TumbleDweeeb

Mad Mechanics: The Hog Haulin’ Hellcat
Written by: Emmitt Owens
*As narrated by: Waylon*
Episode: 8

Waylon, Intro: “Well now, folks, settle in for a tale that’ll make you question everything you know about both personal protective equipment and the proper use of a seven-hundred and seventeen-horsepower muscle car. This here story takes place on one of them Alabama mornings when the air was thicker than Gutglor’s mater stems and twice as likely to catch fire.”

   Chester was underneath a 2002 Nissan Altima that had been held up by two tractor tires and an oil drum – which was about as safe as using a toothpick to prop up a piano – when the sound of squealing tires and actual squealing announced the arrival of their next customer.
   From the old clock radio balanced on a stack of used truck tires, Hank Williams III was growling out “Straight to Hell,” which seemed mighty appropriate for what was about to unfold. Chester rolled out from under that Altima, cigarette dangling from his lips like it was permanently attached, and squinted through a cloud of smoke at the spectacle pulling into their yard.
       “Squawly” Perkins had arrived in style – if you defined style as a cherry-red 2020 Dodge Challenger Hellcat covered in mud, paw prints, and what appeared to be the remnants of several teenage misadventures, pulling a trailer full of squealing hogs that sounded like a gospel choir having an argument.
     “Chester!” Squawly hollered, climbing out of that muddy Hellcat like he was Bo Duke. “I got me a proposition that’s gonna test every ounce of mechanical ingenuity y’all claim to possess!”
   Gary looked up from the carburetor he was rebuilding, cigarette  hanging from his bottom lip and another one tucked behind his ear for later. “What you need, Squawly?”
       “Well,” Squawly drawled, patting the hood of that pristine Hellcat like it was a prize bull, “my boy decided this here muscle car was perfect for impressing girls and outrunning the sheriff. Cost me near sixty thousand dollars and three nights in the county jail to get him out of trouble.”
   Chester took a long drag from his cigarette, blowing smoke that could’ve choked a mule. “So you want us to fix whatever he broke?”
     “Nope,” Squawly grinned. “I want y’all to turn this seven-hundred and seventeen-horsepower demon into a pig taxi.”
   The shop fell silent except for the sound of Gary’s beer can slipping from his fingers and clanking against the concrete floor with a hollow *thunk*.
       “Come again?” Chester asked, his own cigarette nearly falling out from shock.
     “You heard me right. I need a way to transport my prized hogs to the Slaughter Pen Road Livestock Auction, and this here Hellcat’s the fastest thing I own. Figure if I’m gonna haul pigs, might as well do it in style.”

Intermission: “Now folks, let me pause here to tell you that when a man decides to turn a sixty-thousand-dollar muscle car into livestock transportation, you’re either dealing with genius or insanity – and with Squawly Perkins, it was usually both at the same time”.

   Professor Thibodaux looked up from his notebook, adjusting his spectacles like he was trying to focus on something that defied the laws of physics and common sense. “Sir, are you suggesting we modify a high-performance vehicle … designed for quarter-mile acceleration into … an agricultural transportation vee-hicle?”
       “Precisely!” Squawly declared. “And I want it done by Saturday so I can make the weekend auction.”
   Reedus’s eyes lit up like he’d just discovered buried treasure. “Boys. Boys. Boys, this is what I call thinking outside the pen! We’re gonna turn this beauty into the fastest pig transport southwest of the Tennessee Valley! This project’s really gonna bring home the bacon!”
     “Oh Lord,” Gary muttered, lighting up another Buzzard Dust cigarette. “Here we go with the pig puns.”
       “Can’t help it!” Reedus cackled. “This whole idea’s got me hogging all the best ideas! We’re really gonna make this car squeal!”
   Chester walked around that Hellcat like a doctor examining a patient, his cigarette leaving a trail of smoke that looked like automotive incense. “Squawly, you realize we’re talkin’ about gutting a sixty-thousand-dollar muscle car to haul livestock?”
       “Already paid sixty thousand for teenage stupidity,” Squawly replied. “Might as well get some practical use out of it. Could you not smoke around me, 2nd hand smoke causes cancer too, ya’know.”
   Gary took a long drag from his cigarette, blowing smoke through his nose like a mechanical dragon. “I smoke three packs of these damn things a day,” he said. “I’m a mechanic – we either have a cigarette in our mouths or booze in our hands with every project we work on.”
     “That’s the spirit!” Gutglor declared, appearing from the back of the shop with a jug of his moonshine and what appeared to be banjo. “I ain’t no wussy mechanic – I can drink, smoke, and work on a truck simultaneously!”
   The Professor was frantically calculating something in his notebook. “Gentlemen, the modifications required would involve significant structural alterations to a vehicle designed for maximum performance. We’d need to consider weight distribution, ventilation, containment systems…”
       “What the Professor’s trying to say,” Chester translated, “is that we’re about to turn a race car into a pig pen on wheels.”
     “Exactly!” Squawly beamed. “Y’all up for the challenge?”
   Within an hour, they’d developed what could generously be called a “modification plan” but looked more like a blueprint for automotive chaos. Reedus had immediately suggested sawing the roof off and welding in a roll cage made from old trampoline frames he’d found behind the shop.
       “See, the beauty of using trampoline frames,” Reedus explained, firing up his torch, “is that they’re already designed to contain bouncing objects! Pigs bounce, trampolines contain – it’s perfect engineering!”
   The Professor was having what appeared to be a nervous breakdown. “That’s not how structural engineering works! Trampoline frames are designed for elastic deformation, not livestock containment!”
     “Details, details,” Reedus replied cheerfully, already cutting through the Hellcat’s roof with his plasma cutter.
   Meanwhile, Gutglor was constructing what he called a “hog ramp” out of a disassembled porch swing he’d acquired through mysterious means. The ramp looked like something that belonged on a pirate ship rather than a muscle car, but it was sturdy enough to support several hundred pounds of pork.
       “The trick to pig transportation,” Gutglor explained to Axl, who was supervising the construction with the intensity of a quality control inspector, “is making sure they feel comfortable and secure. Ain’t that right, boy?”
   Axl barked once, which everyone interpreted as agreement, though it might have been a request for a dog treat.
   Gary had chain-lit his fourth cigarette of the hour and was working on removing the rear seats, which came out easier than expected since teenage misadventures had already loosened most of the bolts. “These seats are comin’ out anyway,” he announced through a cloud of smoke. “Gonna replace ’em with hay bales.”
     “Hay bales?” Chester asked, taking a swift swing of his Michelob.
       “Course! Pigs like comfort, and hay’s more comfortable than leather. Plus, if they make a mess, we just throw out the hay instead of cleaning upholstery.”
   The Professor was designing something that looked like a cross between a Rube Goldberg machine and a medieval torture device. “I’m creating a slop-feeding system using a Keurig coffee maker and a pressure washer,” he announced proudly.
     “A what now?” Squawly asked.
       “Well, pigs need to eat during transport, so I’ve modified a single-serve coffee maker to dispense liquid feed through a pressure washer system. It’s completely automated and calibrated for optimal nutritional delivery.”
   Gutglor squinted at the Professor’s contraption. “Wouldn’t it be easier to just throw some corn in with ’em?”
       “Where’s the science in that?” the Professor protested.

Intermission: “Y’all, I gotta stop right here and say that when a college-educated man starts building pig-feeding robots out of coffee makers, you know you’ve entered a realm where logic goes to die and creativity runs wild.”

   The trunk modification was Gary’s masterpiece. He’d converted the entire cargo area into what he generously called a “slop reservoir” with gravity-fed PVC pipes and a garden hose nozzle for easy cleaning.
       “See, the beauty of this system,” Gary explained, blowing smoke through the PVC pipes to test for leaks, “is that it’s completely self-contained. Pigs make a mess, you just hose it out through the drain plug I installed in the floor.”
     “You put a drain plug in the floor of a Hellcat?” Chester asked in amazement.
       “Had to! Can’t have pig waste sloshing around in a sixty-thousand-dollar car. That’s just disrespectful to the engineering.”
   The cabin divider was Reedus’s stroke of inspiration – a plexiglass sneeze guard he’d “acquired” from a closed-down Golden Corral restaurant. It fit perfectly between the front and back seats, creating a barrier that would keep the pigs contained while still allowing visibility.
     “Found this beauty in the dumpster behind that buffet place,” Reedus announced proudly. “One man’s trash is another man’s pig barrier!”
       “That’s disgusting,” the Professor observed.
     “That’s resourceful,” Reedus corrected. “Plus, I cleaned it real good with some of Gutglor’s moonshine. That stuff’ll sterilize anything.”
   But Reedus’s crowning achievement was the installation of a special side mirror positioned specifically for the pigs. “See, I figure if they’re gonna ride in style, they ought to be able to see themselves coming into town like royalty,” he explained, adjusting the mirror angle.
       “You gave the pigs their own mirror?” Gary asked, lighting his sixth cigarette of the morning.
     “Course I did! Every passenger deserves to check their appearance.”

Intermission: “Now I need to interrupt this tale to remind y’all that when grown men start installing vanity mirrors for livestock, you’re witnessing either the pinnacle of customer service or the complete breakdown of human reason.”

   By Thursday afternoon, the Hog Haulin’ Hellcat was ready for its first test run. The cherry-red muscle car now sported a roll cage made from trampoline frames, hay bale seating, a plexiglass sneeze guard, a porch swing loading ramp, and enough PVC plumbing to drain an outhouse.
       “She’s beautiful,” Squawly declared, loading three of his prized hogs into the back of his former teenage punishment mobile.
   The first test drive started out promising. The Hellcat’s 717-horsepower supercharged V8 purred like a mechanical mountain lion, and the pigs seemed comfortable in their hay bale accommodations. Chester took the wheel, Gary rode shotgun with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, and Squawly sat in the back keeping an eye on his livestock.
   Everything was going smoothly until they reached the first stop sign. Chester hit the brakes, and the pigs – not being familiar with the concept of deceleration – slammed into the front of their cage with enough force to launch the entire car forward like a pork-powered rocket.
       “HOLD ON!” Chester yelled as the Hellcat shot through the intersection, across Highway 13, through Farmer Johnson’s cornfield, and into the mud pit behind the VFW hall with a splash that could be heard in three counties.
   When the mud settled, they found themselves axle-deep in Alabama clay with three very unhappy pigs and one very unhappy pig farmer.
     “Well,” Gary observed, lighting up another cigarette while sitting in a mud-covered muscle car, “that could’ve gone better.”
   The extraction took two hours, a tow truck, and most of Gutglor’s moonshine “shop” supply for shock therapy. But Saturday morning arrived, and the Slaughter Pen Road Livestock Auction waited for no man – or hawg.
      “Boys,” Chester announced, “we got a delivery to make.”
   The trip to the auction was like something out of a fever dream. Chester drove with the concentration of a man balancing nitroglycerin, Gary chain-smoked his cigarettes and provided color commentary, and Gutglor rode in the back with the pigs, playing banjo to keep them calm.
     “The secret to pig transportation,” Gutglor explained to his captive audience, “is maintaining a steady rhythm. Pigs appreciate good music.”
   The pigs seemed to agree, swaying gently to Gutglor’s rendition of Doc Watsons “The Cuckoo” while watching themselves in their special mirror.
   Highway 13 presented its own challenges. They dodged potholes that could’ve swallowed a small car, duck hunters who were shooting at anything that moved, and one particularly confused cow that had wandered into the middle of the road and seemed determined to challenge the Hellcat to a race.
      “Go around!” Gary yelled, cigarette dangling from his lips.
     “I’m trying!” Chester replied, downshifting and hitting the gas.
   The Hellcat responded like it was born for this moment, roaring around that cow with enough horsepower to impress even the most jaded farm animal. The pigs squealed with what sounded suspiciously like joy, and Gutglor’s banjo playing reached new heights of agricultural inspiration.
   They arrived at the Slaughter Pen Road Livestock Auction in a cloud of tire smoke, engine noise, and the sweet sound of Gutglor’s banjo. The crowd of farmers and livestock dealers fell silent as the cherry-red Hellcat screeched to a stop, back tires still smoking and pig snouts sticking out through the side vents.
       “Well,” the auctioneer announced over his microphone, “that’s a first.”
   Squawly climbed out of his pig taxi with the dignity of a man who’d just arrived at a formal dinner in a race car. “Gentlemen, I present my prized hogs, delivered in style and comfort.”
   The pigs disembarked down their porch swing ramp like they were walking a red carpet, checking their appearance one last time in their special mirror before joining the other livestock.
      “That,” observed one farmer, “is the fanciest pig transport I ever did see.”
     “She’s fast too,” Squawly replied proudly. “Zero to sixty in three-point-six seconds, even with a full load of pork.”
   As the auction got underway, the boys from Mad Mechanics stood around their creation, admiring what they’d accomplished. The Hog Haulin’ Hellcat sat there gleaming in the morning sun, looking like exactly what it was – a sixty-thousand-dollar muscle car that had been turned into the world’s fastest pig taxi.
       “You know,” Chester said, lighting up another cigarette, “we might’ve just invented a whole new category of automotive modification.”
     “Agricultural performance vehicles,” the Professor agreed, making notes in his book. “It’s a completely unexplored market segment.”
       “We really brought home the bacon on this one,” Reedus declared. “This project was the whole hog from start to finish!”
     “If you make one more pig pun,” Gary warned, exhaling smoke, “I’m gonna stuff you in that cage with the rest of the swine.”
       “Aw, don’t have a cow,” Reedus replied. “Though speaking of cows, we might want to consider bovine transportation next. I got some ideas for a cattle-hauling Camaro…”
   And so another successful day came to an end at Mad Mechanics, leaving behind one satisfied pig farmer, three content hogs, and the kind of automotive modification that would be talked about at livestock auctions for generations to come. The Hellcats sound system crackled to life with Jason Isbell singing “Alabama Pines,” which seemed like the perfect soundtrack for men who’d just proved that with enough determination, moonshine, and complete disregard for common sense, any vehicle could be improved.
      “Boys,” Squawly said, counting the money from his successful pig sale, “if y’all ever want to get into the livestock transportation business full-time, just let me know. I got a whole farm full of animals that need hauling.”
     “We’ll keep that in mind,” Chester replied, though he was already wondering what they’d do when word got out about their agricultural automotive services.
   As the sun set behind the pine trees and the last of the cigarette smoke drifted away on the evening breeze, another chapter in the Mad Mechanics saga came to a close, leaving behind the knowledge that sometimes the most ridiculous ideas work out better than anyone has a right to expect.

Outro: “Now that there, folks, is what I call a genuine success story. Sometimes the best way to solve a problem is to completely ignore how things are supposed to be done and just make it work with what you’ve got. And if you ever find yourself needing to transport livestock in a high-performance muscle car, well, you know where to find the boys at Mad Mechanics – just follow the sound of squealing tires and satisfied pigs.”