what they were about to attempt. “Boys, I been starin’ at this heap for near twenty minutes, and I still can’t figure out what we’re gonna do with it.”
       “Well,” Reedus piped up, his wild hair stickin’ up like he’d been electrocuted, “seems to me the back half of this car is more rust than metal. Maybe we ought to just cut it off and make ourselves a pick’em up truck.”
   Gary nearly choked on his Michelob. “You want to cut a perfectly good car in half?”
       “Perfectly good?” Gutglor rumbled, takin’ a swig from his ever-present jug of moonshine. “That back end’s got more holes in it than a stop sign in the middle of the forest.”
   About that time, the rusty screen door of the shop squeaked open, and in walked a fella none of them had ever seen before. He was a tall, thin drink of water wearin’ overalls cleaner than a Sunday shirt and carryin’ a toolbox that looked like it belonged in a museum.
       “Afternoon, gentlemen,” the stranger said, tippin’ his cap. “Name’s Professor Eugene Thibodaux, but most folks just call me the Professor. I couldn’t help but overhear y’all discussin’ automotive modification, and I thought I might offer some insight.”
   Chester, Gary, Reedus, and Gutglor all turned to stare at this newcomer like he was a space alien who’d just landed in their shop.
       “Professor?” Reedus asked, squawkin’ like a rooster sittin’ on a fire cracker. “What kind of professor knows about car fixin’?”
     “Well, young man,” the Professor replied, adjustin’ his wire-rimmed spectacles, “I happen to hold degrees in mechanical engineering, Hot-iron know-how’s, and agricultural sciences. Plus, I once converted a 1967 Buick LeSabre into a combine harvester for my cousin Boudreaux down in Louisiana and… I once met a fella up in Michigan – Keith was his name – who turned a rusted-out Valiant into a half-wooden hauler that became the talk of I65. That man taught me more about creative engineering in one afternoon than most textbooks ever could. Spring of 1995, he packed up that very same Valiant, hooked it to a loaded-down trailer near double it’s size, and pulled the whole rig down to Alabama. That contraption didn’t just haul – it relocated a man’s entire family.”

Intermission: “Now folks, lemme tell y’all somethin’ … when a fella brags about turnin’ a Buick into a corn-eatin’ machine, you best brace yourself. You’re either lookin’ at a backwoods prodigy or a story taller than a deer stand in duck season. In this case, it was a fixer’s stew of both.”

       “So what you think about cuttin’ this here Valiant into a pickup truck?” Chester asked, blowin’ enough smoke that could’ve choked a mule.
   The Professor walked around that car like a doctor examinin’ a patient, tappin’ on panels and peerin’ underneath with the intensity of a man studyin’ ancient cave drawin’s.
      “Well,” he finally announced, “structurally speaking, this is entirely wrenchable. The Plymouth Valiant has a unibody construction, which means the frame and body are integrated. You’ll need to reinforce the remaining structure to compensate for the loss of rear structural integrity.”
   Gutglor blinked slowly. “Hold up, you done lost me.”
      “He’s sayin’ we can cut it up, but we gotta make sure it don’t fall apart when we drive it,” Gary translated.
    “Precisely!” the Professor beamed. “Now, for the truck bed, I’d recommend using pressure-treated lumber, specifically two-by-tens for the bed floor and two-by-sixes for the sides. The tailgate can be fashioned from…”
       “Hold on there, Professor,” Reedus interrupted, grinnin’ like a possum who found a full dish of dog food. “We appreciate all that fancy book learnin’, but we got our own way of doin’ things round here.”
   Before anyone could stop him, Reedus had fired up his trusty chainsaw and was headin’ toward the back of that Valiant like a lumberjack approachin’ a particularly offensive tree.
       “Wait!” the Professor called out, his voice crackin’ like a firepit. “You need to measure twice and cut once! You need to consider the structural load paths! You need to…”
     BRAAAAAAAP! The chainsaw roared to life, drownin’ out the Professor’s protests. Reedus started cuttin’ through the roof of that Valiant like he was slicin’ through butter, metal shavings flyin’ everywhere like angry fireflies.
       “REEDUS!” Chester hollered over the chainsaw noise. “What in Lucas Black’s name are you doin’?”
     “Makin’ us a pickup truck!” Reedus yelled back, his chainsaw spittin’ sparks like a July sparkler.
   The Professor stood there with his mouth hangin’ open like a barn door in a windstorm, watchin’ Reedus perform what could generously be called “surgery” on that poor automobile.
      “This is… this is not how you modify a vehicle’s structure,” the Professor muttered, his voice barely audible over the mechanical mayhem.
    “Works for us,” Gutglor replied cheerfully, then wandered off to find some wood for the truck bed.
   About ten minutes later, Reedus had successfully separated the back half of that Valiant from the front half, leavin’ behind what looked like a car that had been attacked by a giant can opener.
      “There!” Reedus announced proudly, shuttin’ off his chainsaw. “One pick’em up truck, coming right up.”
   The Professor walked around the newly shortened vehicle, shakin’ his head like a disappointed schoolteacher. “While your cutting technique lacks precision, I must admit the end result is… surprisingly functional. However, you’ll need to reinforce these structural points here, here, and here.” He pointed to various spots on what remained of the car.
       “How we gonna do that?” Gary asked.
     “Well, in a proper automotive modification facility, you’d use steel plates and professional welding equipment. However, given your… unique approach to problem-solving, I suspect you’ll devise something more creative.”
   That’s when Gutglor returned from his wood-hunting expedition, draggin’ behind him what appeared to be half a barn door, some two-by-fours that looked older than dirt, and a tailgate from a 1950s Ford pickup that had more character than George Lindsey.
       “Found us some building materials!” Gutglor announced happily.
   The Professor stared at the collection of lumber like he was lookin’ at a collection of prehistoric artifacts. “That barn wood appears to be approximately sixty years old, those two-by-fours are clearly not pressure-treated, and that tailgate… well, that tailgate is actually in remarkably good condition.”
       “See?” Reedus said, slappin’ the Professor on the back. “You do know what you’re talkin’ about!”
   For the next several hours, the strangest vehicle modification project in the history of Buzzard Roost, Alabama, took place in the Mad Mechanics shop. The radio had switched to Alan Jackson crooning “Chattahoochee,” and the upbeat melody seemed to fuel the boys’ creative energy. Reedus and Gutglor approached the task with their usual combination of enthusiasm and complete disregard for conventional wisdom.
       “According to my calculations,” the Professor announced, consultin’ a notebook that appeared to contain more formulas than a chemistry textbook, “the bed should be exactly 48 inches wide by 72 inches long to maintain proper weight distribution.”
     “Sounds good to me,” Reedus replied, then proceeded to cut the barn wood to completely different dimensions using a handsaw that looked like it had been used to cut everything from firewood to fence posts.
       “That’s not 48 inches,” the Professor protested. “You’re short 5 or so inches.”
     “Close enough for government work,” Gutglor chimed in, hammerin’ the boards together with nails that were three different sizes and probably came from four different decades.
   The Professor tried to maintain his scholarly composure, but watchin’ Reedus and Gutglor build that truck bed was like someone tryin’ to fix a heart valve with a steak knife and super glue.
       “Gentlemen,” the Professor said carefully, “while I appreciate your… rustic approach to construction, there are certain principles of engineering that really shouldn’t be ignored.”
    “Like what?” Reedus asked, not lookin’ up from his hammerin’.
       “Well, for instance, you’re using three different types of wood, none of which are properly treated for outdoor use. The nails you’re using aren’t galvanized, so they’ll rust. And you’re not using any kind of moisture barrier between the wood and the metal.”
     “Professor,” Chester said, lightin’ up another cigarette, “you’re thinkin’ like a engineer. These boys think more like… well, like artists.”
       “Artists who happen to own a chainsaw,” Gary added helpfully.

Intermission: “Now listen here—what happened next spit in the face of physics, slapped engineering across the mouth, and kicked common sense right in the spark plugs. But at Mad Mechanics, that just means it’s lunchtime on a Tuesday.”

   Despite using wood that should’ve rotted years ago, nails that belonged in a recycling bin, and construction techniques that would make a beaver shake its head in disapproval, that truck bed started to take shape. And not only did it take shape, it actually looked… well, it looked like it might actually work.
       “I don’t understand it,” the Professor muttered, measurin’ the bed with a tape measure. “By all rights, this should collapse under its own weight. But it’s actually structurally sound.”
     “Told you,” Gutglor said, takin’ a swig from his jug. “Sometimes the best engineering is no engineering at all.”
   The Professor pulled out what appeared to be a slide rule and started calculatin’ something that involved more numbers than a phone book. “The tensile strength of this barn wood, combined with the random nail pattern and the… is that chewing gum holding that joint together?”
       “Ran out of wood glue,” Reedus explained cheerfully. “But that there’s premium bubble gum. Holds better than dried maple syrup.”
   By the time they were finished, that converted Valiant looked like no vehicle that had ever rolled off an assembly line. The front half was still recognizably a car, but the back half looked like somebody had grafted a chicken coop onto a automobile. The wooden truck bed was held together with a combination of nails, screws, duct tape, and what the Professor had correctly identified as chewing gum.
       “Well,” Chester announced, “let’s see if this contraption actually runs.”
   He turned the key, and that modified Valiant started right up, settin’ in like gravy on Sunday supper. The engine didn’t seem to care that half the car was missin’, and the wooden bed didn’t collapse under its own weight.
       “I’ll be … Roger Bedford,” Gary muttered. “It actually works.”
   The Professor was takin’ notes in his book like a scientist studyin’ a new species of animal. “This defies everything I learned in engineering school,” he said, shakin’ his head. “But I can’t argue with results.”
       “Want to take her for a test drive?” Reedus asked, grinnin’ like he’d just invented the wheel.
   They all piled into that converted Valiant – Chester drivin’, Gary ridin’ shotgun, and Reedus, Gutglor, and the Professor squeezed into what remained of the back seat. Chester put it in drive and eased out of the shop.
   That franken-truck drove smoother than a lawnmower down a hill. The wooden bed creaked a little when they went over bumps, but it held together like it was built by master craftsmen instead of two mechanics who used moonshine as a cleaning solvent.
       “This is remarkable,” the Professor said, his voice full of wonder. “The weight distribution is actually better than the original vehicle. The shortened wheelbase improves maneuverability, and the wooden bed provides surprisingly good shock absorption.”
     “See?” Gutglor said proudly. “Sometimes book learnin’ ain’t got nothin’ on good old-fashioned know-how.”
   They drove that converted Valiant all around Buzzard Roost, past the Chill n’ Fill where Old Bob waved from the winking polor bear, down Main Street where folks stopped and stared like they were watchin’ a parade, and finally back to the Mad Mechanics shop.
       “Boys,” Chester announced as they pulled back into the garage, “I do believe we just invented ourselves a new kind of vehicle.”
     “What you gonna call it?” Gary asked.
       “The Valiant Pickup,” Reedus replied without hesitation. “Or maybe the Plymouth Franken-Truck.”
   The Professor was still takin’ notes, muttering to himself about “unconventional engineering solutions” and “empirical evidence contradicting theoretical predictions.”
       “Professor,” Chester said, “you’re welcome to stick around if you want. We could probably use somebody with book learnin’ around here.”
   The Professor looked around at the shop, with its collection of improbable repair projects and impossible solutions, and a slow smile spread across his face.
       “You know what?” he said, closin’ his notebook. “I think I might just do that. I’ve learned more about practical engineering in one afternoon here than I did in four years of college.”
     “Just one rule,” Gutglor warned, raisin’ his bottle. “No project is too crazy, and no solution is too simple.”
       “I think I can live with that,” the Professor replied.
   And so it was that Mad Mechanics gained themselves a new member, and Buzzard Roost gained itself the world’s first Plymouth Valiant pickup truck. As the sun set behind the pine trees and the radio played Kenny Chesney singin’ “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy,” another successful day came to an end at the most unconventional garage in Alabama.
   The Professor fit right in, even if he did insist on measurin’ things twice before Reedus cut them once. And that converted Valiant? Well, it became the shop truck, haulin’ everything from scrap metal to cases of RC Cola, moonpies, moonshine & muskydine wine, it provin’ once and for all that sometimes the best engineering happens when you throw the rule book out the window and trust in a little Southern ingenuity.
  
Outro: “Now that there, folks, is what I call a true meeting of book smarts and street smarts. Sometimes the most educated mind needs to learn from the most creative hands, and sometimes a chainsaw and some barn wood can accomplish what a whole team of engineers might struggle with. And if you ever find yourself needin’ a car converted into a pickup truck, well, you know where to find the boys at Mad Mechanics.”