The stench hit Tony first—sweet, burnt, and cloying, like a forgotten kettle left to die on the stove. His 2004 Commodore was wheezing at the lights on Nuwarra Road, a thin plume of steam curling from under the bonnet. The temperature gauge was pinned in the red.

For the next two hours, Tony stood in the bay as Dez drained what looked like liquid clay from the petcock. He ran a garden hose through the system until brown water turned clear, then hooked up a chemical flush kit that frothed and bubbled like a science fair volcano.

Dez grabbed a flashlight and peered into the radiator cap. He grimaced. “Yep. That’s not coolant, mate. That’s iced coffee. Thick, rusty, chunky iced coffee. You need a full radiator flush—Moorebank style.”

“Coolant system?” Dez asked, not really a question.



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