Wastelanders

An obese vulture struggled to stay airborne. It lived in a golden age where death was king. Seeing two men resting on motorcycles in the shadow of a billboard, it flew in for a closer look.

"Don't know if I can do this anymore, Bryan," Ted said as he lifted up his full-face leather mask.

"First off, how many times do I need to tell you? Name's Skull Hammer," Bryan said while raising his sunglasses. His eyes the only part of his head not covered by thick hair.

"I'm not calling you that."

"You lost everyone you loved and cared about in a nuclear holocaust. Now almost fifteen years later, some stray cat you find dies and you give up?"

Ted pulled off his black mask and mohawk wig. "This isn't about Prickly Pete and I'm not giving up. I'm just tired of the wigs, fake tattoos, and leather pants. I'm not a road bandit. I'm an insurance salesman with a five-time regional sales record."

"No Ted, you WERE an insurance salesman. Now you are Gungor the Demoniac, Destroyer of Souls. For Christ's sake, we shouldn't even be talking about this. If anyone found out we were fakers, we'd be laughed off the road. Out of food and supplies in a week."

A rusted van with a screaming woman tied to the front zoomed by. Followed closely behind by a flatbed truck. In the bed of the truck stood a man, cracking a whip in the air with one hand, and holding a leash tied around the neck of an alligator in the other. An ice cream truck with two shirtless men standing on top wearing pig masks brought up the rear. The men humped the air as they squealed. The sounds of the screaming, whip cracking, squealing and ice cream truck music faded into oblivion as Bryan and Ted looked on stone-faced.

Bryan shook his head. "Amateurs."

Ted turned back to Bryan. "I'm sick of living in a burnt out shell of civilization that rewards ruthlessness and insanity. Do we have to all constantly out-do each other? Where does it end? When do we stop surviving and start living?"

"Well, I'm sorry this desert wasteland isn't perfect, but this ain't some joke Ted. This is real and I can't afford for you to fall apart on me. You need to suck it up, like Tony Robbins said—"

"Oh God, not Tony Robbins again."

"'We can't always control the wind, but we can adjust the sails.'"

"I hate you so much."

"Look at the positives. We run our own business. Make our own hours."

"We chase innocent victims on a desert highway and steal their provisions!"

"Tomato, Toma-toe," Bryan said. "But go ahead and give up."

"I'm not giving up."

"Then in what fantasy world do you see us being our old selves again? There's nowhere safe the old Ted and Brian can exist... Oh my God. It's about that stupid fairy tale desert nomads tell their kids, isn't it? You still believe it's real, don't you?

Ted pulled a faded pair of Oxfords out of a backpack and ran his fingers over the stitching.

"Dammit Ted. Even if the Green Place was real, we can't travel as our old selves and we certainly don't have the supplies to make that kind of journey. You want to die along the road somewhere when we can live like kings here? We don't even know what's out there."

"It's worth the risk," Ted said, lacing up the shoes.

"People know us here. They toss food and provisions out their windows when they see Skull Hammer and Gungor coming. It took years of branding and viral marketing to get here. We leave, go to where no one knows us, the rules change. You want blood on your hands, Ted?"