Mopower Garage

By Fletcher P. Kuykendall                                                               Episode – 5 

It was the sticky, sun-soaked afternoon of August 1990 when Johnny B. Whiskey found himself cleaning tools in the shade of his parent’s garage. The familiar scent of gas and rubber filled the air, the kind of perfume that only gearheads could truly appreciate. His beloved Dart, still recovering from a recent string of victorious but punishing street races, idled nearby. Its 340 small-block was good—but Johnny was always searching for the edge, the something more.

That’s when Jennifer pulled down the gravel driveway in her clean ’78 Volaré. She stepped out with her sun-bleached jeans, wind-tangled hair, and a crooked smile. “Hey,” she said casually. “You busy?”

Johnny wiped his hands on a red shop rag. “What’s up?”

“You ever meet my Uncle Bob?”

“Don’t think so.”

“He was a Chrysler mechanic back in the day. Drag raced too. Lives about twenty minutes out near Crystal Lake. He wants to meet you. I might’ve told him you were the best shade-tree Mopar guy in three counties.”

Johnny laughed. “Yeah? What did he say?”

“He said he has something you might be interested in. Something from ‘back when Detroit had balls.’ His words, not mine.”

That was all the motivation Johnny needed.

Bob’s property was a time capsule from 1973. A faded Mopar flag fluttered off the front porch. Behind the house, under a sagging tarp, was a rusty ’70 Duster with deep racing scars and faded contingency decals. The garage was dark and cluttered, but filled with relics—timing lights, Sun tachometers, posters of Sox & Martin, and the lingering aroma of old gear oil and cigarettes.

Bob was a barrel-chested man with silver hair and hands like engine blocks. He eyed Johnny with a mix of curiosity and veteran skepticism.

“So, you’re the one messing with my niece and small blocks?,” he asked, extending a firm handshake.

Johnny grinned. “Guilty on both counts.”

Bob wasted no time. “You ever run a six-pack?”

“Only seen ’em. Never owned one.”

Bob gave a grunt that could’ve been approval or a warning. “Come on, I’ll show you something.”

He led Johnny to a tall wooden shelf and pulled down a dusty intake manifold. Johnny’s eyes widened. Sitting atop the manifold were three Holley two-barrel carburetors—a real-deal Mopar 340 Six-Pack setup. It was the same kind of setup that terrorized the streets in AAR ’Cudas and T/A Challengers.

“I had this on my 340 back in ’72,” Bob said. “Picked up two-tenths and about sixty gray hairs tuning it.”

Johnny ran his fingers over the casting number. “You selling?”

Bob raised an eyebrow. “Depends. You gonna use it or hang it on the wall?”

Johnny looked him square in the eye. “It’ll breathe fire again.”

That answer was good enough. They settled on a price that made Johnny feel like he’d just knocked off a bank. A great deal—not a giveaway, but the kind of handshake agreement that happened between real car people.

Back in the garage, the manifold and carbs looked like a trophy on the bench. Johnny couldn’t stop smiling.

Jennifer leaned against the fender of the Dart, arms crossed. “So… now what?”

“Now we install it.”

“You mean we?”

Johnny looked up at her, surprised. “You wanna help?”

Jennifer smirked. “I didn’t drive you out to the sticks just to watch you play with wrenches.”

And so, they began.

Fuel lines were rerouted. Coolant was drained. The factory intake was pulled with the careful ease of surgeons in a field hospital. Jennifer labeled vacuum hoses while Johnny cleaned gasket surfaces. The new manifold slid into place with satisfying precision, followed by the trio of Holleys—each one a snarling promise of torque, tire smoke, and solid gold ground pounding.

The sun was setting by the time they torqued the last bolt. Johnny double-checked every connection while Jennifer adjusted the throttle linkage, hands smeared with grease and triumph.

“Moment of truth?” she asked.

Johnny climbed into the Dart, turned the key—and the engine coughed, hesitated, then roared to life. The idle was mean, lumpy, and alive. He blipped the throttle. The three carbs inhaled deeply, and the garage echoed with a sound that was pure mechanical music.

Jennifer’s eyes lit up. “That’s different.”

Johnny grinned. “That’s better.”

Later that night, they took it out on a lonely stretch of backroad. With the moon rising behind them, Johnny eased into the throttle. The Dart surged forward like it had just shed 500 pounds. When he buried his foot, the Holleys opened wide—front to back—and the car lunged with an urgency Johnny had never felt before.

Jennifer laughed over the roar. “Is that secondaries or afterburners?”

Johnny didn’t answer. He was too busy grinning.

They pulled over after a few wide-open blasts, the engine ticking softly as it cooled. Jennifer leaned over the fender, looking at the trio of carbs, glinting in the moonlight like chrome-plated dragons.

“I think Uncle Bob would approve,” she said.

Johnny nodded. “This changes everything.”

And in a way, it did. Not just for the Dart’s quarter-mile times—but for Johnny and Jennifer too. That night, under a blanket of stars and with six barrels of fury under the hood, they realized they made a pretty damn good team.

Speed, sweat, and a six-pack. That summer, Johnny B. Whiskey didn’t just get more horsepower—he found something better: partnership, and maybe even love.