Max sighed. He unclipped the leash from his own dog—a scrappy mutt named Turnip who knew 140 commands and could operate a crossbow release with his teeth.
Max didn’t flinch. He knelt, pulled a dried piece of jerky from his vest, and held it out flat. Mad Max Trainer Fling UPD
A dust storm roared in, but it wasn’t weather. It was a fleet of dune buggies flying the flag of the Pampered Pooch Collective —a rival gang who believed dogs should never be trained, only “expressed.” Their leader, a woman named Velvet Lash with chrome-plated fingernails, shrieked through a loudspeaker: Max sighed
This was Max. Not the Mad Max. Just Max. The last certified dog trainer in the Wasteland. He knelt, pulled a dried piece of jerky
The sun baked the rusted bones of the old world. On the salt flats, a lone figure in torn leathers dragged a steel wagon behind a gas-guzzling rig. Inside the wagon: a squeaking, squirming pile of pure, untamed chaos.
“Witchcraft,” the Warlord whispered.