TumbleDweeeb

Episode 5: The Gospel According to Ratrods
Written by: Emmitt Owens
*As narrated by Waylon*

Waylon Intro: “Well now, folks, settle back and let me tell you about the time the boys at Mad Mechanics decided to build themselves what they called a “rat rod.” Now, if you don’t know what a rat rod is, picture a car that looks like it crawled out of a junkyard, got struck by lightning, and somehow became more beautiful because of it.”

   Everything began one muggy Tuesday when the humidity hit like a wall of Professor Thibodaux’s lecture notes.. dense, confusing, and in no hurry to clear up. Chester was out back behind the shop, surveying a collection of automotive casualties that looked like a car graveyard after a tornado convention, chain-smoking Camel Non-Filter’d cigarettes like they were going out of production.
   From the old clock radio crackling on the tire stack, Eddie Cochran was belting out “Summertime Blues,” and the rockabilly beat was makin’ everyone’s feet tap like they were keepin’ time to a mechanical heartbeat.
       “Boys!” Chester hollered, lighting up his third Camel Non-Filter’d of the morning and blowin’ smoke that could’ve choked a roadrunner. “Come look at what I found buried under that pile of bumpers!”
   Gary, Reedus, Gutglor, and the Professor all wandered out to see what had Chester so excited. There, sittin’ like a rusty treasure chest, was the remains of what might’ve once been a 1932 Ford coupe. The body was so riddled with rust holes it looked like Swiss cheese, but the frame appeared as solid as an Alabama courthouse.
       “Well, I’ll be pickled in moonshine!,” Gary muttered, walkin’ around the skeleton of that old Ford. “What you thinking, Chester?”
     “I’m thinkin’,” Chester replied with a grin wider than the Tennessee River, taking another long drag from his cigarette, “that we got ourselves the perfect candidate for a rat rod project. This baby’s gonna be bitchin’ when we’re done with it.”
       “Now that’s what I call a diamond in the rust!” Reedus cackled, his wild hair standing up like he’d been struck by inspiration instead of lightning. “This project’s really gonna be the cat’s meow… or should I say, the rat’s rod!”
    Professor Thibodaux adjusted his spectacles and consulted his ever-present notebook. “A rat rod, if I’m not mistaken, is typically characterized by aggressive stance, exposed mechanical components, and a deliberately unfinished aesthetic designed to evoke the hot rod culture of the 1950s and 60s. Think American Graffiti meets Popular Hot Rodding magazine.”
       “That’s a mighty fancy way of sayin’ ‘cool looking rust bucket,’” Reedus replied, examining the old Ford with enthusiasm. “But don’t worry, Professor – we’re gonna turn this rusty relic into something wheelie, wheelie impressive! Something that’d make Ed ‘Big Daddy’ Roth himself take notice.”
   Gutglor took a contemplative swig from his jug of moonshine and nodded sagely. “I like it. Looks like somethin’ that’d be right at home cruisin’ down a dirt road with the radio cranked up, maybe heading to a drive-in picture show.”
   Chester stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another one, the smoke curling around him like automotive incense. “Alright then, let’s get to work. Time to build ourselves a real gasser.”

Intermission: “Now folks .. Constructin’ a rat rod’s like brewin’ moonshine: equal measures of craft, science, and sheer hard-headed will. And as for Gutglor’s shine? That weren’t just some backwoods antifreeze—it was jugg’d heritage, and it carried a tale all its own.”

       “Professor,” Gutglor announced suddenly, “you ever wonder how this here moonshine gets made?”
   His eyes popped open like someone whispered ‘free tools’ in his ear. “Actually, I’ve been quite curious about your distillation process. From what I can observe, it appears to be a corn mash with some rather unique… additives.”
       “Well, this oughta be a real corny explanation!” Reedus chimed in, unable to resist. “I’m all ears… of corn!”
   Gutglor beamed proudly and gestured toward a collection of oak barrels hidden behind a stack of old tires. “Well, since we’re gonna be here a while buildin’ this rod, might as well educate you proper-like.”
   He led them over to what could generously be called his “laboratory,” though it looked more like a moonshine operation that had been assembled by someone who’d learned chemistry from comic books.
       “See, the secret starts with the mash,” Gutglor explained, pointin’ to a barrel that was bubblin’ like a witch’s cauldron. “You take your corn – good Alabama corn, none of that imported nonsense – and you grind it up real fine. Then you add water, yeast, and…” He paused dramatically, “the secret ingredient.”
        “Which is?” the Professor asked, pencil poised over his notebook.
     “Crushed-up STP oil treatment tablets,” Gutglor announced proudly. “Gives it that extra kick and helps with the automotive applications.”
       “Talk about fuel injection!” Reedus exclaimed. “That’s what I call high-octane chemistry!”
   Chester took a long drag from his cigarette, watching the Professor’s expression with amusement. The Professor’s jaw dropped like an anvil off a cliff. “You’re adding STP to consumable alcohol?”
       “Course not!” Gutglor replied, lookin’ offended. “This batch is just for mechanical use. The drinkin’ batch is over there in the red barrels – that one’s got sugar and molasses instead of STP.”
    “That’s… actually somewhat reassuring,” the Professor muttered, takin’ notes like his life depended on it.
   Meanwhile, Chester and Reedus had already jumped on that old coupe like grease monkeys on a junkyard jackpot. Chester worked with a cigarette dangling from his lips, somehow managing to weld, cut, and smoke simultaneously without setting anything on fire. The radio had switched to Gene Vincent growlin’ out “Be-Bop-A-Lula,” and the rockabilly rhythm seemed to fuel their demolition efforts.
       “First thing we gotta do,” Chester explained, wieldin’ a crowbar like a surgeon’s scalpel while ash from his cigarette fell onto the rusty metal, “is get all this old rust and rot off the frame. Rat rod or not, we still need somethin’ solid to build on. Can’t have our ride foldin’ up like a lawn chair at the first stoplight drag.”
   Reedus fired up his trusty angle grinder, sendin’ sparks flyin’ like angry fireflies. “I love this part! It’s like archaeological excavation, except with more power tools and less careful brush work. We’re really gonna grind our way to success!”
   The Professor watched this “archaeological excavation” with the fascination of a scientist observing a new species. “Gentlemen, while your methods are… unconventional, you’re actually following sound restoration principles. Remove the compromised material, assess the underlying structure, then rebuild from a solid foundation.”
      “See?” Gary said, draggin’ over a pile of replacement steel. “The Professor gets it. Sometimes you gotta tear somethin’ down before you can build it back up better. Like those custom shops out in California – Von Dutch and them boys know you can’t polish a turd, but you can sure make it shine.”
     “That’s what I call constructive destruction!” Reedus added, still grinding away at rust. “We’re deconstructing this baby so we can reconstruct it into something spectacular!”

Intermission: “Now folks, I need to pause here and tell y’all about Chester’s smoking habits, ’cause what happened next was like watching a man trying to perform precision metalwork while chain-smoking enough cigarettes to supply a poker game. Chester could light a fresh Camel Non-Filter’d off the dying embers of the previous one, and somehow never managed to burn down the shop or himself. It was like watching a magician who specialized in nicotine-based sleight of hand.”

   As they worked, Chester went through cigarettes like a man possessed, lighting each new one with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d been smoking since before safety regulations were invented. Gutglor continued his moonshine education, explaining how the mash had to ferment for exactly two weeks in the Alabama heat, how the distillation process required constant temperature monitoring, and how the final product had to be aged in charred oak barrels for at least six months to develop proper flavor.
       “The beauty of my good ol’Red Rat Ribbon corn whiskey,” Gutglor explained, drainin’ one barrel into mason jars, “is that it’s got multiple applications. Cleans engine parts, removes rust, works as antifreeze in a pinch, and the drinkin’ version pairs real nice with barbecue. Better than a Swiss Army knife for versatility.”
      “That’s remarkably versatile,” the Professor admitted. “Though I suspect the EPA might have some concerns about your production methods.”
     “EPA?” Gutglor asked, lookin’ confused. “What’s that stand for?”
       “Environmental Protection Agency,” the Professor replied.
     “Oh,” Gutglor muttered with a grin, “More like ‘Extra-Powerful Arson’ if you ask me. Well, if they ever come around, I’ll just tell ’em it’s agricultural research. After all, I am experimenting with corn-based chemistry.”
   By this time, they had stripped that Ford coupe down to its bare bones, revealing a frame that was actually in better shape than anyone had expected. The body panels were mostly swiss cheese, but the chassis was solid as a rock.
      “Now comes the fun part,” Chester announced, chain-lighting his next Camel Non-Filter’d off the previous one without missing a beat. “We gotta decide what kind of engine we’re gonna stuff into this beast.”
     “I vote for somethin’ big and loud,” Reedus declared. “Rat rods are supposed to sound like thunder and look like trouble. We need an engine that’ll really motor! Something that’d make the Beach Boys write a song about it.”
   Gary had been rummaging through their collection of salvaged engines and emerged with a grin that could’ve lit up Birmingham. “Boys, I think I found our powerplant.”
   He pointed to a 1969 Dodge 440 big block that had been sittin’ in the corner like a sleeping giant. The engine was painted primer black and looked meaner than a wet bobcat.
      “Now that,” Gutglor said appreciatively, “is what I call motivation. That’s real muscle car material right there.”
    “Hot rod heavens!” Reedus exclaimed, examining the massive V8. “That’s what I call displacement therapy! This baby’s gonna have some serious cubic appeal!”
   The Professor walked around the engine like he was examinin’ a museum piece. “A 440 cubic inch V8. Approximately 375 horsepower in stock configuration, though I suspect you gentlemen won’t be keeping it stock. That’s serious Detroit iron.”
       “Stock is for grocery stores,” Reedus replied, already planning modifications in his head. “We’re gonna wake this sleeping giant up and teach it to roar. That 440’s gonna inhale traffic like free peanuts at a honky-tonk! We’ll give it the full Cal Look treatment.”
   Chester took a long drag from his cigarette, studying the engine with the practiced eye of a man who’d spent his life making impossible mechanical combinations work. The radio had switched to Jerry Lee Lewis pounding out “Great Balls of Fire,” and the driving piano rhythm seemed to match the energy level in the shop. Everyone was moving with the kind of purpose that comes from having a clear vision and the tools to make it happen.
       “Reedus,” Chester said, “you and Gutglor work on fitting that engine into the frame. Gary and I will start fabricating some body panels. Professor, you can help with whatever needs calculatin’ or measurin’.”
     “Actually,” the Professor said, adjusting his spectacles, “I’d like to observe Gutglor’s distillation process a bit more. For scientific purposes, you understand.”
       “Sure you would,” Gary chuckled. “Just remember, that mechanical batch ain’t for drinkin’. We don’t want you seein’ pink elephants like Dumbo.”
     “I’m a scholar, not a fool,” the Professor replied with dignity.

Intermission: “Now folks, what happened next was one of those moments that proves the Mad Mechanics boys had been touched by some kind of automotive divine inspiration. Or maybe it was just the fumes from Gutglor’s moonshine operation mixing with the smoke from Chester’s endless cigarettes, creating some kind of creative combustion in the Alabama air.”

   Reedus and Gutglor approached the engine installation with their usual combination of creative problem-solving and complete disregard for conventional wisdom. The 440 big block was about as subtle as a freight train in a phone booth, and fitting it into the ’32 Ford frame was like trying to squeeze a watermelon into a shoebox.
       “According to my calculations,” the Professor called out from beside the mash barrels, “that engine is approximately four inches too wide and six inches too long for the frame rails.”
     “Math never stopped us before,” Reedus replied cheerfully, firing up his cutting torch. “We’ll just modify the frame to fit the engine instead of the other way around. Sometimes you gotta think outside the blocks! This ain’t no trailer queen we’re building here.”
   Chester, working with a fresh cigarette dangling from his lips, watched the sparks fly dangerously close to his face without flinching. About halfway through the welding process, a piece of ash dropped from his cigarette onto an oily rag, which immediately caught fire.
      “Fire!” Gary yelled, but Gutglor was already on it, dousing the flames with a splash of his mechanical-grade Rat Red Ribbon.
     “Well,” Chester observed, taking another drag without missing a beat, “looks like that rat rod almost became a cig-arette.”

Intermission: “Now hang on a second .. when a man torches his own shop rags by accident and still manages to turn it into the setup for a joke, you ain’t dealin’ with a rookie. That’s either garage genius or a survivor of so many grease fires, he considers smoke just part of the ambiance.”

   The Professor nearly dropped his notebook. “You’re going to alter the structural integrity of the chassis to accommodate an oversized powerplant?”
      “Dang right we are,” Gutglor confirmed, taking a swig of the drinking batch of his corn whiskey. “Sometimes you gotta break a few rules to make somethin’ beautiful. This ain’t gonna be some Sunday driver – this is gonna be a real street machine.”
       “That’s what I call frame modification with style!” Reedus added, already cutting into the steel. “We’re not just building a car, we’re engineering excitement! This frame’s so chopped it should come with cole slaw!”
   What followed was several hours of the most creative metalwork this side of the Tennessee Valley. Reedus cut and welded frame rails like he was performing surgery, while Gutglor fabricated engine mounts that looked like they belonged on a medieval torture device. Chester chain-smoked his way through the entire process, somehow managing to provide expert guidance while maintaining a constant cloud of smoke around his head.
      “This is either going to be spectacular or catastrophic,” the Professor muttered, watching them work.
    “Why not both?” Chester replied, welding body panels that looked like they’d been shaped by a tornado with artistic ambitions. “That’s the beauty of hot rodding – you never know if you’re gonna end up with a show winner or spare parts.”
      “Don’t worry, Professor,” Reedus called out between sparks, “we’re really welding this project together! Our fabrication skills are steel solid! We didn’t just lower the ride height—we stuck it on its belly like a possum playin’ dead!”
   By late afternoon, they had successfully shoehorned that massive V8 into the Ford frame, created body panels that gave the car an aggressive, chopped stance, and assembled something that looked like it had been designed by hot rod angels and built by very talented lunatics. Chester had gone through two full packs of Camel’s in the process, but the rat rod was taking shape beautifully.
       “Boys,” Chester announced, steppin’ back to admire their handiwork while lighting up yet another cigarette, “I think we might’ve created ourselves a masterpiece of automotive mayhem. This baby’s got more attitude than James Dean in a leather jacket.”
   The rat rod sat there like a mechanical predator, all exposed engine components and aggressive angles. The body was a patchwork of primer black and rust patina that looked intentional instead of neglected. The stance was lower than a snake’s belly and twice as mean-looking.
      “This is what I call automotive artistry!” Reedus declared, practically bouncing with excitement. “We’ve really rodded this project to perfection! It’s got that real Bonneville Salt Flats look to it.”
    “Fire her up!” Reedus hollered, his excitement reaching fever pitch.
   Chester turned the key, and that 440 big block rumbled to life with a sound like controlled thunder. The exhaust note echoed off the shop walls and probably registered on seismographs clear over in Riverton. Chester’s cigarette never left his mouth, even as he grinned with satisfaction.
      “Sweet mother of horsepower,” Gary breathed, his voice barely audible over the engine noise. “That’s what I call Detroit thunder.”
   Even the Professor looked impressed, though he was still taking notes like a man documenting a natural disaster. “The acoustic signature suggests significant displacement and aggressive camshaft timing. Sounds like it could power a dragster at the local strip.”
      “It sounds,” Gutglor declared over the rumbling, “like freedom wrapped in steel and powered by controlled explosions. Pure American muscle.”
     “That’s what I call exhaust-ing all our options!” Reedus shouted over the engine noise. “This baby’s really got some serious RPM potential!”
   About that time, they realized they needed to take their creation for a proper test drive, but first they needed some fuel. “Reedus,” Chester yelled over the engine noise, “run across the street to the Chill n’ Fill and grab us a couple gallons of Sunoco 260. This beast’s gonna be thirsty for premium.”
      “I’m on it!” Reedus replied, already heading for the door. “Time to fuel this beast so we can really gas it up!”
   Reedus took off running across the street like his coveralls were on fire, dodging traffic and waving at folks who stopped to stare at the spectacle emerging from the Mad Mechanics shop.
   When he returned with the gas, they filled up the tank and prepared for the maiden voyage of their rat rod creation. All five of them squeezed into and onto the car – Chester driving with a fresh cigarette already lit, Gary riding shotgun, Reedus and the Professor perched on makeshift seats in the back, and Gutglor hanging onto the roll cage with one hand and his jug with the other.
   Chester put it in gear and eased out of the shop, his cigarette smoke trailing behind them like a personal exhaust system. That rat rod prowled down the street like a mechanical panther. The engine rumbled with barely contained power, the exhaust note announcing their presence to everyone within a five-mile radius.
       “This thing drives like a rocket ship with anger management issues,” Chester declared, grinning from ear to ear around his cigarette. “Handles better than my old deuce coupe ever did.”
     “Now this is what I call cruise control!” Reedus yelled from the back. “We’re really shifting into high gear! This baby’s ready for some boulevard cruising!”
   They cruised through downtown Buzzard Roost, past the courthouse where Judge Henderson was holding court and stopped mid-sentence to watch them pass, past the barbershop where old-timers gathered to solve the world’s problems and debate the relative merits of different engine configurations.
       “Boys,” the Professor said, his voice full of wonder, “you’ve created something that transcends mere transportation. This is automotive art. It’s got that genuine Hot Rod Magazine cover appeal.”
     “Art that goes really, really fast,” Gutglor added happily. “Like a Andy Granatelli special.”
       “And sounds absolutely thunderous!” Reedus added, still grinning from ear to ear.
   As the sun started settin’ behind the Alabama pines, they headed back to the shop, their rat rod having passed its test with flying colors. Chester had somehow managed to smoke three more cigarettes during the test drive without taking his hands off the wheel. That old radio was croonin’ one last rockabilly number when they pulled in, and the boys were smilin’ like they’d bottled joy and took a swig.
       “Well,” Chester announced, shutting off the engine and immediately lighting up a fresh cigarette, “I reckon we can add rat rod building to our list of services. This baby’s ready for the local cruise nights.”
     “Right next to electrical work, moonshine production, and general automotive mayhem,” Gary added.
   The Professor was still taking notes, shaking his head in amazement. “You gentlemen have accomplished something that shouldn’t be possible according to conventional engineering principles. This belongs in a custom car show.”
       “That’s what makes it fun,” Reedus replied. “If it was easy, everybody would be doing it. But we really drove this project home!”
     “And speaking of driving,” Reedus continued, unable to contain his excitement, “this rat rod project has been absolutely gear-iffic! We’ve really shifted this build into overdrive!”
   And so another successful project came to an end at Mad Mechanics, leaving behind one very satisfied crew of builders and one rat rod that looked like it had been born from the dreams of every hot rod enthusiast who ever lived. The smell of high-octane fuel and moonshine hung in the evening air, mixing with the sounds of rockabilly music, Chester’s cigarette smoke, and the satisfaction that comes from turning a pile of rust into a rolling work of art.
   That rat rod became the shop’s official cruise vehicle, making appearances at every car show and drive-in within a hundred miles. And every time someone asked how they built such a beautiful machine from such humble beginnings, the boys would just grin and say it was a combination of vision, determination, and a healthy disrespect for conventional wisdom. Chester would usually be lighting up another cigarette while he explained their methods, somehow making chain-smoking look like an essential part of the creative process.

Outro: “Now that there, folks, is what I call turning trash into treasure. Sometimes the most beautiful things come from the most unlikely places, and sometimes the best engineering happens when you throw the rule book out the window and trust in a little creativity and a lot of horsepower.”