"The Vanishing V8" – #RA17 - Manifesto Maravillado

The Vanishing V8 – A Mystery of Muscle and Mayhem

Tubs’ pride and joy—a 1971 Ford Falcon GT-HO Phase III—has vanished from his locked garage without a trace. The police find no signs of forced entry, and the security cameras only show static during the theft.

Tubs is convinced it’s a ghost job, swearing that cars have been vanishing near a certain stretch of Anzac Ave, right near the Red Rooster. Birko’s skeptical—until The Festy starts acting weird, as if something is following it.

Is this some kind of supernatural car thief, or are the Bay Reapers, Redcliffe’s most notorious bikie gang, running an operation bigger than anyone realizes?

Either way—it’s time to burn rubber and get some answers.

ACT 1: THE GREAT GT-HO HEIST

A Rerun Disaster

Birko was struggling.

Sale of the Century had always been a thinking man’s game—and tonight, he was getting absolutely pantsed by a 1987 rerun.

“Which Shakespeare play features the characters Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?” Tony Barber’s voice echoed from the TV.

Birko frowned. “Uh… Macbeth?”

BEEP. WRONG.

“Hamlet,” Tony said cheerfully.

Birko groaned and rubbed his temples, the universal signal that his brain had just been flattened by trivia.

Cinders, curled up on the couch with her Milo, barely contained her smirk. “Mate, you are on a losing streak.”

Birko scowled. “It’s rigged.”

“Right. The game from thirty years ago is rigged against you specifically.”

“I’m just saying,” Birko muttered, shoving a biscuit in his mouth, “they should ask more lawn-related questions.”

Piper, stretched out on the floor, thumped her tail in silent agreement.

Just as Tony Barber was about to ask another question, there was a sudden BANG BANG BANG on the front door.

The kind of knock that meant trouble.

Birko frowned. “That better not be Jehovah’s Witnesses again.”

He swung open the door—and immediately regretted it.

Tubs stood there, gripping a half-crushed can of XXXX Bitter Ale like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His shirt was buttoned unevenly, his hair sticking up at odd angles, and his eyes wild.

“Mate,” Tubs rasped, “they’ve nicked my bloody GT-HO.”

Birko froze mid-sip of tea.

“…What?”

Tubs shoved past him, pacing like a man who had just witnessed a crime against humanity. “Gone. Vanished. Right outta my bloody garage.”

Birko’s brain short-circuited.

Tubs’ Phase III wasn’t just a car—it was his entire personality.

Cinders sat up. “Wait—what do you mean, vanished?”

Tubs dragged a hand through his hair. “I mean, I came home from the Seabrae, parked it, locked up like always. This morning? Gone. No broken locks. No smashed windows. No nothing.”

Birko’s stomach sank. “Security cameras?”

Tubs exhaled sharply. “That’s the bloody thing—the whole system cut out. Just static. Right when the car disappeared.”

Birko went rigid.

That was not normal.

ACT 2: THE PHANTOM CAR THIEF

Tubs was rattled, and that alone was enough to make Birko take this seriously.

Cinders, ever the level-headed one, tapped her fingers on the kitchen table. “Alright, let’s go over what we know.”

Tubs gripped his beer can like a stress ball. “I parked the HO at 11:30 PM, after a few quiet ones at the Seabrae. Went inside, locked up. Next morning—poof.”

Birko leaned forward. “No broken locks, no alarms?”

Tubs shook his head. “Nada. And the security cameras?” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Just static. From 2:07 AM to 2:13 AM. When they come back on, the GT-HO’s gone.”

Birko narrowed his eyes. “2:07 AM? That’s too precise.”

Cinders nodded. “Someone knew how to cut the cameras.”

Tubs slammed his beer down. “Yeah, but how? This wasn’t some punk with a crowbar. It’s like the thing vanished into thin air.”

Birko tapped the table. “You said other cars have gone missing?”

Tubs nodded. “Yeah. Five cars in two months. All classics. A bloke at the pub was carrying on about it last week—thought he was talking rubbish, but now…”

Birko was already up, grabbing his keys. “We need to see where this happened.”

The Crime Scene – Tubs’ Garage

Tubs’ garage was exactly what you’d expect—half workshop, half shrine to his beloved GT-HO. Car posters lined the walls, toolboxes stacked neatly, and in the center…

Nothing.

An empty space where a hundred-grand piece of Aussie muscle should have been.

Birko whistled. “Looks clean.”

Tubs crossed his arms. “Too clean.”

Birko crouched, running a hand over the floor. The concrete was smooth. No skid marks. No sign of a struggle.

Cinders checked the security feed, scrolling back to 2:07 AM.

The screen glitched, and suddenly—static.

She frowned. “I don’t like this.”

Tubs let out a huff. “Told ya. Bloody ghost job.”

Birko stood up, dusting off his hands. “Mate. If this was a ghost, it’d be haunting a Holden dealership, not nicking your GT-HO.”

Tubs folded his arms. “Then you explain it.”

Birko exhaled, thinking. “Could be a high-tech job. Signal jammer, pro team. But that means they had inside info.”

Cinders turned the laptop toward them. “Look at this—each car was last seen parked near a certain stretch of Anzac Ave.”

Birko raised an eyebrow. “Near the Red Rooster?”

Tubs blinked. “Wait. You’re saying someone’s stalking these cars there?”

Cinders nodded. “They all disappear within a week of being spotted in that area.”

Birko scratched his chin. “We need to take The Festy down there. See if we get a bite.”

Tubs stared. “You’re using The Festy as bait?”

Birko shrugged. “Mate, you got a better idea?”

Tubs cracked open another XXXX. “This is a terrible plan.”

Birko grinned. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

ACT 3: THE BAIT IS SET

The Festy’s Big Moment

Birko had a plan.

Tubs hated it.

“This is a terrible plan,” he muttered, cracking open a fresh XXXX in the front seat of The Festy.

Birko sipped his weak, milky tea from a thermos. “It’s a brilliant plan.”

Tubs wiped a hand down his face. “Just so I’m clear—you reckon a mystical ghost car thief is lurking around Anzac Avenue, and instead of calling the cops or…I dunno, getting an exorcist, you’ve decided to park your crapbox in the danger zone and wait?”

Birko grinned. “Yep.”

Tubs exhaled loudly and stared at The Festy’s faded dashboard, peeling plastic barely holding together. “Mate, this thing isn’t even worth scrap metal. If they come for it, I’ll be amazed.”

Cinders chuckled from the back seat. “They’d have to be real desperate to nick The Festy.”

Birko gave his car a reassuring pat. “Oi. She’s got heart.”

Tubs raised an eyebrow. “She’s got rust.”

Piper, curled up in the back, gave a single, unimpressed tail thump. Even the dog wasn’t convinced.

Still, the trap was set.

They were parked in the exact spot where all the missing cars had last been seen—right by the glow of the Red Rooster sign, the smell of hot chips lingering in the warm night air.

Now…they waited.

Waiting Games & Existential Dread

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

Birko drummed his fingers on the wheel, still pleased with himself.

Cinders stifled a yawn. “How long are we doing this for?”

Birko checked his Casio digital watch. “Until something happens.”

Tubs took a long sip of beer. “And what if nothing happens?”

Birko shrugged. “Then we go home, and I never hear the end of it.”

Cinders smirked. “At least you’re self-aware.”

Tubs cracked his knuckles. “You know, the Bay Reapers could be involved. Maybe they’ve got a ghost division.”

Birko raised an eyebrow. “A bikie ghost division?”

Tubs nodded. “Wouldn’t put it past ‘em. Imagine a haunted Harley.”

Birko rubbed his temples. “Mate, you’ve had too many beers.”

Tubs took another sip. “Not enough, actually.”

Cinders was about to reply—when Piper growled.

Low. Warning.

Tubs froze mid-sip. “Uh… what’s up with the dog?”

Piper’s ears flattened, her eyes locked on the rearview mirror.

Cinders turned. “Birko—”

Birko saw it at the same time.

A set of headlights appeared far down the street, crawling toward them at an unnervingly slow pace.

Birko stiffened. “We’ve got company.”

The car—big, dark, silent—rolled past them. Its windows were completely blacked out.

Tubs sat up. “That’s a Holden Statesman. Late ‘90s.” He squinted. “Dark tint, lowered suspension.”

Birko exhaled. “Bikies.”

Tubs let out a low curse. “Bay Reapers.”

The dark Holden idled at the next intersection for too long, as if waiting.

Cinders whispered, “They’re checking us out.”

Birko tightened his grip on the wheel.

Then—without warning—

The streetlights flickered.

The radio crackled—even though it was switched off.

Piper let out a sharp bark, whipping her head toward the passenger-side window.

Tubs turned. “What is it, girl?”

Then—a shadow moved.

Not in the car.

Next to them.

A blur—dark, indistinct—there and then gone.

Cinders sucked in a breath. “Did you see that?”

Birko nodded slowly.

Tubs…didn’t move.

His hand was frozen, gripping the seat.

Birko glanced at him. “Mate?”

Tubs turned, face pale. “I saw it last night.”

Silence.

Birko stared. “What?”

Tubs swallowed. “When the GT-HO disappeared…I saw it. Just for a second. A shadow.”

Birko’s stomach dropped.

Cinders whispered, “You think the Bay Reapers are using…something else?”

Birko’s jaw clenched. “I don’t know.”

The dark Holden pulled away, disappearing down a side street.

Birko took a breath. “But we’re gonna find out.”

ACT 4: INTO THE DEN OF THE REAPERS

Birko, Tubs, and Cinders stood outside the Seabrae Hotel, staring across the road at the Bay Reapers’ clubhouse—which, in true subtle-as-a-brick bikie fashion, was a weathered old warehouse covered in graffiti, with a dozen Harleys lined up out front like guard dogs.

“Right,” Birko folded his arms. “So… breaking in is off the table?”

Tubs snorted. “Mate, we break in there, we don’t walk back out.”

Cinders adjusted her sunglasses. “Then we need another way in.”

Birko thought for a moment. Then his eyes lit up.

Tubs saw it. “No.”

Birko grinned. “Yes.”

Tubs shook his head. “Whatever you’re thinking—no.”

Birko clapped him on the shoulder. “Mate, you’re a muso.”

Tubs groaned. “Birko—”

“You know these blokes,” Birko continued. “You’ve played in pubs where they drink. Hell, you’ve probably had a few pints with them.”

Tubs sighed. “A few.”

Birko grinned. “So… you walk in there, act casual, and see what you can find out.”

Tubs gave him a flat look. “You’re making me walk into a bikie clubhouse, alone, while they’re running a stolen car racket.”

Birko nodded. “Pretty much.”

Tubs sighed. “You owe me.”

Birko smirked. “If you get killed, I’ll name my next car after you.”

Tubs flipped him off.

Cinders shook her head. “Alright, let’s make sure you don’t die. What’s the play?”

Tubs Walks Into the Lion’s Den

The inside of the clubhouse smelled like two-stroke fuel and bad decisions.

Bikies in Bay Reapers patches leaned over pool tables, smashed beers, and argued over the footy on an ancient plasma screen that probably weighed more than a motorbike.

Tubs strolled in like he belonged there.

A few heads turned. One bloke squinted. “Oi. I know you.”

Tubs grinned. “Yeah, mate. The Bollocks. Played at The Backroom couple months back.”

The bikie’s face lit up. “No shit! You’re the drummer!”

Tubs grabbed a stool. “Still am.”

The bloke clapped him on the back. “What’re ya doin’ ‘round here?”

Tubs shrugged. “Dropped in for a beer. Heard some interesting things.”

The bloke grinned. “Oh yeah?”

Tubs took a sip of his XXXX. “Heard you lot had some… fresh wheels lately.”

Silence.

The mood shifted.

A few of the blokes stopped laughing.

The guy at the bar tilted his head. “Depends who’s askin’.”

Tubs leaned back, playing it cool. “Just a bloke who lost a mate’s car.”

The bartender—a hulking bloke with tattoos up his neck and across his knuckles—sighed. “We don’t do that stuff no more.”

Tubs raised an eyebrow. “No?”

The bartender shook his head. “Not since… it started.”

Tubs kept his expression neutral. “It?”

The bloke glanced around, lowered his voice.

“The cars. The ones that go missin’.” He rubbed his arm. “They don’t just… disappear, mate. Some of the boys swear they see shadows moving. Things that ain’t there.”

Tubs felt a chill crawl up his spine.

Another bikie—older, scars across his knuckles—grunted. “Big Pete reckons he saw somethin’ the other night.”

The bartender nodded. “Yeah. Pete’s ute got pinched, right outside. Security cameras fried. No one in sight. But when we played the audio back…” He hesitated.

Tubs leaned forward. “What was on it?”

The bartender looked uneasy. “Footsteps. But not human ones.”

Tubs’ stomach dropped.

Birko was gonna love this.

Back at The Festy

Birko and Cinders waited outside, engines idling, tension thick as a Brisbane summer.

When Tubs finally emerged, his face was pale.

Birko grinned. “Good news?”

Tubs slid into the passenger seat. “Good news? No. Weird news? Absolutely.”

Cinders frowned. “What happened?”

Tubs exhaled. “They reckon something else is nicking these cars. Something not human.”

Birko’s grin faltered. “Come again?”

Tubs stared out the window. “The blokes inside? They’re scared. Security footage gets wiped, lights flicker, and the only thing they hear?”

He turned to them.

“Not footsteps. Hoofbeats.”

Silence.

Cinders blinked. “Like… a horse?”

Tubs shook his head. “They said it sounds heavier. Metal.”

Birko and Cinders exchanged a look.

Tubs cracked another XXXX. “Birko, Cinders… I think we’ve got a ghost car on our hands.”

Birko rubbed his temples. “Bloody brilliant.”

ACT 5: THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE

The Festy’s headlights cut through the darkness as Birko, Cinders, and Tubs tore down Anzac Avenue, heading for the spot where all the stolen V8s had last been seen.

The stretch of road just past the Red Rooster was deserted. A few dim streetlights flickered, their glow barely reaching the cracked asphalt.

Birko drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Right. We park up. We wait. We see if something weird happens.”

Tubs cracked another XXXX. “Define weird.”

Cinders pulled her jacket tighter. “Footsteps that aren’t footsteps. Security cameras frying. I’d say we’re past weird already.”

Piper, nestled in the back seat, let out a low growl.

Birko felt it too.

Something was off about this place.

Something in the air.

They parked The Festy in the exact spot where the last missing car had been.

Then, they waited.

THE HAUNTING OF ANZAC AVENUE

For the first fifteen minutes, nothing happened.

Birko sipped his tea. Tubs cracked another beer. Cinders scrolled through her phone.

Then—

The streetlights flickered.

Cinders looked up. “Did you see—”

Then—static.

Birko’s car radio—which had been off—suddenly crackled to life, hissing with white noise.

Piper growled.

Tubs sat up. “Alright. Now I’m interested.”

Then—

A noise.

A deep, rhythmic clanking.

Distant at first.

Getting closer.

Birko’s blood ran cold. “Tell me that’s just some idiot in a busted Commodore.”

But the sound wasn’t coming from an engine.

It was metal on asphalt.

Like iron hooves hitting the road.

Cinders grabbed Birko’s arm. “Birko.”

Tubs leaned forward. “I think we’ve got company.”

THE VANISHING V8 RETURNS

Through the flickering streetlights, something rolled toward them.

It wasn’t a car.

At least—not anymore.

The shape of a V8 coupe materialized in the gloom. Its headlights glowed a deep, unnatural red, engine idling with a deep, almost inhuman growl.

Its body looked distorted—as if shifting in and out of reality.

The air around it warped.

Then, with an ear-splitting screech, it lunged forward.

Straight for The Festy.

“DRIVE, BIRKO!” Cinders screamed.

Birko slammed the accelerator. The Festy’s tires screeched as they tore down Anzac Avenue, the phantom V8 roaring behind them.

Tubs turned in his seat. “It’s bloody gaining on us!”

Birko gritted his teeth. “Oh, it wants a race? IT’S GOT A RACE.”

The Festy hurtled down the highway, but the ghost car was faster.

Much faster.

THE FINAL LAP

Birko yanked the wheel, swerving into a backstreet.

The ghost car followed.

Tubs clutched the dashboard. “Mate, this thing doesn’t even have a driver!”

Birko’s knuckles went white on the wheel. “I’ve got a theory.”

Cinders braced herself. “Birko, this is NOT the time for theories—”

Birko ignored her.

“The V8s all vanished here,” he shouted over the roar of the engine. “If this thing is taking them—maybe it’s looking for something specific.”

Tubs stared at him. “Like what?!”

Birko grinned.

“The biggest, loudest, most ridiculous car it can find.”

Tubs blinked. Then—his face fell.

“Oh. No.”

Birko nodded. “Oh yes.”

Tubs shook his head. “You’re not using my GT-HO as ghost bait.”

Birko yanked the wheel, screeching onto a highway overpass. “Mate, you wanted a high-speed showdown? You’re getting one.”

Then—

The phantom V8 suddenly swerved hard left.

Birko’s stomach twisted. “It’s not chasing us anymore.”

Cinders turned. “Then what’s it—”

She went silent.

Because up ahead, parked under a flickering streetlight, was Tubs’ GT-HO.

THE RETURN OF THE GT-HO

Birko killed The Festy’s engine, eyes scanning the dimly lit truck lot.

Then—he saw it.

Parked under a flickering streetlight, completely untouched, was Tubs’ GT-HO.

Tubs let out a sharp breath. “Oh, you are taking the piss.”

Cinders blinked. “Where the hell did that come from?”

Tubs didn’t answer. He was already moving, stepping toward his car like he was approaching a skittish animal.

Birko narrowed his eyes. “That wasn’t here before.”

Tubs ran a hand along the hood, like he was making sure it was real. “She’s… perfect.” He hesitated, then tried the driver’s door.

It opened.

Birko swore under his breath. “Nah. This is too easy.”

Cinders folded her arms. “We just spent all night being chased by a ghost V8, and now Tubs’ car magically reappears in a deserted lot? No chance that’s normal.”

Tubs didn’t care. He was already sliding into the driver’s seat.

Birko exhaled. “Alright, move over. If something weird is about to happen, I’m driving.”

Tubs shot him a glare but tossed the keys over anyway. “Scratch it, and you’re a dead man.”

Birko grinned, settling into the leather seat. “Mate, we’re well past worrying about scratches.”

Cinders and Piper climbed into the back, and as Birko turned the key, the GT-HO’s engine roared to life.

For a split second, the air around them felt… lighter.

Like something had just let go.

THE AFTERMATH

Back at the Seabrae, they sat in silence, nursing their drinks.

Piper, curled up under the table, finally at ease.

Tubs leaned back. “Y’know, if you ever say ‘Let’s investigate’ again, I’m walking.”

Birko grinned. “I’ll make sure to trick you into it.”

Cinders chuckled. “So, what do we do if another car vanishes?”

Birko took a sip of his weak milky tea.

“Hope it’s someone else’s problem.”

THE END.

Buckle up for the next ride… because this one’s not over yet.

Stay tuned for the next adventure:

Will the Real Festy Please Rev Up? – A Mystery of Stolen Steel & High-Speed Deception

Birko’s woke up thinking his biggest problem was lawn grubs. By lunchtime, he was in a high-speed chase against himself.

One Festy sat in his driveway. Another tore off down the street.

Same flames. Same hubcaps. Same car.

With Piper on high alert and Cinders questioning all her life choices, Birko throws The Festy into gear. Someone thinks they can pull a fast one on him—but they’ve got no idea who they’re dealing with.

Engines rev. Tires screech. And the biggest mystery of Birko’s life is about to begin.

Buckle up. There can be only one Festy!

Coming soon!