THE BIRTH OF EVIL

By: J. C. Bruyere

PROEM

I never died. Many thought I did. After all, one would expect death after receiving a boomerang to the forehead. But alas, I prevailed. When the Humungus confronted the people who protected the precious juice in the ground, and after I got off my master's motorcycle since we were part of the confrontation, and when the Feral Kid thought to take his anger and frustration out on Wez, the aftermath for me was the cold ground - piles of sand buried on my slim form. But the master never gave up hope. He did retire the big Kawasaki bike we rode on. Now that I no longer sat on the pillion, his desire for the powerful motorcycle vanished.

Yet, after the battle was done, and the last of the Dogs of War perished in the grande chase against the powerful Mack truck driven by the man named Max, many thought the master died. But he never did.

He managed to leap off the front of the tanker before the huge truck collided with the Humungus’s roadster. For hours he had laid buried deep in the sand, his wounds great. Finally, when he managed to summon his fierce strength, he crawled across the wasteland to our former camp site. He longed to die beside me, cradled against my chest.

When the master appeared, I had begun to hallucinate since my wound was so deep. When I gazed at his bedraggled state, blood covering his war painted face and his durable chest armor missing, I wondered if I already died and caught a glimpse of the netherworld.

"My Golden Youth," the master whispered in his deep, gruff voice.

Everyone was dead. We didn't conquer the keepers of the juice. We failed. Even though it was just Wez and I left, I felt no fear or worry. The master always took good care of me. And once we both recovered from our battle wounds, we would begin a new journey deeper into the wasteland.

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