After Market
Mitch emitted a long, low gruntlet every time he tightened a bolt. It didn't require enough effort to justify grunting but he knew customers wanted some evidence that he was earning their money. When he finished, he sat down heavily and sighed. “You realize that your warranty is voided now, right?”
The customer raised an eyebrow. “No shit? And here I thought Mitsugonads guaranteed the craftsmanship of back alley mechanics when they installed highly illegal and overpowered parts.”
Mitch considered “overpowered” to be something of an understatement in this case. These were hardly civilian use parts.
He made a great show of standing up, slowly and in discrete stages, before hobbling over to his rack of diagnostic equipment. “Was just saying. Something goes wrong, don't bother with a dealership. Just come back to me. I guarantee my own work.” He hiked up his pants while scanning for the right machine. When he spotted it, he bent over and took it from the bottom shelf. As he straightened back up, he put a hand on the small of his back and let out an impressive groan.
The customer rolled his eyes and snorted. “Just drop the theatrics and finish installing the fucking penis. I need to get to the mall and buy one of those institution-sized container of narcotic faux-jizz before it closes. I'm going to fill this beauty up.”
Mitch shook his head slightly as he attached diagnostic equipment to the groin plate and booted up the customer's shiny, and massive, new genitals. He grinned to himself when it pulsed to life, throbbing and writhing, every diagnostic showing green. Satisfaction in a job well done was one aspect of the cantankerous old mechanic stereotype Mitch didn't have to fake.