I have not done any real engineering so here is the latest story,Part 2 on the engine trying to eat it's dip stick

Once upon a time last month in the sunburnt land of Australia, there was a trusty little machine known affectionately as "The Dingo." It was a compact earthmover, and like the cheeky wild dogs it was named after, it had a knack for getting into scrapes. This particular Dingo had seen more action than a kangaroo at a boxing match, and after years of hard labor, it was finally having a midlife crisis—or at least a complete mechanical breakdown. One fine morning, as the sun blazed over the outback, the Dingo decided it was done playing nice. It let out a mechanical groan that rattled the windows of the nearby shed, and just like that, it tried to disembowel itself from the inside, its dip stick being the first to meet its maker. If only machines could hold their lunch! There were bits of engine clinging to the grass like a hungover mate still holding onto last night’s barbeque as Stew worked late into the night.. Out came Stew, the local handyman. He was as resourceful as a spider in a fly factory and wore a face that had seen more dust storms than a sheepdog. "Right then, you ole tin can," he said, eyeing the mess before him. "Time for a little TLC — Tough Love and Compression!" With a hearty laugh, he rolled up his sleeves and got to work. He stripped the engine down to what could only be described as a pile of sorrowful bolts and broken hopes. The alternator bracket was broken, but Stew wasn’t about to be outdone by a mere piece of metal. In true Aussie spirit, he crafted an oversized bracket that looked like it had been borrowed from a bulldozer. “That’ll teach ya!” he chuckled, as if daring the Dingo to misbehave again, after all, Stew thought he had a good understanding of his machine. Next came the “oil transfusion.” Stew needed roughly a hundred liters to replace what the beast had expelled. He fashioned a makeshift pump out of a discarded fuel canister and a bit of garden hose. “If doctors can use a syringe,” he reasoned, “then I can do this!” And so, the Dingo’s guts were siphoned out, stored, and Stew sensed the thrill of making a fine mess even messier, as the Dingo lay there like a wounded animal, awaiting the final fix. After a long month of sweat, swearing, and more than a bit of improvisation, the Dingo was finally beginning to look like its old self once again - but it's a hard thing to keep an old workhorse from falling apart. But wait! Just as he was about to do a victory dance, he heard a telltale “thunk.” He looked down to see that one of its tyres (American English) had gone flat, like a party balloon after a particularly rowdy celebration. “Oh, come on!” he cried, scratching his head in disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me! What’s next? A machine breakdown support group?” Stew couldn't believe that after all he had been through he had to deal with the Dingo's flat tyre. Stew sighed and dragged out his flat tire kit as he grumbled about the trials of being a mechanic, a therapist, and an engineer all in one. He couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. to be continued