Mad Max Villains

Mad Max Villains

You see! There is no escape! The Humungus Rules the Wasteland!

Chapter Seven

Freewheel Burning

(Words & Music by: Tipton, Downing & Halford)

Fast and furious we ride the universe
To carve a road for us that slices every curve in sight
We accelerate, no time to hesitate
This load will detonate whoever would áontend its right
Born to lead at breakneck speed with high octane
We're spitting flames freewheel burning
On we catapult, we're thrusting to the hilt
Unearthing every fault, go headlong into any dare
We don't accept defeat, we never will retreat
We blaze with scorching heat obliterations everywhere
Look before you leap has never been the way we keep
Our road is free
Charging to the top
And never give in never stops the way to be
Hold on to the lead with all your will and concede
You'll find there's life with victory on high
~~~

Eleven years. Eleven years he'd been out in this wasteland. Seen so much: death, pain, destruction and a steady migration of hunger filled eyes roaming into the desert, searching for some kind of hope. After the Two Mighty Tribes finally ceased their cold war, the battle was on, both governments firing their lethal weapons, poisoning the earth and sky with intense radiation. But he never saw the demise of the great cities or the fall of mankind. Why would he? He fell from grace the day he was born.

The road battle was different now. How quickly life could change out here. The fight was for gasoline since one had to be mobile enough to scavenge. Gone were the small towns, all burned up and destroyed, many a ghost place thanks to his hand and those who followed him. Or they'd come upon skeletal settlements raped by other mighty gangs like the Smegma Crazies, Gayboy Berserkers or the Skinheads.

Kill, siphon the fuel tanks, scavenge the food, water, weapons and whatever supplies could aid with survival, each day was the same, repeated over and over. That familiar boredom was settling in, the same feeling when he'd been trapped in a juvenile correctional facility.

He fiddled with the metal crossbow secured around his left wrist, a prize captured during a pillage. Strapped to his right thigh was his quiver that held the precious arrows. This weapon was his main means of defense since after the war, ammunition slowly ceased to exist. Now one used whatever means necessary to kill, whether it was garden tools fashioned into hand-to-hand combat weaponry or homemade devices like those Porta-Packs the Gayboy Berserkers loved using. Yet, he refused to allow any of the Mohawkers to use the projectile artillery that could fire five rounds of arrowheads simultaneously. The Porta-Pack required gasoline and all juice found its way into the tanks of their motorcycles. His men were cunning and fierce enough to battle with the weaponry they had. Like hell he'd let them use the precious juice to fire a Porta-Pack. The Gayboy Berserkers had no choice anyway. Most were small and stocky in build, and there forte was road battles, blazing down the white line in racers modified for war, like old Landaus, former MFP chase cars, or Valiant Chargers.

He glanced over his shoulder, realizing everyone was packing up the camp, ready to pull out and stake out new territory.

Rebel picked up his binoculars, gazing out over the big ravine that spanned at least a half a kilometer. One hundred feet below was a dried up river bed, now filled with rocks, sand and cactus. He spied more nomads of the wasteland on the other side of the ravine, at least a good kilometer away.

"Who is it?" Wez asked. He also picked up his binoculars.

He could make out big, powerful sand vehicles, heavily modified with thick tires and a couple of motorcycles. Strong men were gathered, adorned in black capes, thigh high boots and leather pants.

Then his eyes narrowed as he peered closer at the figure wrapped in black from head to toe, sensing something so familiar. The person wore a flowing, hooded cloak. A scarf was wrapped around the face, most likely used to keep the dust and sand off. Sunglasses covered the eyes. Since the big hood was up, he couldn't make out the hair. The wind picked up then, blowing the cloak open from the hips down and those long legs encased in leather pants sensually moved one in front of the other as the person strutted over to a sand cruiser. Leather boots with at least a three inch heel adorned the sinewy form.

Wez's jaw slackened. No, it couldn't be. For a second he had to set down his binoculars. For eleven years the bitch had eluded him. Yet, was this really the minx? Again, he picked up the binoculars and locked on the black-cloaked figure.

A big man got down from a sand runner, standing at least six-five. Even out in the desert, the man managed to maintain a well groomed physique, sporting short, brown hair, a clean shaven face, except for the thick mustache and trimmed sideburns. The man wore all black, from his leather pants, vest and boots. Just a fur robe lay over his powerful shoulders.

Wez watched the man hold out a big hand, assisting the sinewy, cloaked figure up to the sand runner. As the long leg stepped on the first wrung, he then spied the whip sitting on the slim hip.

The growl came from deep within, starting in his soul, screaming from his throat and released as a powerful echo, bouncing off the sand walls of the ravine. His war cry was so deep, he captured the attention of the other marauders.

The slim figure turned then, still on the first wrung of the sand vehicle. A delicate hand wrapped in a leather glove snaked out from underneath the cloak as the fingers snapped, demanding something. A big man hurried over, handing the delicate figure the telescope.

Wez's jaw slackened when the slim figure lowered the big hood and pushed up the sunglasses to peer through the telescope.

They were gazing at one another.

He saw the infinite, long, blond hair, so silken, a shock of gold, platinum, honey and silver falling in big, thick, loose curls - an attribute most likely inherited when marking manhood. Yet, even though the figure would be twenty-six now, except for the loose-curled hair, nothing else had changed. The satiny face was still so smooth, beauty only a youth could possess and the body still so delicate and lean. Slanting, evergreen eyes peered intently.

"Iason," he growled.

The soft, pink lips slackened and Wez could see the sensual mouth forming the one word: Alex?

"Holy shit," Rebel muttered under his breath. "I thought him to be dead."

Wez lowered the binoculars when he watched the minx step off the wrung, striding straight in his direction, still looking down the site of the telescope. The brunette man followed the blond vixen. Now the rest of their unit began arming themselves, realizing other nomads were on the other side of the ravine.

He eyed the black cloak whipping about in the wind, exposing the sensual body that had lain underneath him for three years. For a moment he couldn't move as he watched Iason slowly lower the telescope. All he could do was hold the minx's stare. Finally, he managed to gather his bearings, realizing what he hunted was only a kilometer away, yet unreachable, a ravine separating them.

"Go!" Wez hollered, raising his arm in the air. "Go! Go!"

He hurried for his big Kawasaki, quickly firing up the bike, his eyes wild and crazed, looking for a way to get across the ravine as he steered the bike along the edge of the cliff.

The other Mohawkers had also started their bikes, quickly joining their fierce leader with the chase. Yet, they would have to drive at least a good ten kilometers to finally ride down into the deep ravine and then back up the steep embankment. By then, the other marauders would be quickly gone.

Wez didn't care. He gave chase.

Rebel rode beside him, glancing at the marauders so he could keep track of their location. Already, they were getting into their sand vehicles. He could see Iason being tossed into the biggest vehicle as the brown-haired man gave the big engine some gas and the sand runner quickly blazed through the wasteland. He watched the dust swallowing up the vehicles as the marauders began driving away.

*****

The men were grumbling, some even protesting since they'd been in the saddle since this morning and they'd now have to make a scavenge run since they were out of gasoline. Rebel also thought the chase futile. Yes, they were tracking the sand runners but those big, powerful vehicles had a half-day lead on them since it had taken the Mohawkers that long to cross the ravine.

Rebel glanced to Wez, frowning, motioning for the mighty leader to stop.

Wez growled. Pussies. Always, his unit held him back. Bah, he could still track the sand runners anyway. Sooner or later that blond bitch would demand to stop so the devil child could wash his hair, change his clothes and do whatever else necessary to feed that vanity. He couldn't very well see Iason pissing off the sand runner.

So he gave the signal.

Rebel waved his arm in the air, motioning for the others to slow down and cut the engines. They'd make camp for the night.

Wez rose off the big Kawasaki, hands on his hips as he stalked away, glaring out at the open wasteland. This time he refused to let Iason get away.

Just then the faint roar of an engine caught his attention. He turned, ears alert, deftly listening over the howling wind. He could see the sand swirling upwards as the vehicle drew closer. Through narrowed eyes, he could make out the silhouette of a dune buggy. Smegma Crazies. Only the Crazies operated those strange looking contraptions, wielding head axes, never giving one a look at their faces since they were always shrouded in wrapped cloth, from head to toe. Yeah, porky sorta buggers, stocky but strong in build.

They were different from those Gayboy Berserkers who always wore white helmets, sunglasses and a facial strap with leather jackets, black, snug breeches and boots. Their fighting style was even different. Whereas the Berserkers always rode one per vehicle, unless one was operating the dart gun in the back, the Crazies always doubled up. But both units shared one common interest, they liked the road battle, preferring to kill their enemy through a racing attack, rarely engaging in hand-to-hand combat.

And this is where they differed from the Mohawkers who shared more in common with the Skinheads. Those bald bastards also loved the thrill of the chase, but the goal was the same, take down the vehicles, but leave victims to torture and kill once the vehicles came to a stop.

Wez gave a growl when he noted the white flag riding the dune buggy. Just then Rebel approached, also hearing the vehicle over the intense wind.

This was the first time any of the marauders dared to approach one another. Yeah, they came across each other many times out in the wasteland, but a common respect was given of never cross each other's paths.

Rebel new a war would ensue sooner or later. The territory was shrinking the more they cannibalized the same settlements. It would be a fight over land soon. He readied his rifle cross-bow, his jaw tight as he glared at the approaching vehicle.

Now the one Smegma reached for the white flag, waving the whipping symbol of peace in the air.

Peace? Such a word did not exist any longer. This was no-man's land, every human for himself.

The dune buggy began to slow, the one Smegma still waving the flag.

Wez lifted his metal-wrist crossbow, and at the same time, he raised his rifle crossbow, ready to take both down with one shot. Yet, if it was a battle the Smegma Crazies wanted to engage in, why would they only send one vehicle?

The Smegma got out of the vehicle while the other remained behind the wheel of the dune buggy. The stocky man approached them, holding out a piece of parchment paper. "Is from the Humungus," the Smegma said. "Is from my leader, the Lord Humungus. Said to deliver this to the Mighty Wez of the Mohawkers."

Wez set down the crossbow and lowered his left arm.

Rebel still took aim. He gave a grunt, motioning for the only man who could read to assist them.

Glory Rider hurried over.

"Read," Wez growled.

Glory Rider snatched the piece of parchment paper, eyeing the expert penmanship drawn in black ink from a quill pen. "It says: Greetings from the Humungus, the Lord Humungus, warrior of the wasteland, leader of the Smegma Crazies. This morning I sent out six of my unit to hand deliver invitations to Mighty Wez of the Mohawkers, Jettison of the Gayboy Berserkers and Silver of the Skinheads.

"The wasteland is changing, oh dogs of war. The settlements grow smaller, the pillaging trips less successful and the hunt for gasoline is met with empty tanks. I know this to be true, and I know you have felt the hardships as well.

"What I propose is we band together as one unit, calling a truce between all four gangs, and the remaining unorganized units. As one powerful weapon, we can rule the wasteland, enlarging our numbers so we can branch out to bigger territory.

"I ask for your presence at my camp so we may commence with the peace talks and see if we can come to an agreement amongst ourselves.

"Bring three of your most powerful warriors and when you follow my men back to camp, you will see I have chosen a site out in the open and when you approach, you will find all of our weapons will be placed in the middle of the camp as we stand on the outer circle.

"This talk is about peace and regrouping as one. I give you my word and as a token of my esteem, I have enclosed enough gasoline for you to make this trip. I look forward to finally meeting and speaking with each one of you. Your ability to lead your units is much respected and admired by me.

"Regards, the Lord Humungus."

Glory Rider lowered the paper, gazing at his leader.

Wez looked to the Smegma. "Him, out of the vehicle," he said, pointing at the driver. "You sit with my men around camp fire. I speak with Rebel, Glory Rider and Leather Face."

The Smegma nodded his head, motioning at his comrade to join him as he stalked away to the blazing bonfire. The other man got out of the dune buggy, hurrying after his crony.

Rebel raised his arm at Leather Face, indicating for the purple-haired Mohawker to join them.

They all began walking away, finally coming to a halt about fifty feet from the bonfire.

"Is a trick," Rebel snarled. "Is Humungus's way of ambushing us. He want the land for himself. I say we kill these two and take their vehicle."

"But not make sense. He also send out invitations to the other groups," Glory Rider pointed out.

"How we know he really invite the other groups?" Rebel growled.

"But he only ask for Wez and three others," Leather Face piped up. "How he gonna ambush only four of us?"

"I said is a trick," Rebel snorted. "When we leave, they wait behind one of the hills and slaughter our men. Then they come after us!"

Wez's eyes were narrowed as he gazed back to where the Smegma Crazies sat. Then he glanced to the dune buggy. "Must question." He turned and stalked away.

So Glory Rider, Leather Face and Rebel were left with no choice but to follow.

Wez made a beeline to the Smegmas. "What you know about the big sand vehicles driven by the men in leather? Where they come from?"

Both Smegmas glanced up.

It was the man who first vacated the vehicle who spoke since his partner was mute. "They travel far. Come from the north where the old city is. Think they are on their way back. Not sure what they doing out here. Captive we took died during torture so we got no other answers from him."

"The Great City?" Wez grunted.

"Yea," the man replied. "Think so. Not sure. Have never traveled that far northwest."

Wez glanced back to Rebel. He wasn't surprised Iason made his way back to the Great City. Why the minx would want to live in a burnt-out, crumbling, steel-skeletal place was beyond him. All the cities had been destroyed after the Great War. So what the hell were those marauders doing traveling this far southeast? Shit, they were so deep in the wasteland, it would take at least a good week's hard riding to get back to the Great City.

Yet, there was a damn good reason why the minx traveled out this far. Iason always had an agenda and the benefits had to be something very great to get the blond bitch to leave the northwest. So that's why he never crossed paths with the minx for eleven years. After the Great War and when civilization collapsed, the sassy blond most likely made his way back to the city.

Rebel tapped his boot. For crying out loud, why the hell was Wez asking these questions? His leader should be interrogating the Smegmas about the invitation, not asking which hell hole the blond slut emerged from. Shit, it'd been over thirteen years when that bitch fled the penitentiary.

Wez turned and stalked away.

Rebel gave a growl and followed, so Leather Face and Glory Rider brought up the rear.

"Well?" Rebel asked.

"We go," Wez gruffly stated. "Speak to the Humungus. Something is up. He want a big army. Think it has to do with sand runners we see today."

Rebel held his tongue. Oh man, he wanted to holler: It's your fucking dick doing the thinking! Why the hell would the Humungus give two shits about what those Leather Runners are up to? Face it, you idiot, you wanna fuck the blond bitch! Thanks to your cum-dribbling, erect cock, we get to ride across the wasteland on a wild goose chase now, wasting more fuel!

Instead, Rebel said, "Okay, you heard him. Get us ready to leave. We head out first light."

Glory Rider and Leather Face nodded their heads and walked back to the bonfire.

Rebel cast his comrade a side-long glance. "You . . ."

"Enough," Wez growled. "I know what I doing."

Rebel gave a snort of disgust and stalked away.

*****

When they rode up, the camp was set up as stated in the letter. All the weapons were in the middle and every Smegma stood on the outer circle. Front and center was the Humungus, adorned in his ever-present steel mask, sporting black leather from his suspenders, collar, wrist bands, briefs and boots. He was a huge man, living up to his name since he stood a good six-six with powerful muscles that seemed to make his tanned skin strain.

Wez steered the big Kawasaki, flanked by Rebel and Glory Rider with Leather Face bringing up the rear with the dune buggy. He cast Rebel a sidelong glance, noting no representatives from the Gayboy Berserkers and Skinheads were present.

"Mighty Wez," the Humungus called out in his deep, eloquent voice. "Is an honor."

Wez nodded his head, cutting the engine to his bike as he reached out with his boot and set the kickstand down. He drew one, long leg over the bike, standing with his arms crossed. Rebel and Glory Rider both got off their bikes, taking each a side next to their leader. Again, Leather Face brought up the rear. The two Smegmas got out of the dune buggy.

"These are the four runners I sent out yesterday," the Humungus announced, pointing to another group of men. "However, the Gayboy Berserkers and Skinheads declined my invitation. I'm glad you chose not to send your regrets.

"Toadie," he barked. "See to our guests."

"Yes, your lordship," the Toadie replied.

Wez gazed at the man outfitted in animal skin, from his shoes, pants, jacket and even the raccoon hat. He guessed this was the big man's servant.

"For you, Mighty Wez," the Toadie said with a slight bow.

Just then a delicate youth emerged from a tent, barely fifteen with long, flowing, brown hair and pale green eyes. The lad was very pretty, standing only maybe five-six.

"Is a gift from my lord," the Toadie proclaimed. "Peace offering. He is yours to take."

Wez nodded his head. Well, at least he got a new bitch boy out of this trip. The lad was very pleasing to the eye.

Rebel noted how none of the Smegmas yet moved. He realized the power the Humungus had over those he led. Even the camp was very organized, from where the tents were set up, to the supply car and the location of the vehicles. He sensed the brawny man to be very disciplined and demanded that the underlings adhere to all rules. A chain-of-command was followed here.

This was going to be most interesting since the Skinheads were as rowdy and rebellious as the Mohawkers. As for the Gayboy Berserkers, they almost seemed to be one collective. He could only wonder how the Humungus was going to manage to make this work.

The Toadie motioned to them and they followed the comical looking man to the center of the camp. Another slave boy was present and two slave girls.

"My lord understands your needs," the Toadie thought to inform them. "They are at your disposal while you are here. Please make use of them, whether it's a meal you desire, maybe a bath, some refreshments or just sex."

Rebel was impressed. The Humungus was really going out of his way to make them feel welcome. He had to hand it to the big leader, the man adhered to all forms of etiquette, even in this uncivilized wasteland.

"Once you have seen to your needs, the meeting will be held in the main tent," the Toadie announced, pointing to the center, canvas structure. "The Humungus will be in his quarters."

Wez gave a grunt. He wanted a nice sponge bath, his head shaven, mohawk trimmed and then he'd fuck his new slave. The meeting could wait, the desire in his pants couldn't.

*****

Wez snapped the collar around the pretty, green-eyed lad he just fucked. Then he unraveled the chain and notched the clip to his belt, a gesture he performed on all slaves he took. He rose and the boy followed him. Well, his new slave sure had been a good fuck, so damn good he spent an hour in the tent pumping his dick into that tight hole. Now that his belly was full, his dick fed, and his body and hair groomed, he was ready to talk.

Rebel emerged from another tent, along with Glory Rider and Leather Face. Since Rebel always had first dibs, Wez noted his right-hand had fucked the other pretty boy, leaving the two girls to be used by their comrades.

They headed for the main tent. The Toadie emerged, drawing back the flap. All four stepped inside, noting the plushness of this shelter, from the big, fur blankets, a sweet smell burning from a small stone and the many pillows strewn about. A canvas had been laid out on the ground so no sand could soil the interior.

The Humungus sat on a bed of thick robes.

Wez took a seat on one pillow and the slave boy had no choice but to follow, taking a seat on the canvas. Rebel, Glory Rider and Leather Face also seated themselves.

"How was everything?" the Humungus asked. "Did they see to all your needs?"

"Very good," Rebel piped up.

"Again, I thank you for coming," the Humungus began. "I always found your unit to be far more superior than the Gayboy Berserkers and the Skinheads."

Rebel nodded his head again.

"As I stated in my letter, I propose we ban as one unit," the Humungus said. "Each gang has something to offer. As the Mohawkers, you possess a warrior's courage, hunting skills, fierceness and bravery. Your men are quite big, very strong and able to fight one-on-one with speed and dexterity. Your motorcycles give you an edge to go where big vehicles cannot.

"The Gayboy Berserkers have speed, working as one unit when they conduct road battles and they are most noted for their abilities to handle the road racers by bringing down a kill without never having to leave their vehicles.

"The Skinheads possess strong battle trucks, well equipped with projectile artillery.

"As for my group, we are military trained, capable of drawing up battle plans to take over encampments, fortresses and other huge compounds. My men are very disciplined, able to carry out orders with the snap of the fingers, never straying from the battle plan.

"Think of all the skills each unit possesses. Now think of what we can do together as one group."

Wez's tongue snaked out as he licked his lower lip, his eyes widening since he liked this big man's idea. Why didn't any of them think of this sooner? Imagine the power of controlling a gang this huge? And yes, each unit possessed a certain type of skill that would easily fill a void each gang lacked. If they worked together, they'd be unstoppable. The wasteland would truly be theirs.

"North," the Humungus said. "We must ride north now."

"Yea," Wez grunted. "Seems much happening north. Saw big sand runners other day. Your men say they come from north."

The Humungus rolled out a map. "This is what I refrained from mentioning in my letter. I wanted to wait and only share with those who had the courage to meet with me. And this is why I called you here."

Wez, Rebel, Glory Rider and Leather Face all nodded their heads, now very curious and intrigued.

"Six settlements," the Humungus informed them. "Word is six settlements are equipped with much gasoline, along with fresh water, food and many weapons. The first four are smaller in size than the other two, but they have much to offer. They're closer south in the north than the other two. And they will be easy to locate. They'll be the first ones we'll overtake so we can build more capital.

"The fifth one," he said, pointing to another spot on the map, "is supposed to be run by a man named Pappagello. He's refining the oil. Rumored to be filling a huge tanker full and then some. This isn't the exact location, but it's further north than the first four.

"The sixth one is the furthest away, about a good fifty kilometers behind the Great City."

Then he carefully studied each warrior. "It's going to take a strong army of men to get into these compounds. A very strong army. If any unit tries on their own, they can look at failure. All skills and numbers are required.

"This is why I'm asking us to band together."

Wez's eyes widened in disbelief. "The sand runners, they from the sixth compound?"

"I believe so," the Humungus confirmed. "Why they came so far south still baffles me. We tried to interrogate the prisoner but he would only confirm the location of the compound to be north.

"The first five should be easy to take down. No warriors, mercenaries, or former military trained people man these places. The majority are civilians.

"But the sixth compound is the biggest and strongest fortress. And it's believed this one not only has gasoline, but it's a small run city with its own governing body."

Wez's jaw slackened. For one moment he froze, just staring at his boots, realizing most likely that fucking minx was probably top bitch to whoever ran the small city, a goddamn empire! Oh yeah, he'd bet his metal-wrist crossbow, his Kawasaki and his entire group of Mohawkers the bitch was once again sitting on a gold mine thanks to some sap he conned with that magnificent, sensual beauty.

Oh God, never was he so angered, so filled with rage. Again, that bitch bested him!

"We join you," Wez growled. "I send Glory Rider and Leather Face back to camp right now to get my men."

"I'll send some of mine to accompany them with fresh fuel," the Humungus informed them. "Mighty Wez, with you as my War Chief overseeing the Dogs of War, I know we will take down all five, and then we will overtake the small New City."

"I help you get the Gayboy Berserkers and Skinheads," Wez replied.

"I agree," the Humungus noted. "Once we finish our own inner war, we will then set off north. Patience is a must in order to do this right. Could take at least two to three years. Will have many pillaging trips in between take-over of the compounds. Capital and resources are a must when we reach the small New City. But trust me, our long battle will pay off."

"It don't matter," Wez replied. "We do it."

"I always follow Mighty Wez," Rebel piped up. "Consider us as one unit."

Wez's eyes narrowed. War Chief. Bah! When he showed up to tear down Iason's little empire, it would be Mighty Wez, leader of the Dogs of War bringing on the attack. Like hell he'd let the Humungus lead.

And if Iason wasn't the bitch but actually the leader of the small New City, he'd chew that blond hussy up and spit the slut out. He'd crush every bone in the minx's body!

Next Page - Chapter Eight

Note: "Mad Max" is a trademark and copyright of Kennedy-Miller Entertainment/Warner Bros. George Miller, Byron Kennedy and Terry Hayes (Kennedy Miller Entertainment/ Warner Bros.) hold copyright to the Mad Max Trilogy.
This story is created for fan fiction purposes only. Some dialogue was taken from the script to keep this tale true to the original movie.

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