TumbleDweeeb

Mad Mechanics: The OSHApocalypse
Written by: Emmitt Owens
*As narrated by: Waylon*
Episode: 7.7

1. “Safety’s in the Eye of the Beer-Holder”

Waylon, Intro: “Well now, folks, picture a June heat so thick you could butter pancakes with it and serve it alongside scrabbled eggs. Chester had them bay doors flung wide open like a preacher’s arms on Sunday, Axl the blue-nose pit bull was pantin’ beneath that oscillatin’ fan like he’d been runnin’ a marathon, and Sturgill Simpson’s “Long White Line” was rattlin’ them shops clock radio like loose lug nuts in a coffee can. That’s when a federal-issue 2024 Ford Escape eased up the gravel drive, tires crunchin’ like judgment day on wheels.”

   Out stepped Merle Standridge, steel-toed boots that could kick through concrete, high-visibility vest bright enough to blind low-flyin’ aircraft, clipboard clutched like a gospel accordin’ to federal regulations, and a mustache that hadn’t cracked a smile since Y2K. He didn’t bother with howdies or pleasant conversation.
       “OSHA. Surprise inspection,” he announced with all the warmth of a January mornin’ in a Michigan winter.
   Chester’s cigarette drooped from his lip like a flag of surrender. Reedus, who was standin’ on an upside-down milk crate tryin’ to reach somethin’ under the hood of a Chevy S-10 while wearin’ his “Travis Scott” t-shirt whispered “Normal Weird” loud enough for three counties to hear, “Boys… we’re boned.”
   Gary took one look at Inspector Standridge and immediately started calculatin’ how many years in federal prison they was lookin’ at. The Professor began frantically shufflin’ papers like he might find a miracle somewhere in his notebook. Gutglor just grinned and took a swig from his mason jar, apparently findin’ the whole situation amusin’.

Intermission: “Let me just say this… when OSHA darkens the doorway of a place like Mad Mechanics, it’s never just a routine visit. It’s the kind of moment that either rewrites the rulebook… or sets it on fire. And truth be told, nobody knew whether we were about to get certified or shut down in a blaze of glory.”

2. The Great Violation Round-Up

   Five minutes into the inspection, Merle Standridge had already filled two pages of his clipboard with violations. The man had eyes like a hawk and the regulatory knowledge of someone who’d memorized the federal code for fun.

Violation #1: Weldin’ in flip-flops (Reedus, who claimed his feet needed to “breathe while creatin’ art”).

Violation #2: Brake fluid stored in Gatorade bottles (Gutglor’s “sports drinks” for when regular moonshine wasn’t hydratin’ enough).

Violation #3: Raccoon nestin’ in the parts bin (Carl, their unofficial mascot, who’d been livin’ rent-free in a box of alternator brushes).

Violation #4: Eye-wash station consistin’ of a Super Soaker zip-tied to a coat rack (Gary’s innovation for “emergency eye irrigation”).

Violation #5: Axl designated as “Safety Officer” while wearin’ a vest that read “BITE FIRST, ASK QUESTIONS LATER.”

   That’s when Axl decided to demonstrate his “safety inspection” technique by enthusiastically mountin’ Inspector Standridge’s leg with the determination of a dog who’d found his life’s callin’. Merle tried to maintain his professional composure while frantically shakin’ his leg and attemptin’ to continue his documentation.
      “Sir,” Merle said through gritted teeth, “your… safety officer… appears to be… inspectin’ me very thoroughly.”
    “That’s just Axl’s way of showin’ approval,” Chester explained weakly. “He only does that to folks he really likes.”
       “GET HIM OFF!” Merle yelped, his clipboard flailin’ wildly as Axl doubled down on his affection display.
   Professor Thibodaux whispered urgently to Gary, “Give me two minutes and access to a printer, I can forge twelve years’ worth of safety trainin’ certificates.”
   Gary responded by immediately sprinkrin’ red Kool-Aid powder on the floor as makeshift hazard lines, figurin’ that any kind of markin’ was better than no markin’ at all.
   Merle scribbled notes like a man possessed by the spirit of workplace safety. Every time his pen hit paper, somethin’ somewhere in the shop would short out, spark dangerously, or clang ominously. It was like the buildin’ itself was confessin’ its sins.
       “Gentlemen,” Merle announced, his voice carryin’ the authority of someone who’d shut down better shops than this, “I been inspectin’ automotive facilities for fifteen years, and this…” He gestured broadly at the controlled chaos around him. “This defies every regulation in the book.”
     “We prefer to think of it as ‘creative compliance,’” Chester offered weakly, stubbin’ out his cigarette and lighting another on what he hoped wasn’t a fire hazard.
       “Ain’t no such thing as creative compliance!” Merle snapped, makin’ another note. “There’s compliance and there’s federal fines that’ll make your grandchildren poor!”
   Reedus, still balanced precariously on his milk crate, called out cheerfully, “Hey Inspector, you wanna see our emergency evacuation plan? It’s written on the back of a Waffle House napkin!”
       “DON’T SHOW HIM THE NAPKIN!” Gary hissed, but it was too late. Merle was already marchin’ over to examine their “emergency procedures,” which consisted of a hand-drawn map featurin’ stick figures runnin’ toward what appeared to be a beer cooler.
    
Intermission: “Let me pause for a moment and point out… when federal inspectors begin scrutinizing your so-called emergency evacuation plan, the one scribbled in crayon on the back of a sandwich wrapper during a lunch break, you’ve officially crossed into territory where professionalism is a myth and citations breed like gremlins after midnight.”

3. Enter: Bearing Grease Moonshine™

   That’s when Gutglor made his move. The man had a grin slicker than spilt oil on asphalt and the confidence of someone who’d been talkin’ his way out of trouble since before WiFi. He sidled up to Inspector Standridge with a mason jar filled with what appeared to be liquid crystal… clear as mountain water but probably twice as dangerous.
       “Inspector,” Gutglor drawled, offerin’ the jar with the ceremonial dignity of a communion service, “you look mighty thirsty after all that hard work. This here’s strictly for… ‘hydration.’”
   Merle Standridge straightened his high-vis vest and assumed his most official posture. “Alcohol on the premises is a direct violation of federal workplace safety standards under—”
       “Section 29 CFR 1910,” Gutglor interrupted, already clinkin’ his own jar against Merle’s, “Thou shalt not refuse Southern hospitality when offered in the spirit of interstate commerce and cultural exchange.”
     “That ain’t a real regulation,” Merle protested, but his hand was already acceptin’ the jar.
       “Course it is,” Gutglor replied with absolute conviction. “It’s right there in the appendix, subsection ‘When in Rome, do as Romans do’ Besides, this here’s my special Bearing Grease Moonshine™ – aged in transmission cases and filtered through premium shop rags. Quality control requires professional tastin’.”
   Two gulps later, Merle’s clipboard started to tip at an interestin’ angle. Three jars in, and he was discussin’ the merits of left-handed torque wrenches and whether metric threads was a communist conspiracy. Five jars deep, and Inspector Merle Standridge was huggin’ Carl the raccoon like they was long-lost fishin’ buddies.
       “You know,” Merle slurred, now wearin’ his hard hat backwards and usin’ his clipboard as a makeshift guitar, “this establishment has… character. Real American character.”
     “That’s the spirit!” Gutglor encouraged, refillin’ both their jars. “Nothin’ says workplace safety like proper team morale!”
   Chester watched this transformation with the fascination of a man witnessin’ a miracle. In the span of thirty minutes, Gutglor had turned a federal safety inspector into a karaoke enthusiast who was now attemptin’ to sing “Achy Breaky Heart” to the parts washer.

4. The Midnight Relocation Plan

   While Inspector Standridge continued his concert for an audience of automotive equipment, Carl the raccoon had been conductin’ his own inspection of Merle’s briefcase. With the stealth of a master thief and the curiosity of a creature who considered anything shiny to be personally his, Carl managed to extract Merle’s official OSHA compliance stamp, a brass beauty that looked like it could authorize just about anything.
       “Has anyone seen my—” Merle began, then noticed Carl sittin’ on top of the parts washer, turnin’ the stamp over in his tiny paws like he was examinin’ a precious gem. “That raccoon done stole my federal authorization stamp!”
     “Carl’s just quality-testin’ your equipment,” Gutglor assured him, refillin’ both their jars. “He’s got excellent standards when it comes to federal hardware.”
   Carl chittered happily and disappeared into the rafters with his shiny prize, apparently plannin’ to add it to his collection of automotive treasures that included three socket wrenches, a timin’ light, and what appeared to be somebody’s lost weddin’ ring.
   Reedus hatched what he called “Operation Regulatory Relocation” – a plan so audacious it bordered on criminal brilliance.
       “Listen up, boys,” Reedus whispered, gatherin’ the crew in a huddle near the tire machine. “Here’s what we’re fixin’ to do:

Step 1: Strap Merle… hard hat and all… into the passenger seat of Gutglor’s Javelin.

Step 2: Haul him three counties east to Cousin Clint’s Auto Clinic in Huntsville, a place so spotless and OSHA-compliant it makes surgical suites look dirty.

Step 3: Phone Merle’s boss from there tomorrow mornin’ and let her witness what appears to be a “model workplace inspection.”

   The Professor adjusted his spectacles with the nervous energy of a man whose academic ethics was about to be thoroughly compromised. “That ain’t just unethical—that’s kidnappin’, fraud, and probably several other federal crimes I can’t even pronounce right.”
       “So’s usin’ spark plugs as bottle openers,” Gutglor replied philosophically, “yet here we are, livin’ our best lives.”
     “Plus,” Reedus added with enthusiasm, “think of it as an educational field trip! Merle gets to see what real compliance looks like, and we get to avoid federal bankruptcy!”
   Chester looked around at his crew—Gary chain-smokin’ like the world was endin’, the Professor calculatin’ the statistical probability of their imprisonment, Gutglor already loadin’ more moonshine into the Javelin, and Reedus grinnin’ like a man who’d just invented fire.
       “Boys,” Chester announced, makin’ a decision that would either save Mad Mechanics or destroy it completely, “sometimes you gotta take risks to protect what you love. Load up the inspector.”
   By 11 p.m., the AMC Javelin—now sportin’ a hastily made “TEST DRIVE: DO NOT ARREST” sign zip-tied to the rear window—was blazin’ down Highway 72 with Inspector Merle Standridge slumped in the passenger seat like a drunk bobblehead, still hummin’ “Safety Dance” and occasionally high-fivin’ his visor.
   Gutglor drove like a man on a mission, while Gary rode in the back seat to ensure their cargo remained secure and properly hydrated with additional samples of “compliance enhancement fluid.”

Intermission: “I should probably pause here to mention that when a group of mechanics decides it’s necessary to detain a federal inspector ‘for their own protection,’ you’re either witnessing an unusually hands-on approach to customer service or the early stages of a federal offense. In the case of the Mad Mechanics, it was almost always both.”

5. Showtime at Clint’s Clinic

   Cousin Clint met ’em in the parkin’ lot at 6 a.m., wearin’ a pressed jumpsuit that looked like it had been ironed by angels and a smile that suggested he’d been expectin’ this kind of emergency his entire life. His auto clinic gleamed under LED panels that could’ve illuminated Toyota Field in Madison, with torque wrenches hangin’ in alphabetical order and a first-aid kit bigger than most folks’ tool chests. Even the air smelled like lemon Pledge and upward mobility.
       “Y’all done got yourselves in a pickle, didn’t ya?” Clint observed, helpin’ them extract Inspector Standridge from the Javelin.
     “More like a federal relish,” Chester replied, proppin’ Merle against a spotless Snap-On toolbox that probably cost more than most folks’ cars.
   They slapped a fresh cup of coffee in Merle’s hand, straightened his high-vis vest, and positioned him strategically near a display of safety equipment that looked like it hadn’t ever been used. When Merle’s boss rolled into the parkin’ lot, a sharp-eyed regional director named Claudia Candlewood drivin’ a government sedan that gleamed like justice itself, the stage was perfectly set.
      “Well, I’ll be Sonny DiChiara,” the Professor whispered, his face goin’ pale as communion wafers. “That’s Claudia Martindale… I mean, Candlewood. We dated back in college.”
    “Dated or engaged?” Gary asked, sensin’ drama.
      “Both,” the Professor admitted. “I might could’ve forgotten to call her back after graduation.”
   Claudia Candlewood stepped out of her sedan like someone who’d spent her career makin’ grown men nervous about workplace safety. She was the kind of woman who could spot an OSHA violation from across I65 three buildings back.
       “Merle,” she called out briskly, “status report on the Mad Mechanics inspection.”
   Merle, still slightly pickled but now propped up by caffeine and 5 hour energy supplements, blinked owlishly at the spotless facility surroundin’ him. “Ma’am, this facility…” He gestured broadly at color-coded spill kits he’d never seen before. “This here’s textbook. 100% compliance. Hell, I might could nominate ’em for the Governor’s Safety Excellence Ribbon.”
   Claudia’s sharp eyes swept the immaculate shop, takin’ in the perfectly organized tool displays, the pristine floor markin’s, and the emergency equipment that looked like it had been installed by folks who actually read the instruction manuals.
   That’s when she spotted Professor Thibodaux tryin’ to hide behind a hydraulic lift.
       “Professor Eugene Thibodaux,” she said, her voice carryin’ the kind of authority that made federal regulations seem like gentle suggestions. “We need to have ourselves a conversation about why you never returned my calls.”
     “Claudia,” the Professor replied weakly, emergin’ from his hidin’ spot like a man facin’ his academic judgment day. “You look… professionally successful.”
       “Fifteen years, Eugene. Fifteen years of wonderin’ what happened to the man who promised to revolutionize automotive education with me.”
   While Merle enthusiastically showcased safety equipment he’d apparently discovered for the first time, Claudia and the Professor whispered like high school sweethearts in a laboratory supply catalog. Paperwork got stamped with official authority, photographs was taken for the regional compliance database, and Merle received a gold star sticker that he later tried to peel off and eat durin’ a moment of continued confusion.
      “Ma’am,” Merle announced proudly, “this Mad Mechanics operation represents the finest example of workplace safety I done encountered in my career. They oughta be teachin’ classes based on their procedures.”
   Claudia smiled at the Professor with the warmth of someone who’d just solved a mystery. “Eugene, would you be interested in consultin’ on our new automotive safety education initiative? We could use someone with your… practical experience.”
     “I’d be right honored,” the Professor replied, his voice slightly shaky with either fear or renewed romance.

6. The Mornin’ After (and the Invoice)

   Sunrise over Buzzard Roost found the AMC Javelin skiddin’ back into the Mad Mechanics yard like a rocket returnin’ from orbit. As they helped extract Inspector Merle Standridge from the passenger seat, Gary discovered a crumpled note wedged between the seat cushions, written in Merle’s shaky handwritin’:
  
“I was here. This was OSHA hell. The moonshine was excellent. Also, Carl is my son now. Please tell him I’ll send birthday presents.
-Inspector M. Standridge, Federal Compliance Survivor”

       “Well,” Chester observed, readin’ the note over Gary’s shoulder, “I reckon we made ourselves an impression.”
   Inspector Merle Standridge, his head poundin’ like an impact gun on a rusted bolt, blinked at the familiar scrapyard kingdom that definitely wasn’t the pristine facility he remembered inspectin’.
       “…This ain’t Clint’s,” Merle observed, his voice carryin’ the confusion of a man whose reality had been thoroughly rearranged by Bearing Grease Moonshine™.
     “Budget cuts,” Reedus replied with deadpan sincerity, still wearin’ his “Travis Scott” t-shirt and somehow managin’ to look official. “Government done teleported us back to our original location, sir. New efficiency initiative.”
   Merle clutched his signed compliance certificate like a life preserver. “But I… passed y’all?”
       “And we’re mighty proud of you for it,” Chester assured him, lightin’ up a fresh Camel Non-Filter. “That certificate represents the finest federal inspection work we ever done witnessed.”
   Just then, the Professor walked out of the shop arm-in-arm with Claudia Candlewood, both of ’em lookin’ like teenagers who’d just discovered they still liked each other after all these years.
       “Eugene’s agreed to help develop our new safety trainin’ program,” Claudia announced, smilin’ at the assembled Mad Mechanics crew. “We’ll be workin’ very closely together.”
   She winked at the boys, climbed into her government sedan, and drove away with the Professor followin’ in his ’82 Chevette, apparently headin’ for a lunch date at the Piggly Wiggly buffet that would determine the next fifteen years of their lives.
   Merle decided it was far too early in the mornin’ to question the metaphysics of federal inspections, teleportation, or why his clipboard now seemed to be missin’ several pages. He climbed into his Ford Escape—which had mysteriously acquired flame decals and a “SAFETY THIRD” bumper sticker sometime durin’ the night—and rattled off down the gravel drive with certificates flutterin’ from his windows.
       “Boys,” Chester announced, watchin’ the dust settle, “I do believe we just witnessed either the finest example of customer service in federal inspection history or the most elaborate con job since somebody sold the Brooklyn Bridge.”
     “Probably both,” Chester replied, lightin’ his cigarette.

7. Epilogue: Back to Normal (More or Less)

   The forged trainin’ certificates that the Professor had hastily printed before his romantic departure melted into illegible smears when Axl knocked over the kerosene heater durin’ his mornin’ patrol of the shop perimeter.
   Carl the raccoon dragged what remained of Merle’s clipboard into the rafters, apparently plannin’ to use the federal paperwork as premium nestin’ material for the upcomin’ winter season. His new OSHA compliance stamp made a satisfyin’ *thunk* sound every time he used it to mark his territory on various shop surfaces.
   Gutglor immediately began bottlin’ a “Limited Edition OSHAcalypse Moonshine” with a hand-drawn label that read “Guaranteed to Lower Standards and Raise Spirits – Federal Inspector Approved!”
   Chester ceremoniously taped Merle’s gold star sticker above the office door. Whenever anybody walks underneath it, somethin’ in the shop explodes, shorts out, or catches fire – but now it’s officially compliant explosion, so everybody feels better about it.
   Reedus celebrated by creatin’ a new shop safety motto: “If OSHA can’t see it, it ain’t a violation!” He painted this wisdom on the side of the buildin’ in letters tall enough to be seen from space.
   Gary established a new workplace safety protocol that consisted entirely of makin’ sure Gutglor’s moonshine supply remained fully stocked for future “compliance emergencies.”
   The shop’s clock radio crackled to life with Waylon Jennings singin’ “Are You Sure Hank Done It This Way,” which seemed like the perfect soundtrack for men who’d just proven that creativity, moonshine, and a well-timed romance could overcome even the most determined federal bureaucracy.

Waylon signin’ off: “Well folks, Buzzard Roost might not be the safest shop in Alabama by any stretch of a federal manual, but thanks to a perfectly timed moonshine bender and some creatively applied geography, it’s now the most compliant garage in the region—on paper, anyhow. So if OSHA ever comes knockin’ again, they’d best roll up with a designated driver, a cast-iron stomach, and maybe witness protection—’cause Gutglor’s already distillin’ his next batch of ‘Inspector Enhancement Fluid.’ And that right there is how Southern hospitality turns a federal audit into a compliance miracle—and one hell of a story.”