TumbleDweeeb

Mad Mechanics: The Bug-Eyed Believer
Written by: Emmitt Owens
*As narrated by: Waylon*
Episode 6

Waylon, Intro: “Well now, folks, settle back for a tale about the day modern music, automotive ignorance, and a heavy dose of attitude all collided at Mad Mechanics like a three-car pileup on the highway to nowhere. This here story takes place on one of them Tuesday afternoons when the heat was thicker than Gutglor’s moonshine and twice as likely to make you do somethin’ stupid.”

   Chester was under the hood of a 2003 Honda Civic, chain-smokin’ Camel non-filters while tryin’ to diagnose a misfire that was makin’ the little four-cylinder sound like a mechanical asthma attack. Gary was nearby, rebuildin’ a carburetor with the patience of a man who’d learned that rushin’ only led to more problems later.
   From the old clock radio balanced on a tire stack, JellyRoll’s “Save Me” was bleedin’ through the static, and Reedus was noddin’ along to the beat while workin’ on a transmission mount. Between the static bursts, he was tryin’ to fix the radio’s loose connection by jammin’ a piece of chewin’ gum into the antenna socket.
       “Y’all hear this new country sound?” Reedus said, wipin’ his hands on his coveralls while wearin’ his “There’s No Place I’d Rather Be Than Beaver Valley” t-shirt, complete with a picture of a female beaver in a bikini sittin’ on a rock, in front of a waterfall. “I heard some fella sayin’ JellyRoll makes music for people that have to donate plasma to keep their phones on, and apparently Upchurch fans know exactly how much copper you need to steal to take your girlfriend out to eat. Now I don’t know nothin’ about that, but these boys sure know how to tell a story that hits close to home for workin’ folks.”
   Gary looked up from his carburetor work, wipin’ his hands on a rag that had seen better decades. “Who?”
      “JellyRoll, Upchurch – all these new country artists,” Reedus explained, gettin’ into the rhythm of his work. “They’re really mixin’ up the sound, you know? Takin’ country music and blendin’ it with… well, real life struggles that a lot of folks can relate to. These boys are really rappin’ up some truth! They’re takin’ country music and turnin’ it into somethin’ that speaks to people who work with their hands!”
       “Reedus,” Gary said with interest, lookin’ up from his carburetor work, “I ain’t got no idea who you’re talkin’ bout, but it sounds like they understand the workin’ man’s life. Country music has always been about the workin’ man.”
     “That’s what I call musical innovation right there!” Reedus continued, clearly enjoyin’ the conversation. “This new country sound is really fine-tunin’ the message! It’s like somebody took traditional country and gave it a turbo upgrade!”
   Gutglor emerged from his corner of the shop, carryin’ a mason jar of his latest batch and lookin’ like a man who’d been listenin’ to this conversation with growin’ interest. “Reedus, you might could be onto somethin’ there. Music that talks about real struggles and real work? That’s honest music right there.”
       “Like what?” Reedus asked.
     “Like knowin’ that if anybody pisses me off today, I’ll fill their leaf blower with glitter,” Gutglor replied with the calm confidence of a man who’d thought this through. “Their yard’s gonna look like Tinkerbell hit a landmine.”

Intermission: “Now folks, let me pause here to tell y’all that when Gutglor starts makin’ specific threats involvin’ craft supplies and lawn equipment, you’re either about to witness the birth of creative revenge or the kind of neighborhood incident that makes local news.”

   About that time, the crunch of gravel announced the arrival of somebody who would make their day considerably more interestin’. A beat-up Dodge Ram pulled into the yard, and out stepped a fella who looked like life had been usin’ him for target practice. He was tall, bug-eyed, and had the kind of nervous energy that came from years of bein’ picked on and never quite figurin’ out how to stand up for himself proper.
       “Y’all… *mumble mumble*… Mad Mechanics?” he called out, his words runnin’ together like they was afraid to be heard clearly.
     “That’d be us,” Chester replied, not lookin’ up from the Honda’s engine bay while takin’ a long drag from his cigarette. “What can we do for you?”
       “Name’s Marc,” the fella mumbled, his words barely escapin’ his mouth like they was embarrassed to be associated with him. “I got a… *mumble*… problem with my cousin’s car, and I need… *mumble mumble*… y’all to fix it right.”
   Chester could see this was gonna be one of them conversations where he’d have to work harder to understand the customer than diagnose the car.
       “What kind of problem?” Gary asked, settin’ down his carburetor work and givin’ Marc the kind of look you’d give a suspicious package.
     “It’s got a… *mumble*… misfire,” Marc explained, his bug eyes dartin’ around like he expected somebody to jump out and correct him. “But it ain’t the… *mumble mumble*… timin’ belt like some… *mumble*… idiot mechanic told my cousin. It’s probably the, y’know, the… torque inverter spark drain or somethin’. Timin’ belts don’t… *mumble*… cause misfires.”
   The way he said it, you could tell Marc had been told he was wrong about things his whole life, probably startin’ with some yankees up north who’d made him feel small for his accent and his way of thinkin’.
   Chester and Gary exchanged looks that could’ve communicated entire automotive textbooks worth of knowledge about the kind of customer they was dealin’ with.

Intermission: “Now folks, let me pause here to tell you about the kind of look that passes between professional mechanics when they encounter a customer who thinks they know more than they do. It’s the same look a doctor gives when somebody diagnoses themselves with WebMD, or the look a chef gives when somebody tries to explain how to boil water. It’s a look that says “Lord give me strength” and “this is gonna be expensive” all at the same time.”

       “Well now,” Chester said carefully, stubbin’ out his cigarette and immediately lightin’ another one, “timin’ belts and chains can definitely cause misfires if they jump time. When a belt or chain slips, it throws off the valve timin’, which affects compression and…”
     “Nah, man,” Marc mumbled, his bug eyes blinkin’ rapidly like he was tryin’ to process information that didn’t match what he’d convinced himself was true. “*Mumble mumble*… that ain’t how it works. Timin’ belts just… *mumble*… hold things together. They can’t jump… *mumble*… nowhere. Probably just needs a new piston capacitor or somethin’.”
   You could see in his face the look of somebody who’d pretended he already knew everythin’ rather than risk bein’ laughed at.
   Professor Thibodaux looked up from his notebook where he’d been calculatin’ somethin’ involvin’ gear ratios and thermodynamics. “Actually, sir, timin’ belts and chains can indeed ‘jump teeth’ on their respective gears. When this occurs, the camshaft timin’ becomes retarded or advanced relative to the crankshaft, which alters valve timin’ and can cause…”
       “Look… *mumble mumble*… college boy,” Marc muttered, his bug eyes gettin’ more agitated, “I didn’t come here for no… *mumble*… lecture. I know what I’m… *mumble*… talkin’ about. My cousin’s car has a misfire, and it ain’t… *mumble*… the timin’.”
  Gary set down his tools with the deliberate slowness of a man whose patience was wearin’ thinner than week-old paint. “Son, how many cars you worked on in your life?”
       “*Mumble*… enough,” Marc replied defensively, his bug eyes dartin’ away like he was used to havin’ his experience questioned. “I been around cars since… *mumble mumble*… I was a kid.”
   The hurt in his voice made it clear this wasn’t just about cars.
       “Bein’ around cars ain’t the same as understandin’ ’em,” Chester observed, blowin’ smoke that seemed to emphasize his point. “Now, if you want us to look at your cousin’s car, we’ll diagnose it proper and tell you what’s wrong. But we ain’t gonna stand here and argue with somebody who don’t know the difference between a timin’ belt and a fan belt.”
   Marc’s bug eyes got that look that suggested this wasn’t the first time somebody had questioned his intelligence. “*Mumble mumble*… y’all think you’re so smart, but I bet… *mumble*… you don’t know half what you… *mumble*… pretend to know.”
       “Son,” Gary said with the calm voice of a man who’d dealt with difficult customers for twenty years, “why don’t you go on home and think about this here some more, then come back when you’re ready to listen to people who actually know what they’re talkin’ about.”
     “More?” Reedus piped up, unable to resist. “Looks like he’s already got more confusion than a timin’ chain in a blender! This boy’s runnin’ on fumes and misunderstood information!”
   Marc’s face went red as a brake light, and he started puffin’ up like a rooster tryin’ to look bigger than he was. “*Mumble mumble*… y’all don’t know who you’re… *mumble*… messin’ with!”
   You could see this was a fella who didn’t have the knowledge or confidence to back it up.
       “We’re messin’ with somebody who thinks timin’ belts can’t jump teeth,” Chester replied dryly, takin’ another drag from his cigarette. “Which tells us pretty much everythin’ we need to know about your automotive expertise.”
   That’s when Gutglor decided to contribute to the conversation. He walked over with his mason jar in one hand and the kind of smile that suggested he was enjoyin’ the entertainment.
       “Friend,” Gutglor said in his most reasonable voice, “you seem a little wound up. Maybe you should take a deep breath, count to ten, and consider the possibility that these boys might could know what they’re talkin’ about. After all, they been fixin’ cars since before you was probably born.”
     “I don’t need to… *mumble*… take nothin’ from nobody!” Marc declared, his voice gettin’ higher and his bug eyes blinkin’ rapidly. “Especially not from a bunch of… *mumble mumble*… backwoods mechanics who probably learned everythin’… *mumble*… they know from Chilton manuals!”
   The way he said ‘backwoods’ had the same hurt tone of somebody repeatin’ insults he’d heard used against him.
       “Well now,” Gutglor replied, his smile gettin’ a little wider and a lot more dangerous, “that there’s what we call fightin’ words. And I already told y’all what happens when somebody pisses me off.”
    “Yeah?” Marc challenged. “What you gonna do about it?”
       “Oh, I ain’t gonna do nothin’ right now,” Gutglor assured him. “But I got a real good memory, and I know where the hardware store sells glitter. You might wanna remember that the next time you need to do any yard work. I’m thinkin’ maybe sprinkle it in your truck vents next time. Every time you turn on the heat, it’ll look like a drag queen exploded.”
   Marc looked confused, like he was tryin’ to process a threat that didn’t make immediate sense but sounded ominous anyway.

Intermission: “Y’all, say what you will about Gutglor, but the man don’t settle disputes like your average hothead. While most folks threaten busted lips or keyed paint jobs, Gutglor? He’s fixin’ to turn your front yard into a full-blown Hobby Lobby detonation. That ain’t just payback—that’s handcrafted vengeance with a glitter finish. It’s the kind of imaginative retaliation that puts him squarely in the hall of fame for creative grudges.”

       “Look,” Chester said, clearly tryin’ to bring some professionalism back to the situation, “if you want us to look at your cousin’s car, bring it by and we’ll diagnose it proper. But we ain’t gonna stand here and argue about basic automotive principles with somebody who’s clearly operatin’ under some… misunderstandin’s.”
    “I ain’t misunderstandin’ nothin’!” Marc protested, though his twitchy behavior suggested otherwise.
      “Sure you ain’t,” Gary replied sarcastically. “And I’m the Queen of England.”
        “Your Majesty,” Reedus said with a mock bow toward Gary, “should we tell this gentleman that timin’ chains can also stretch over time, causin’ the timin’ to retard gradually? Or that interference engines can suffer valve damage when timin’ belts break?”
     “Don’t confuse him with facts,” Gary replied. “He’s already got enough trouble processin’ basic reality.”
   Marc stood there for a moment, his bug eyes dartin’ around like he was lookin’ for an escape route, clearly tryin’ to come up with a comeback that would salvage his wounded pride. When nothin’ brilliant occurred to him, he decided to go with volume instead of logic.
       “*Mumble mumble*… y’all are just a bunch of small-town… *mumble*… hicks who don’t know nothin’ about… *mumble*… modern cars!” he declared, the words tumblin’ out like he’d been storin’ up this speech for years. “My cousin’s gonna… *mumble*… take her business somewhere else!”
     “Good,” Chester replied, flickin’ ash from his cigarette. “Save us all a headache.”
      “And save your cousin some money,” Gary added. “Sounds like a win-win situation to me.”
   Marc stomped back toward his son’s truck, mumblin’ under his breath about stupid mechanics and small-town know-it-alls.
   In his agitation, Marc didn’t notice the open can of craft glitter Gutglor had strategically placed near the door. His boot caught the edge of the can, sendin’ an explosion of silver sparkles across the gravel like a disco ball had met its maker.
       “Well, would you look at that,” Gutglor observed with satisfaction. “Gettin’ a head start on the yard decoration.”
   Marc looked down at his glitter-covered boots and pants, his bug eyes blinkin’ in confusion as he tried to process what had just happened. “What the… *mumble mumble*… hell is this stuff?”
       “Sample demonstration,” Gutglor replied cheerfully. “Consider it a preview of comin’ attractions.”
   As he climbed into the Ram, Gutglor called out cheerfully, “Hey Marc! Remember what I said about the glitter! And you might wanna check your timin’ belt while you’re at it – sounds like that truck’s got a little skip in its step!”
   Marc peeled out of the gravel parkin’ lot with enough force to send rocks flyin’, his son’s truck backfirin’ twice as he hit the road. The backfires sounded suspiciously like timin’ issues, which caused everybody to start laughin’.
       “Sounds like his truck’s got its own protest song goin’,” Chester observed, takin’ another drag from his cigarette.
     “That ain’t even his truck,” Gary pointed out, shakin’ his head. “That’s his boy’s Ram. His own car’s probably broken down in his driveway ’cause he don’t know what he’s doin’.”
       “Imagine that,” Chester said with disgust, “a man who’s gotta bum rides off his kids. That ain’t no man.”
     “Well,” the Professor observed, makin’ notes in his book, “that was an interestin’ study in the intersection of automotive ignorance and defensive psychology.”
       “That’s what I call a real engine knock!” Reedus declared, unable to resist one more pun. “That boy was definitely runnin’ on the wrong octane! His brain’s timin’ was way off!”
     “Probably got his automotive education from the same place he gets his attitude problems,” Gary muttered, returnin’ to his carburetor work.
   Chester lit up another Camel and shook his head. “Twenty years in this business, and I still get amazed by how much some folks don’t know about what they think they know everythin’ about.”
       “Speakin’ of things people understand,” Reedus said, gesturin’ toward the radio, “at least these new country artists know how to tell stories about real life. That’s more than we can say for old Marc there.”
      “What’s country rap got to do with timin’ belts?” the Professor asked, genuinely curious.
       “Both of ’em are about rhythm and timin’!” Reedus explained. “Except these musicians actually understand how to make things work together!”
     “I still don’t know who any of these people are,” Gary admitted.
       “Count yourself educated when you find out,” Reedus replied. “This music’s got better timin’ than Marc’s automotive knowledge!”
   Gutglor had wandered over to his corner and was examinin’ somethin’ in a cardboard box with the concentration of a man plannin’ somethin’ elaborate.
       “Gutglor,” Chester called out, “what you got over there?”
     “Just checkin’ my glitter supplies,” Gutglor replied innocently. “You know, for artistic projects and such.”
       “Artistic projects?” Gary asked suspiciously.
     “Landscape decoration,” Gutglor clarified with a grin that suggested Marc might wanna invest in a good leaf blower filter.
   About an hour later, they heard the sound of Marc’s son’s truck backfirin’ its way back down the road, presumably headin’ to find somebody who would agree with his timin’ belt theories. The backfirin’ seemed to be gettin’ worse, which made everybody exchange knowin’ looks.
   The radio had switched to Upchurch’s “Holler Boys”.
      “Ten bucks says his timin’ chain stretched,” Chester observed.
     “Twenty says it jumped a tooth,” Gary countered.
       “Fifty says he ends up back here next week askin’ us to fix it,” the Professor added, surprisin’ everybody with his willingness to bet.
     “Y’all are on,” Reedus declared. “But I’m bettin’ he brings it to Jimbo’s Quick Fix first and gets told the same thing we would’ve told him.”
   The radio had switched to Struggle Jennings and Yelawolf’s “God We Need You Now,” and the mood in the shop improved considerably. Sometimes the best part of workin’ on cars was the satisfaction that came from dealin’ with customers who actually wanted their vehicles fixed instead of just havin’ their preconceptions validated.
      “You know,” Chester said, takin’ a long drag from his cigarette, “days like this remind me why I love this job. Nothin’ beats the feelin’ of bein’ right about automotive problems.”
     “Even when the customer don’t wanna hear it,” Gary added.
       “Especially then,” Chester corrected with a grin.
   And so another educational day came to an end at Mad Mechanics, leavin’ behind the satisfaction of professional knowledge, the entertainment value of difficult customers, and the lingerin’ threat of glitter-based revenge hangin’ over anybody foolish enough to challenge Gutglor’s patience.
   Chester walked back to the Honda to finish his diagnosis, and as he knelt down beside the engine bay, he noticed a single silver flake of glitter sparklin’ on the hood in the afternoon sun. He brushed it off with a chuckle, shakin’ his head at Gutglor’s thoroughness.
   The radio played on with Hank Williams howlin’ at the moon, the shop smelled like cigarette smoke and honest work, and somewhere out there, a man was drivin’ his son’s truck and backfirin’ his way toward an expensive lesson in timin’ belt basics.

Outro: “Now that there, folks, is what I call a teachable moment. Sometimes the best education comes from watchin’ other people refuse to learn, and sometimes the most satisfyin’ customers are the ones who drive away mad because you told them the truth they didn’t wanna hear. And if you ever find yourself arguin’ with professional mechanics about basic automotive principles while drivin’ your kid’s truck because your own car don’t run, well, just remember Marc and maybe consider keepin’ your mouth shut and your glitter storage secure.”