Deep in the garage of McCoy Mechanics, harsh grunts and clangs come from somewhere between the metal frames of broken vehicles. Peeking out from under the hood of an old, beat-up pick-up is Cash; his hulking frame bent over the engine as he goes about checking it over. The cotton of his wife-beater is covered in oil smears from wiping his clawed hands on off on it instead of the rag right next to him. Curses slip past his snarling lips, his thick brows furrowed in concentration.