P to the Hizzle my Izzle  

The Mystery Machine skidded into the PHI hangar, but the only thing flying was the smell of corporate decay. The bay was a boneyard; the legendary S-92s were being cannibalized, stripped of their gearboxes and guts like carcasses in a vulture exhibit.

"Jinkies," Velma gasped, pointing to a gutted airframe. "They aren't fixing them. They're stealing the organs to cover the debt!"

Suddenly, the KPI Creeper emerged from the shadows, flanked by the Dih Lords of Q. These were the same pencil-pushing ghouls who had fired the veterans, replaced "safety" with "synergy," and forced everyone to answer those mind-numbing quarterly harassment questionnaires while the fleet fell apart.

"Halt!" the Creeper shrieked, waving a 400-page slide deck. "You haven't completed your mandatory sensitivity training! Your efficiency is down 12%!"

The gang didn't run. They’d had enough of the Dih Lord circus. Fred tripped a hangar hoist, dropping a heavy-duty cargo net right over the suits. As the Dih Lords tangled themselves in their own clipboards and lanyard-bound badges, Fred stepped up and ripped the mask off the Creeper.

"SCOTT McCARTY!" the gang yelled.

There he was, sweating White Claw and desperation.

"I had to do it!" Scott wailed. "The old-timers cost too much, and these S-92s are worth more as scrap than as aircraft! I would’ve turned this entire hangar into a KPI-driven call center if it weren’t for you meddling mechanics!"

"You didn't 'optimize' anything, Scott," the lead mechanic growled, stepping out from the shadows. "You just turned a world-class fleet into a bunch of expensive paperweights."

As the cops hauled the Dih Lords away—still trying to hand out (once impossible to gain for a 5% RAISE) "DZ" cards to the arresting officers—the hangar finally went quiet. The monsters were gone, but the cannibalized birds remained. It was time to stop answering questionnaires and start turning wrenches.