TumbleDweeeb

MAD MECHANICS™
Episode: Operation Sky Bucket
The Great Buzzard Roost UFO Incident
Written by: Emmitt Owens
As narrated by: Waylon

Waylon’s intro: “Well now, folks, settle in for a tale about the night two stoned mechanics accidentally became Buzzard Roost’s first extraterrestrial crisis. This here story proves that the best ideas happen when common sense has clocked out and Mater-Wanna’s clocked in.”

   They say weed and power tools don’t mix. But nobody ever told Reedus and Gutglor that particular piece of wisdom, and even if they had, those boys weren’t big on listening.
     It’s 9:47 PM on a Wednesday that should’ve stayed boring.
   Reedus and Gutglor were standing in Gutglor’s backyard workshop—out behind his tomato patch where he grew what he called “Mater-Wanna Weeds”—staring across the dark fields toward the distant lights of Pine Street where Bird King sat like a beacon of fried temptation.
     “Brother,” Reedus said, squinting through the darkness like a philosopher contemplating the universe, “we are WASTING perfectly good post-close chicken.”
   Gutglor took a long hit from his spliff—the one that smelled like tomatoes mixed with skunk spray—and nodded slowly. “Every single night, man. Prime poultry just sittin’ in that dumpster over on Pine Street, just beggin’ to be rescued.”
     A perfectly good Wednesday night in Buzzard Roost, Alabama, where the smartest thing to do was absolutely nothing.
   Naturally, they were about to do something.

Waylon Intermission: “Now folks, let me tell you about Gutglor’s horticultural and farming situation. The man ran a whole operation out there—tomato rows, vegetable gardens, pig pens, chicken coops, and a still that absolutely did exist despite what he told the county. But past all that legitimate agriculture, he’d got himself what he called “agricultural innovation.” It was a cannabis field, plain and simple. He’d crossbred it with his tomato plants through methods that would make both botanists and the DEA file competing lawsuits. The result was what he called “Mater-Wanna”—a hybrid that made you hungry, paranoid, and absolutely convinced you could solve engineering problems that don’t exist.”

   Tonight, it was doing all three at once.
     “What if…” Reedus said slowly, his eyes glazed—meaning he was either too stoned, a genius, or a catastrophe was brewing—“what if we never had to drive all the way over to Pine Street again?”
   Gutglor’s eyes widened like he had just discovered the concept of flight. “You mean like… aerial retrieval?”
     “I mean like we build ourselves a sky-net for nuggets. A chicken acquisition drone!”
   They stared at each other in the flickering light of Gutglor’s workshop—a ramshackle building that looked like a barn had mated with a meth lab and neither parent stuck around to raise the child. Somewhere in the back of their THC-soaked brains, a little voice whispered that this was a terrible idea.
     They ignored it completely.
   “CHESTER’S GONNA KILL US,” Gutglor announced, though he was already walking toward his collection of mechanical parts.
     “Only if he finds out,” Reedus replied, following.
   “He’s absolutely gonna find out.”
     “Yeah, but AFTER we succeed.”

Waylon Intermission: “Now y’all, what I’m about to describe happened entirely in Gutglor’s backyard workshop. Chester, Gary, and the Professor were blissfully unaware that two of their crew members were about to create Buzzard Roost’s first UFO incident using nothing but Costco fans and criminal enthusiasm.”

   What followed was two hours of what could generously be called “engineering” and what the FAA would call “federal charges waiting to happen.”
     Gutglor dragged out his fishing net—the one that still had a catfish skeleton tangled in the mesh—while Reedus located the two Costco box fans that had mysteriously disappeared from Chester’s “emergency cooling system” back at the shop.
   “Aerodynamic as a buttered frisbee!” Reedus declared, zip-tying the fans to the net with the enthusiasm of a man who’d never met a safety regulation he couldn’t ignore.
     Gutglor was already pulling the engine off his weed whacker—the very same weed whacker that was supposed to be trimming around his tomato plants. “We need a way to, like, GRAB the chicken, you know?” He hefted an old arcade machine claw he’d been saving for such an occasion, though he’d never quite known what that occasion would be.
   “What’s the weight capacity on that claw?” Reedus asked, examining the mechanism.
     Gutglor squinted at it thoughtfully. “Enough for a stuffed Pikachu in 1997, so probably fine for a family box of chicken.”
     The drone—and I use that term loosely—started to take shape in the yella glow of Gutglor’s workshop lights. It looked like if a mosquito and a ceiling fan had a baby and that baby was raised at Junkits Junkyard. They’d wired four Crapsman drill batteries together in a series that would make any electrician weep, secured everything with enough duct tape to patch a barn roof, and topped it off with a cooler lid that was “aerodynamic in theory.”
   The lime green paint job was Gutglor’s idea. He was spraying it on like a man who’d smoked too much Mater-Wanna in his own artistic vision.
     “Why lime green?” Reedus asked, stepping back to watch the paint job take shape.
   “Stealth,” Gutglor replied.
     “That is the exact opposite of stealth.”
   Gutglor took another hit from his spliff and grinned. “Stealth from EXPECTATIONS, brother. They’ll be lookin’ for black. We go loud, we go lime, we become invisible through audacity plus, it’s my favorite color.”
     Reedus stared at him for a long moment, his brain trying to process that logic through the fog of secondhand Mater-Weed smoke. “That makes sense.”
   By midnight, they’d completed their creation. The drone sat on a flatbed trailer, lime green and absolutely ridiculous, held together by zip ties, duct tape, moonshine-fuel, and several of Gary’s Torque wrenches that had gone missing from the shop a few months ago.
     They were out in the clearing behind Gutglor’s workshop when they fired it up for the first time. Gutglor clutched an Xbox controller held together with duct tape, paired to a cracked Samsung phone that looked like it had survived three tornadoes.
   “Controls are simple,” Gutglor explained, demonstrating with his thumbs. “Left stick for direction, right stick for altitude, trigger for the claw.”
     “You wired an Xbox controller and cell phone to a weed whacker engine?” Reedus asked, impressed.
   “Bluetooth, baby. The future is NOW.”
     “The future is a felony.”
   “Semantics,” Gutglor replied, and thumbed the controller.
     The drone shuddered to life with a whine sounding like a dentist’s drill having an anxiety attack. It lurched into the air, wobbling like a drunk moth, climbing unsteadily up past the workshop roof, above the tomato patch, higher than anything made from Costco fans had any right to go.
   “IT’S FLYING!” Reedus shouted.
     “IT’S FLYING!” Gutglor echoed, his face splitting into a grin of pure mechanical triumph.
   Then, unable to help himself, Reedus threw his head back and bellowed to the heavens:
     “It’s alive! It’s—”
   The drone immediately listed sideways like a drunk pelican, fans chopping the air sounding suspiciously like someone beatboxing into a box fan. Gutglor panicked, adjusting the left stick. The drone jerked too far right, overshot, and began drifting directly toward County Line Road.
     “Okay, minor calibration issue—” Gutglor muttered, trying to correct.
   The drone wobbled over the road just as a state trooper’s cruiser rolled past on his nightly patrol. In his excitement, Gutglor’s thumb slipped and hit the claw trigger.
     The arcade claw released.
   A bucket—full of test bolts they’d loaded for “weight simulation”—dropped directly onto the trooper’s hood with a sound like God slamming a door.
     The cruiser’s lights whooped to life. The trooper got out, looked up — looked down — looked up again — like he was waiting for the sky to apologize for throwing trash at him.
   “Dispatch,” they heard him say into his radio, his voice drifting across the field, “I’m gonna need you to put down ‘falling debris, possible UFO’ in the log. Also… might’ve been a miracle. Unclear.”
     Reedus and Gutglor were already lying flat in the tomato patch, trying not to breathe, covered in dirt and Mater-Wanna leaves.
   “We are LEGENDS,” Gutglor whispered.
     “We are FELONS,” Reedus corrected.
   “Legendary felons.”
     The trooper kicked the bucket once with his boot, looked left, looked right, and then decided this was officially not his problem tonight. He climbed back into his cruiser, lights still spinning, and rolled away so fast he forgot to log the incident code.
   They didn’t move for a full ten minutes.
     Then Gutglor whispered the words every bad plan needs:
   “Let’s go get our drone back.”
     They army-crawled through tomatoes until they reached the backyard fence. Reedus peeked over it like a raccoon scoping an apple core.
   “Coast is clear.”
     They sprinted — which in their current state looked more like frantic waddling — across the patch, into the clearing where the drone had crash-landed nose-first into a patch of crabgrass.
   It was still twitching like it couldn’t decide whether to die or take flight again.
     Gutglor scooped it up. Wires dangled. One of the Costco fans spun lazily, as if drunk and offended by its own performance.
   “We gotta fix that alignment,” Reedus said, because priorities.
     “Brother, we gotta FIX EVERYTHING,” Gutglor replied.
   They heard the trooper’s cruiser crest the hill again.
     “MOVE.”
   They both bolted, tripping over tomato stakes, slapping away branches, banging the drone into every fence post on the way — until they dove into the workshop and slammed the door shut behind them.
     They stood there in the dark, panting, the drone buzzing softly in Reedus’s arms like a mechanical possum with asthma.
   “WE ARE GODS,” Gutglor whispered.
     Reedus nodded solemnly. “Very stupid gods.”
   “Brother,” Reedus said, still grinning like a possum who’d found a full dish of dog food, “we just proved this thing can fly AND deliver. Time to go operational.”
     He grabbed a pizza box and started scrawling their mission plan with a Sharpie that was mostly dried out:

1. Target: Bird King dumpster + delivery trucks (PINE STREET)
2. Approach: Low and slow
3. Extraction: Claw grabs box, lifts, delivers to workshop
4. Rule #1: Do NOT grab live chickens
5. Rule #2: See Rule #1

   “What if it grabs a live chicken?” Reedus asked, suddenly concerned.
     “Then we adapt,” Gutglor replied, loading fresh batteries into the controller.
   “And flee to Tennessee.”
     Axl wandered over and sat between them, apparently deciding this operation needed canine supervision. The dog watched them like a quality control inspector who’d seen too much.
   By 11:52 PM, they were ready for Mission One: the Bird King dumpster behind the restaurant on Pine Street.
     Gutglor climbed up onto his workshop roof for the best vantage point. Reedus positioned himself with binoculars. Axl sat between them, his tail wagging slowly like a metronome counting down to disaster.
   The drone lifted smooth this time—steadier, more confident. The weed whacker engine hummed like a hornet on a mission. It cleared the tree line, arced over the dark fields, and began its journey toward Pine Street where Bird King’s neon sign glowed like a beacon in the Alabama night.
     “I got visual on the target,” Gutglor announced, his tongue between his teeth as he concentrated on the controller. “Dumpster, twelve o’clock.”
   Through the binoculars, Reedus watched the lime green drone hover above the Bird King dumpster. The claw dropped, opened, grabbed—
     “CONTACT!” Reedus shouted. “WE HAVE CHICKEN!”
   A full box of chicken dangled from the claw. The drone lifted, the bag swaying like a pendulum. For a moment, it was beautiful—a lime green miracle of backyard engineering and poor decisions, carrying fried poultry through the night sky like some kind of redneck Santa Claus.
   Then the bag tore.
     Chicken rained down onto the VFW parking lot below—a good half-mile from Pine Street but directly under the drone’s flight path. Through the cell phone video feed, Reedus watched a man—Cooter, out for a smoke—look up just as a chicken thigh landed at his feet. Cooter stared at the sky. At the thigh. At the sky again.
   Even from one hundred feet up, Reedus could read his lips: “…Jesus?”
     “We got a witness situation,” Reedus announced.
   “ABORT! ABORT!” Gutglor yanked the stick hard. The drone shot sideways, dropped the bag entirely, and rocketed back toward Gutglor’s property with its fans screaming like a banshee with a power tool addiction.
   Axl barked twice—once for the successful chicken acquisition, once for the complete operational failure.
     By 12:14 AM, they were back in the workshop, with the radio turned on, listening to WDAR 96.6—Dead Air Radio. Axl had curled up near the space heater, apparently exhausted from all the supervising.
   Possum’s voice crackled through the speaker. “WDAR. You’re on the Branch. Tell me what part of your life fell apart tonight.”
     Then came Cooter’s voice, breathless and urgent. “Possum. This is Cooter from over by the VFW. I just seen a spaceship over Buzzard Roost.”
   Reedus and Gutglor locked eyes.
     “We’re on the RADIO,” Reedus whispered.
   “We’re FAMOUS,” Gutglor replied, his eyes wide.
     They listened as Cooter described the light—white in the middle, green on the edges—the movement like a skipped stone, the chicken drop that was “hot, Possum, FRESH DROP HOT.”
   “You’re telling me,” Possum said carefully, “that a vehicle not of this world entered our airspace and delivered poultry?”
     Gutglor’s eyes started tearing up. “He thinks we’re ALIENS.”
   “We’re not aliens, we’re innovators,” Reedus corrected, though his voice was thick with emotion too.
     But they were hooked now. The town thought it was a UFO. The radio was treating it like first contact. They weren’t just stealing chicken anymore—they were accidentally creating MYTHOLOGY.
   Gutglor stood up with sudden purpose, nearly knocking over his jar of moonshine. “We gotta do it again.”
     “Brother, YES.”
   “Think about it—every time we drop chicken, we’re not just feeding ourselves. We’re feeding the STORY. We’re like… Banksy. But with poultry.”
     “Poultry Banksy,” Reedus repeated, nodding solemnly.
   “Exactly! We’re artists, and the sky is our canvas, and fried chicken is our paint!”
     Reedus squinted at him. “That’s the Mater-Wanna talking.”
   “Doesn’t make it wrong.”
     They were back in the air by 12:41 AM. This time they were targeting a Bird King delivery truck parked outside Buzzard Roost High School on Pine Street for an early-morning drop.
   Gutglor had put electrical tape over the drone’s LEDs to dim them, which somehow made them glow MORE. The lime green craft approached low over the dark streets, its weed whacker engine purring like a mechanical hornet.
     “I see the truck,” Gutglor announced, adjusting his grip on the controller. “Approaching from the south.”
     “Any witnesses?” Reedus asked, scanning the area with his binoculars.
   “Bread truck,” Reedus said, squinting through the binoculars. “Looks like… Bunjee McBride’s rig.”
     Gutglor tapped his cracked Samsung screen, zooming the feed from the drone’s underbelly camera — a view shakier than a squirrel on cough syrup.
   “Yep,” he confirmed. “That’s ol’ Bunjee. Truck’s parked behind the high school. Same bun-logo hat…”
     “The guy who talks to his bread?”
   “Everyone’s got a thing,” Gutglor replied philosophically.
     The drone hovered above the Bird King truck. The claw extended with precision. Gutglor had the steadiest hands he’d had all night—probably because the Mater-Wanna was wearing off and the adrenaline was kicking in.
   The claw grabbed a box. A FULL box. Sealed. Beautiful.
     “WE ARE GODS,” Gutglor declared.
   The drone lifted—
     —and the weed whacker engine coughed.
   “What was that?” Reedus asked, lowering his binoculars.
     Gutglor stared at the controller, his face going pale in the workshop light. “Battery indicator’s blinking.”
   “How much time we got?”
     “Define ‘time.’”
   The drone started to wobble. The box swung like a pendulum beneath it. Gutglor tried to compensate, overcorrected, and the drone did a full barrel roll with the box still attached.
     Through the binoculars, Reedus watched Bunjee McBride look up at the lime-green aircraft doing aerial gymnastics above him. Even from a distance, he could see Bunjee make the sign of the cross.
   The drone righted itself, engine whining in protest, and limped back toward Gutglor’s property trailing smoke and the smell of burning weed whacker parts.
     They were almost home when the battery died completely.
   The drone dropped like a stone from the sky.
     Hit a road sign with a metallic CLANG.
   BOUNCED.
     And because physics had officially given up on this whole operation, it shot UPWARD at a forty-five degree angle, box still clutched in its claw, before disappearing over the tree line toward Slaughter Pen Road.
   Both men stared at the empty sky where their creation had been.
     “Did that just—” Reedus started.
   “Yep,” Gutglor confirmed.
     Axl lifted his head, howled once at the moon, and went back to sleep.
   From Gutglor’s radio, still tuned to WDAR, Possum’s voice cut through the silence. “Something just shot straight up. I don’t mean up like a helicopter. I mean UP.”
     They looked at each other in the flickering workshop light.
   “We broke physics,” Gutglor whispered.
     “We broke REALITY,” Reedus corrected.
   By 1:47 AM, they’d been listening to WDAR for an hour. Every caller had a story. Todd from the logging road. A rapper pushing a pickle cart. Ms. Speegle pledging allegiance to what she called “extraterrestrial poultry overlords.”
     The entire town was convinced.
   “Should we tell ’em?” Reedus asked, nursing his third beer of the hour.
     “Absolutely not,” Gutglor replied firmly.
   “But like… we created something BEAUTIFUL. We united the town in wonder.”
     “We created a FAA violation and a public panic.”
   “Semantics,” Reedus muttered.
     Then Possum’s voice cut through again, more serious now. “I saw something. It moved like nothing with a tail number.”
   The two of them went quiet. Even Axl lifted his head, sensing the shift in mood.
     “He saw us,” Gutglor said softly.
   Not us — but he saw the drone and the chicken. The idea of a UFO. The thing they’d accidentally built that was bigger than fans and duct tape. A moment where a whole town looked up at the same time and wondered if the universe was paying attention.
     Gutglor took a long drink straight from his moonshine jug.
   “We just turned a chicken heist into a religious experience,” he said finally.
     “We’re gonna need that on a T-shirt,” Reedus replied.
   Axl yawned, curled up tighter, and went back to sleep. His work here was done.
     By 7:23 AM, the sun was coming up over Gutglor’s field. Reedus and Gutglor stood staring up at a tree near the WDAR tower—about a mile from the workshop.
   The drone was lodged thirty feet up, one wheel caught in the branches, still holding a single drumstick in its claw. The lime green paint glinted in the morning sun. The LEDs blinked weakly, like a dying lightning bug sending out one last signal.
     “How high is that?” Gutglor asked, shielding his eyes.
   “Thirty feet,” Reedus estimated.
     “How high were WE?”
   “Also thirty feet.”
     They stared up at the mess high in the branches — lime-green prop arms mangled, a single fried drumstick still clutched triumphantly like a battle trophy.
   No sirens.
     No neighbors.
       No one had seen a thing.
   Just Reedus and Gutglor, hearts pounding, waiting for consequences…
and instead getting silence.
     The universe had looked down at their creation… and shrugged.
   Gutglor wiped tomato dirt off his face.
“Did we just… start a UFO thing?”
     Reedus grinned slowly, pride overtaking panic.
“Nah. We started a legend.”
   Gutglor considered that, nodded.
“A legendary pantheon?”
     “Damn right,” Reedus said. “Gods of the Fried Chicken Sky Drop.”
   And somewhere in Buzzard Roost, folks were already telling stories — about strange lights over Slaughter Pen Road… and crispy miracles raining from heaven.
     They stood beneath the tree a moment longer — two mud-covered idiots witnessing the birth of a phenomenon.
   Across Buzzard Roost, porch lights flicked on.
Dogs barked at the sky.
     A couple of folks peeked out their windows and swore they’d seen a “hoverin’ chicken angel.”
   By sunrise, nobody had proof.
     Nobody saw the drone.
       But everybody had a story.
   “UFO over Slaughter Pen Road.”
     “Lights and a bucket—raining poultry blessings.”
   “Government chickens — genetically flavored.”
     Reedus and Gutglor slipped home like shadows, hearts pounding with the terror that comes right after accidental greatness.
   And that’s how a late-night snack run became the Buzzard Roost UFO Incident.
     Chester arrived at Mad Mechanics at 8:15 AM to find Gary already there, staring at his phone like he just discovered his friends were certifiably insane.
   “You listening to the radio last night?” Gary asked without looking up.
     “Nope. Why?” Chester replied, unlocking the shop door.
   “Whole town thinks aliens dropped fried chicken on ’em.”
     Chester stopped, turned, and stared at Gary. He pulled out a Buzzard Dust cigarette and lit it slowly. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
   The Professor walked in just then, already consulting his notebook like it was the morning paper. “Actually, the reports are quite detailed. Multiple independent witnesses describe a lime-green craft with erratic movement patterns consistent with—”
     The shop door burst open with a bang that made all three men jump.
   Reedus and Gutglor stumbled in, covered in morning dew, tomato plant residue, and smelling strongly of Mater-Wanna smoke and beer. They had the glazed, exhausted look of men who’d spent the night doing something they probably shouldn’t have but absolutely would again.
     “Where the hell y’all been?” Chester demanded, cigarette dangling from his lips.
   Reedus grinned like a kid who found a cookie stash. “Making history.”
     Gary’s eyes narrowed. He noticed the lime green paint under Gutglor’s fingernails. The duct tape stuck to Reedus’s shirt. The very suspicious absence of the Costco fans from Chester’s office that he’d been meaning to use this week.
   “No,” Gary said, his voice flat.
     “What?” Gutglor asked innocently.
   “The UFO. That was Y’ALL?”
    “We prefer the term ‘aerial chicken acquisition specialists,’” Reedus replied with dignity.
   Chester’s cigarette fell out of his mouth. It bounced on the concrete floor, still smoldering, forgotten. “You built a DRONE to steal CHICKEN and convinced the entire town it was ALIENS?”
     “In our defense,” Gutglor said proudly, “we didn’t MEAN to convince anybody of anything. We were just trying to avoid driving to Pine Street.”
   The Professor’s eyes were wide behind his spectacles, his notebook hanging forgotten in his hand. “The lime green trim. The erratic movement. The impossible acceleration. That was a Costco fan drone?!”
     “With a weed whacker engine, Xbox controller and a cracked Samsung Galaxy 4” Reedus added helpfully. “Don’t forget the technical specs.”
   Chester stared at them for a long moment. Then he started laughing—deep, wheezing laughter that sounded like a man who’d given up on sanity entirely. He laughed until he had to lean against the workbench, until tears ran down his face, until Gary started to look concerned.
     “Y’all created the biggest news story Buzzard Roost has had in twenty years,” Chester finally managed to say, “because you were too stoned to drive?”
   “When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous,” Gutglor muttered.
     Gary lit a cigarette and shook his head slowly. “Where’s the drone now?”
   “Tree by the radio tower,” Reedus replied. “Still holding a drumstick.”
     The Professor was frantically writing in his notebook, his pen flying across the page. “This is… this is the most successful unintentional psychological operation I’ve ever documented. The sociological implications alone—”
   Chester walked to the shop door and looked out toward Slaughter Pen Road. There, faintly visible in the distance through the morning haze, that lime green drone hung in a tree like a mechanical Christmas ornament left up too long.
     “Y’all realize,” Chester said without turning around, “you can never tell anybody about this.”
   “Never?” Gutglor asked.
     Chester turned to face them, his expression serious. “NEVER. Let the town have their UFO story. Let Possum have his mystery. Let that rhyming pickle cart pusher have his cosmic connection. This stays between us.”
   “So we’re like… secret heroes?” Reedus asked hopefully.
     “You’re secret IDIOTS,” Gary corrected, exhaling smoke through his nose. “But yeah, heroes works too.”
   The Professor closed his notebook with finality. “I propose we refer to this incident as ‘The Sky Bucket Operation’ in all internal documentation.”
     “I propose,” Chester replied, “we never speak of it again and pretend we spent last night doing literally anything else.”
   But they all walked to the opened bay door anyway and stood there staring at that tree in the distance. At the drone. At the evidence of the night two mechanics got high and accidentally became gods.
     “Chester?” Gutglor asked after a long moment.
   “Yeah?”
     “You ain’t gonna tell anyone about my Mater-Wanna farm, right?”
   Chester was quiet for a long time, smoking his cigarette and staring at that distant tree. “Gutglor,” he finally said, “after what y’all pulled off last night, your agricultural experiments are the LEAST of my concerns.”

Waylon Outro: “And that’s how Buzzard Roost got its first UFO sighting—courtesy of Mater-Wanna, Costco fans, and the kind of engineering brilliance that only happens when common sense takes a smoke break and creativity works the night shift alone.”

   The drone’s still in that tree, by the way.
     Been there three months now.
   Town thinks it’s a shrine. The pickle cart guy started a petition to leave it as a “monument to cosmic connection.” The petition got forty-seven signatures. Chester gave up trying to get it down after the first week—said it wasn’t worth the ladder rental and the inevitable questions.
     Over at Mad Mechanics, the crew knows the truth. But they keep it locked up tighter than Gutglor’s moonshine recipe, because sometimes the best stories are the ones where everybody wins—even if they’re winning for completely different reasons.
   The town got their miracle. Possum got his mystery. And Reedus and Gutglor got a story they can never tell but will never forget.
     Sometimes the best stories happen when you’re trying to steal chicken and accidentally steal the sky instead.
   This is Mad Mechanics™.
     Where the impossible gets built in a backyard.
   Where the stupid becomes LEGEND.
     And where two stoned mechanics with Costco fans can create more wonder than all the NASA engineers combined.