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"G: Guzzoline"
V-Piston has a reputation for "taking his cut" from whatever he's transporting. (ie: that full barrel of gas won't be quite so full, a crate of food will be a few packs short, that virgin won't be so "virginal." You get the idea.)
It looks like some people has finally given this rattle-yote a taste of his own medicine, or rather, "venom."
V-Piston has a reputation for "taking his cut" from whatever he's transporting. (ie: that full barrel of gas won't be quite so full, a crate of food will be a few packs short, that virgin won't be so "virginal." You get the idea.)
It looks like some people has finally given this rattle-yote a taste of his own medicine, or rather, "venom."
Category All / All
Species Exotic (Other)
Size 822 x 1082px
File Size 191.8 kB
Listed in Folders
My life fades
the vision dims.
All that remains are memories
I remember a time of chaos
ruined dreams this wasted land.
But most of all, I remember the Road Warrior
the man we called Max.
To understand who he was, you have to go back to another time
when the world was powered by the black fuel
and the deserts sprouted great cities of pipe and steel.
Gone now swept away.
For reasons long forgotten, two mighty warrior tribes went to war
and touched off a blaze which engulfed them all.
Without fuel they were nothing. They'd built a house of straw.
The thundering machines sputtered and stopped.
Their leaders talked and talked and talked
but nothing could stem the avalanche.
Their world crumbled the cities explode.
A whirlwind of looting
a firestorm of fear.
Men began to feed on men.
On the roads it was a white-line nightmare.
Only those mobile enough to scavenge
brutal enough to pillage would survive.
The gangs took over the highways
ready to wage war for a tank of juice.
And in this maelstrom of decay
ordinary men were battered and smashed.
Men like Max
the warrior Max.
In the roar of an engine, he lost everything
and became a shell of a man
a burnt out, desolate man
a man haunted by the demons of his past.
A man who wandered out into the wasteland.
And it was here in this blighted place
that he learned to live again.
the vision dims.
All that remains are memories
I remember a time of chaos
ruined dreams this wasted land.
But most of all, I remember the Road Warrior
the man we called Max.
To understand who he was, you have to go back to another time
when the world was powered by the black fuel
and the deserts sprouted great cities of pipe and steel.
Gone now swept away.
For reasons long forgotten, two mighty warrior tribes went to war
and touched off a blaze which engulfed them all.
Without fuel they were nothing. They'd built a house of straw.
The thundering machines sputtered and stopped.
Their leaders talked and talked and talked
but nothing could stem the avalanche.
Their world crumbled the cities explode.
A whirlwind of looting
a firestorm of fear.
Men began to feed on men.
On the roads it was a white-line nightmare.
Only those mobile enough to scavenge
brutal enough to pillage would survive.
The gangs took over the highways
ready to wage war for a tank of juice.
And in this maelstrom of decay
ordinary men were battered and smashed.
Men like Max
the warrior Max.
In the roar of an engine, he lost everything
and became a shell of a man
a burnt out, desolate man
a man haunted by the demons of his past.
A man who wandered out into the wasteland.
And it was here in this blighted place
that he learned to live again.
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