"The Festy That Came Back Wrong" – #RA16

A Mystery of Mechanical Madness

After years of faithful service, questionable speed, and legendary escapes, The Festy is finally due for a tune-up. Birko reluctantly takes it to a well-reviewed mechanic in Redcliffe—but when he gets it back, something feels… off.

The engine purrs too perfectly. The brakes are too sharp. Worst of all—the cassette player is missing.

When he goes back for answers, no one remembers ever working on his car. Then, an identical Festy appears in town… looking brand new.

Is this a simple case of mechanic malpractice? A high-tech conspiracy? Or has The Festy been replaced by something unnatural?

Birko is about to find out. And he does not like the answers.

Act 1: A Bad Night Gets Worse

Birko had seen some horrors in his life.

Unexplained phone calls in the dead of night.
Ghostly golfers sinking impossible shots.
Even intergalactic lawn grubs.

But nothing—nothing— compared to watching the Broncos get slaughtered on live television.

He sat hunched in his recliner, arms crossed, tea in hand, radiating pure disgust as the game played out before him.

DOLPHINS – 32
BRONCOS – 6

Birko’s eye twitched. He took a long sip of his weak milky tea, the liquid barely soothing his rage. “I’ve seen tougher defense in a retirement home.”

From the couch, Cinders casually flipped through a magazine, entirely unfazed.

“Maybe the Dolphins are just the better team.”

Birko’s head whipped around.

“Cinders. I say this with love, but if you value this relationship—never repeat that sentence again.”

Piper, sensing a domestic football-related crisis, quietly retreated under the coffee table.

“Alright, alright,” Cinders smirked. “I’ll let you stew.”

Birko turned back to the screen. The camera zoomed in on the Dolphins’ coach—grinning.

“Oh, he’s smiling?” Birko barked at the screen. “I bet he’s got a secret handshake with the refs. Probably bribed ‘em with free seafood platters!”

Cinders sighed and closed her magazine. “Right. That’s it. You need a walk before your blood pressure makes you explode.”

Birko grumbled but allowed himself to be herded outside.

The Oil Stain Incident

As they stepped into the crisp night air, he let out a long breath. The quiet hum of the neighborhood settled him—until his eyes landed on The Festy.

His mood darkened immediately.

There. Right under the front bumper.

A tiny, glistening oil stain.

Birko stiffened.

Cinders took another sip of Milo. “Uh-oh.”

Birko crouched, running a finger through the oil before sniffing it like a detective at a crime scene.

“Something’s not right,” he muttered.

Cinders raised an eyebrow. “You think The Festy’s… sick?”

Birko stood, fists on hips. “Not sick. Compromised.”

Cinders sighed. “Birko. It’s an old Festiva. It’s not exactly a cutting-edge machine.”

“Exactly,” Birko countered. “It’s never leaked before. Not once. Which means someone’s tampered with it.”

Cinders rolled her eyes. “Or… and hear me out… it’s old.”

Birko ignored her, pacing. “Nope. Not buying it. This is sabotage. Someone’s messing with The Festy.”

Cinders pinched the bridge of her nose. “Let me guess. The Redcliffe Dolphins planted a tracking device under it?”

Birko’s eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t be the dumbest thing they’ve ever done.”

Cinders shook her head. “You’re taking it to the mechanic tomorrow. End of discussion.”

Birko folded his arms. “I don’t trust mechanics. Too much power. They hold the fate of every car in their hands.”

Cinders smirked. “What, you think there’s a mechanic conspiracy too?”

Birko didn’t answer.

Instead, he took one last long, suspicious look at The Festy.

And deep down, he knew—something wasn’t right.

Act 2: The Festy Goes Under the Knife

The next morning, Birko was in mourning.

Standing in the driveway, arms crossed, he glared at The Festy as if it had personally betrayed him.

“Don’t worry, mate,” he muttered, patting the hood. “I won’t let them change you.”

Cinders, already sipping her morning Milo, watched from the porch. “Birko, it’s a tune-up. Not a personality transplant.”

“You don’t get it, Cinders,” he said darkly. “Mechanics always do extra. First, it’s an oil change. Then suddenly, you’ve got a new timing belt, a different brand of spark plug, and before you know it—it’s not even the same car anymore.”

Cinders sighed. “If you’re this dramatic now, I can’t wait to see what you’re like when we actually get there.”

Redcliffe Auto Works – A Mechanic’s Lair

The Festy rolled into Redcliffe Auto Works, an old-school mechanic’s shop tucked behind a Bunnings. Birko parked out front, eyeing the workshop warily—as if expecting to see a mad scientist rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

Cinders walked ahead, handing over the paperwork. “He’s all yours.”

Birko winced. “Don’t say it like that.”

The mechanic on duty, a stocky bloke in his fifties named Mick, scratched his head as he looked over The Festy. “Haven’t seen one of these in a while.”

Birko bristled immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Mick shrugged. “Just sayin’. You don’t see many still running.”

Birko folded his arms. “The Festy runs fine.”

Mick kicked the tire. It wobbled dangerously. “Sure, mate.”

Cinders stifled a laugh. “Just… be gentle with him, Mick. He gets sentimental.”

Mick nodded, taking the keys. “Righto. We’ll give it the full service. Come back in a few hours.”

Birko looked pained. “You’re not going to… change anything, are you?”

Mick blinked. “That’s the whole point, mate.”

Cinders grabbed Birko by the sleeve before he could launch into a full-blown interrogation. “We’ll be back.”

As they walked away, Birko kept looking over his shoulder, watching as The Festy was wheeled into the workshop.

“I don’t trust it,” he muttered.

Cinders rolled her eyes. “Birko, it’s a mechanic. Not an organ donor clinic.”

Birko wasn’t convinced.

Several Hours Later…

When they returned, The Festy was waiting.

Freshly cleaned. Engine humming like it actually worked for a living.

Mick handed over the keys. “All done, mate. Full service, oil change, brake pads, new air filter.”

Birko nodded slowly. “And… nothing else?”

Mick sighed. “Mate, it’s a Festiva. What else would we do to it?”

Birko narrowed his eyes. “Dunno. Replace it with a government clone? Stick a tracking device in the glovebox?”

Mick stared at him. “Do you want the car back or not?”

Cinders grabbed the keys before Birko could start questioning Mick about alien interference. “Thanks, Mick. Appreciate it.”

Birko slid into the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel like he was testing for hidden explosives.

The engine purred.

The brakes responded instantly.

Everything was too smooth.

Then he noticed it.

His cassette player was missing.

Birko froze.

He turned slowly to Mick. “Where’s my cassette player?”

Mick shrugged. “Mate, there was no cassette player in it.”

Silence.

Birko stared at him. “WHAT?”

Mick looked unbothered. “Yeah, nah. No cassette player when it came in.”

Cinders winced.

Birko turned back to The Festy. “No. No, no, no. This is wrong.”

Cinders sighed. “Birko, maybe you’re just… remembering wrong?”

Birko shot her a look so offended it could have sent a lesser person into cardiac arrest.

“I never forget The Festy.”

Mick shrugged again. “Look, mate. We didn’t touch it. Take it or leave it.”

Birko took the keys with a growing sense of dread.

Something wasn’t right.

Act 3: The Festy Feels… Wrong

Birko pulled out of Redcliffe Auto Works with a deep, nagging sense of unease.

The Festy drove perfectly. Too perfectly.

The brakes, once spongy and requiring a solid two-second prayer before working, now responded instantly. The acceleration was too smooth, as if the car actually wanted to move forward instead of begrudgingly complying with Birko’s demands.

But worst of all?

No cassette player.

Birko drummed his fingers on the wheel, glancing at the empty slot where his trusty tape deck should have been. The one that had played his old Angels, AC/DC, and Cold Chisel tapes for years. The one that had been there since the dawn of The Festy.

Cinders, riding shotgun, took a sip of her Milo and sighed. “Birko, the car’s running better than it ever has. Maybe… just embrace it?”

Birko’s grip tightened. “That’s exactly the problem.”

Cinders gave him a sideways glance. “Your problem is… the car works too well?”

“Yes.”

Cinders shook her head. “You’re a difficult man.”

Piper, stretched out in the backseat, let out a low whimper. She, too, sensed something was off.

Birko muttered under his breath. “It’s not The Festy. It looks like The Festy, but it’s not.”

Cinders rolled her eyes. “Birko, please. Are you seriously suggesting—”

But before she could finish, a second Festy drove past in the opposite direction.

Birko’s blood ran cold.

Because it wasn’t just another Festiva.

It was identical. Same white paint. Same flame decals. Same mismatched hubcap on the front left tire.

Birko hit the brakes, swerving to the side of the road.

Cinders spilled her Milo. “BIRKO!”

He pointed wildly at the rearview mirror. “Did you see that?!”

Cinders, still wiping Milo off her shirt, turned. “See what?!”

Birko jabbed a finger at the disappearing car. “It was The Festy. Another Festy.”

Cinders looked back, unimpressed. “Mate. A lot of people drive Festivas.”

Birko’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Not like that. Not exactly like this.”

Cinders groaned. “Birko—”

But before she could dismiss him again, Piper let out a sharp bark, pressing her nose to the window.

She had seen it too.

Back at the Birko Burrow

Birko stormed into the house, grabbed a pen and notepad, and started scribbling wild theories.

Cinders tossed her bag on the couch. “Alright, let’s hear it. What’s your leading explanation?”

Birko spun dramatically. “Three possibilities.”

Cinders folded her arms. “This should be good.”

Birko held up one finger. “One: Government clone program. My Festy was secretly swapped while we were in Redcliffe.”

Cinders sighed. “Next.”

Birko held up a second finger. “Two: Parallel universe rift. I have unknowingly been given a slightly different Festy from a different dimension.”

Cinders pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh my god.”

Birko raised a third finger. “Or, three: The mechanic was in on it.”

Cinders blinked. “In on… what?”

Birko slammed the pen down. “They stole The Real Festy. This is a duplicate.”

Silence.

Then—

Cinders burst out laughing.

Birko scowled.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cinders gasped between laughs. “I was expecting something slightly less insane.”

Birko crossed his arms. “I’m telling you, that’s not my car.”

Cinders wiped a tear from her eye. “Birko, I love you, but this is next-level paranoia. Maybe the mechanic just did a good job?”

Birko jabbed a finger toward her. “You weren’t there when Mick said there was no cassette player. That was the moment I knew.”

Cinders groaned. “Fine. How do you prove this?”

Birko narrowed his eyes. “We go back. We find the real Festy.”

Cinders sighed, grabbing her Milo. “Fantastic. Another road trip.”

Piper barked.

The investigation was on.

Act 4: The Hunt for the Real Festy

Redcliffe Auto Works looked perfectly normal under the midday sun—just another mechanic’s shop, the kind with grease-stained concrete and a slightly faded sign promising “QUALITY SERVICE.”

But Birko wasn’t buying it.

He parked the possibly-fake Festy across the street, staring at the garage like it was a fortress of lies.

Cinders, leaning against the car, sipped her Milo. “Alright, genius. What’s the plan?”

Birko adjusted his collar like a detective about to crack a case. “Simple. We infiltrate.”

Cinders raised an eyebrow. “By walking into the place like normal customers?”

Birko pointed at her. “Exactly.”

Piper, sitting in the backseat, wagged her tail excitedly.

Cinders sighed. “Alright, Sherlock. Let’s find your ‘stolen’ car.”

Inside Redcliffe Auto Works

The smell of engine oil and air freshener filled the air as they stepped inside. Behind the counter, Mick—the same mechanic from yesterday—looked up from his clipboard.

“Ah, back already?” he asked, scratching his chin. “Something wrong with the car?”

Birko leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was in a spy film. “You tell me, mate. Because I’m pretty sure this isn’t my car.”

Mick blinked. “Come again?”

Cinders rubbed her temples.

Birko crossed his arms. “I want to see the garage. Right now.”

Mick frowned. “Uh, that’s not really how this works, mate—”

Birko leaned closer. “I know what you did.”

Mick took a step back. “What I did?”

Cinders, clearly regretting all her life choices, forced a smile. “What he means is, he’s got a hunch that maybe there was a mix-up. A Festiva mix-up.”

Mick stared at Birko, then exhaled. “Mate, I’ve worked here for years. I have never mixed up a customer’s car.”

Birko narrowed his eyes. “That’s exactly what a mechanic running a car cloning ring would say.”

Cinders coughed to hide her laughter.

Mick groaned. “Look, I’ll prove it. You wanna see the garage? Fine. But when you see there’s nothing weird going on, you owe me a carton of beer.”

Birko smirked. “We’ll see who owes who.”

The Garage Reveal

Mick led them through the workshop, past cars on hydraulic lifts and toolboxes covered in stickers. The place looked normal.

Too normal.

Birko scanned the room, looking for anything out of place.

Then—his stomach dropped.

There it was.

Tucked away in the back of the workshop, behind a row of utes and sedans… sat another Festiva.

White. Flame decals. Mismatched hubcap. Identical.

Birko grabbed Cinders’ arm. “SEE?! TWO FESTIES!”

Mick turned, frowning. “Oh, that one?”

Birko pointed wildly. “EXACTLY THAT ONE!”

Mick sighed. “That’s just an old clunker the boss picked up from a salvage yard last week.”

Cinders tilted her head. “Wait… you’re saying that’s a completely different car?”

Mick nodded. “Yeah. We get second-hand wrecks all the time. Pretty sure that one’s a dud.”

Birko wasn’t convinced. He stormed over, inspecting the car up close.

It wasn’t just similar. It was identical.

Down to the tiniest detail.

Except…

Birko peered inside. The cassette player was still there.

He turned slowly, eyes wide. “That’s my Festy.”

Mick laughed. “Mate, it’s not. That thing’s been sitting here since last week.”

Birko turned to Cinders. “You believe me now?!”

Cinders bit her lip. “Okay. I’ll admit it’s… weird.”

Birko placed a hand on the hood. It even felt right.

Piper barked from across the garage. She, too, knew the truth.

Mick sighed. “Alright, look. If you’re that convinced, I’ll pull up the VIN numbers. You can see for yourself.”

He walked off to grab the records.

Birko leaned closer to the Festy. “If you’re the real one… what the hell have I been driving?”

Cinders folded her arms. “Birko. If your car was swapped… who would do it? And why?”

Birko nodded slowly. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Because someone had taken his Festy… and left him with a fake.

And that meant whoever it was… they wanted something.

Act 5: The Return of the Real Festy

Birko paced the garage, his mind racing. Someone had swapped his car. Someone had created a duplicate.

And that meant someone was up to something.

Mick returned, holding a clipboard. “Alright, here we go. VIN numbers.” He pointed at the so-called ‘scrap Festy’ first.

“This one’s registered as an old auction car from a wreckers down in Logan.”

Then he flipped to another page.

And your car—” Mick frowned.

Birko leaned in. “What? What is it?”

Mick turned the clipboard toward them.

“Mate… the VIN number on the car you brought in yesterday doesn’t match your registration.”

Birko’s jaw dropped.

Cinders put a hand over her mouth. “So the Festy you’ve been driving since yesterday—”

“Isn’t actually my Festy.” Birko ran a hand through his hair. “I KNEW IT!”

Mick scratched his head. “This is… actually pretty bizarre. I’ve never heard of a case like this.”

Birko turned back to the real Festy, still parked in the back. “I don’t care what’s going on—I’m getting my car back.”

Mick sighed. “Alright, alright. I’ll push the paperwork through. But you’ve still got the other one—”

Birko grabbed the keys off the counter. “The other one’s not my problem.”

Cinders smirked. “That’s actually a first.”

The Swap

They rolled the real Festy out of the garage, the sun gleaming off its battle-worn flame decals.

Birko patted the hood. “See? You’re back where you belong.”

Piper barked happily.

Cinders leaned against the car. “Okay, but we still don’t know who swapped them. Or why.”

Birko frowned. That was true.

Then—a sound.

A car engine rumbled in the distance.

They turned.

The fake Festy—the one Birko had unknowingly driven for the past day—was speeding off down the street.

Birko froze. “Wait. Who’s driving—?”

A man in dark sunglasses sat behind the wheel, a tight-lipped expression on his face.

Then—another man in a matching suit followed behind him in a black sedan.

Cinders stared. “Did we just… witness a government swap operation?”

Birko’s eyes widened. “Intergalactic spies. It was spies. I KNEW IT.”

Mick just threw up his hands. “I don’t even wanna know.”

The fake Festy and the mystery sedan disappeared around a corner.

Birko exhaled slowly. “Well. That was terrifying.”

Cinders tilted her head. “And yet, strangely validating?”

Birko grinned. “Exactly.”

He jumped into the driver’s seat. “Alright, let’s go home. And let’s never, EVER trust a mechanic again.”

Cinders climbed in. “Fair. But we’re definitely telling this story at the pub later.”

Birko turned the key. The real Festy’s engine rumbled to life.

Cinders smirked. “Feels better, doesn’t it?”

Birko sighed happily. “Like a cup of weak tea on a Sunday morning.”

Piper barked in agreement.

As they pulled away, Birko glanced at the rearview mirror.

The mystery car was long gone.

But something in the back of his mind told him…

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

The End.

Stay tuned for the next adventure:

The Vanishing V8

A legendary muscle car—Tubs’ beloved 1971 Ford Falcon GT-HO Phase III—vanishes from a locked garage without a trace. No broken locks. No security footage. Nothing. The cops are stumped, and Tubs is convinced it’s ghost job.

But then, more classic V8s start disappearing—all last seen near a certain stretch of Anzac Ave, close to the Red Rooster. And when The Festy begins acting strangely—brakes locking up, lights flickering, radio tuning itself to static—Birko starts to wonder if something is following them.

Is this the work of the Bay Reapers, Redcliffe’s most notorious outlaw bikie gang? A high-tech car-smuggling operation? Or is something even stranger at play?

Buckle up. This one’s about to get weird.

Coming soon!